 |
| I think I see a dandelion, Dad. |
There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.
Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely “celebrate” any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden’s death- on Facebook.)
Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk…
Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.
The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here’s a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood’s dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.
-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn’t a strong enough word.)
-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin’ buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.
– I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. “Can I see your baby? She’s beautiful!”) So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that “[she] dooo ittt…”
-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird…but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying “hi hi” to the “pingus” and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.
-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona’s (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades…and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia’s first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate…one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a ‘tapas’ diet.)
But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the “master” bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that’s if it’s really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren’t HERS.)
These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.
Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.
Speak Your Mind