Weekend 3-Way: what are you reading?

I’ve been totally neglecting the “what are you reading” sidebar here at Me, You, and Ellie. The other night I went to pick up my book, which I was loving, and I said to myself:

“Self, you should list this book on the blog for all the world to enjoy!”

And so I did. And approximately 42 minutes later, I finished that book.

So then I said to myself:

“Self, you are looking mighty fine tonight!”

(I like to affirm myself whenever possible)

“...but this book that you loved has only been listed on your blog for 42 minutes, and it’s almost midnight on a Tuesday, and how is the world supposed to enjoy knowing about this book when/if you update the blog about whichever book you’re going to start tomorrow?”

It’s a pickle! I really like this new book too, but the old one just didn’t get enough glory. And the one before that didn’t even get listed! I’m sure Ellie has been keeping her reading list current, but I haven’t looked at it – have I missed any gems? And Beth’s has said Twilight for months now, and sure there is a lot of Twilight to plow through, but do you think she’s still reading it?

My lovely co-bloggers, I implore you to answer these questions. What are you reading? What have you read lately? Have you read anything great that causes you to really miss the characters after you finish? I miss Diana.

Jacquie:

Diana is from the little book that almost didn’t get listed, We are All Welcome Here, by Elizabeth Berg. Have you read Elizabeth Berg? You should, she’s lovely. This is a sweet, slight little novel that begins with a captivating author’s note and ends with … well, I won’t tell you what it ends with, that would totally ruin it. Just read it.

Now I’m reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson. I can tell I’m going to love it.

Before Diana, I read I See You Everywhere, by Julia Glass. I love her, and this one was about two sisters - Louisa and Clement. I picked it up shortly after our Pocmont trip, which was ironic because it beings like so:

"I avoid reunions. I'm not a rebel, a recluse, or a sociopath, and I'm too young to qualify as a crank... Family reunions are the worst - all that competition disguised as fellowship"

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Not my family, Julia. There's no competition there, everyone knows I'm the best.

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Ellie:

LOL, Jacquie, and yes, of course I keep the “What are you reading” sidebar current. Duh.

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At the moment I'm reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman. I recently read his The Graveyard Book -- a young adult title that I really liked and that really stuck with me. I miss that character. His name is Nobody. And at the wiffle ball game I was at last Sunday, a toddler was reading -- well, being read to from -- a kids' book by Gaiman. The man, apparently, gets around.

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Anyway, I like American Gods, but I'm about three-quarters finished, and I'm still not exactly sure what the hell is going on. I've been on the Bataan Party March lately, which precludes moments of sobriety during which to read, and moments of clarity during which to muse. I can tell you this, though: the main character's name is Shadow, and I love him.

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The most recent good books I've read are Sweeping Up Glass by Carolyn D. Wall -- I loved it -- The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, which was on quite a few “15 books” lists -- I loved it, too -- and The Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo, which I loved, because I love everything Richard Russo writes.

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Now excuse me: I've got to get back to my book.

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Beth:

I read so little right now, that I forgot to read (and add to) this weekend's 3 way. Better late than never and all that.

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And, yes, I did, in fact, finish the Twilight series, quite a while ago, thank you very much for asking, Jacquie ! The series was, in my opinion, average at best, but it did fill numerous afternoons in the hospital. And yes, I am terrible at updating the sidebar. Terrible.

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Sigh. I'm not really reading right now. Any time that I would have normally spent reading is now spent sleeping.

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However, my mother brought me Traveling with Pomegranates, the new book by Sue Monk Kidd and her daughter, Ann Kidd Taylor, and I can't wait to read it. My mom loved it. Absolutely. I don't think she's ever been this excited to give me a book, so I know it's going to be a gem. Has anyone read this one yet?

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I really enjoyed The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan, and I also loved Confessions of a Contractor by Richard Murphy. Murphy's book is far from fine literature, but it was well written and very funny. A light, quick, fun summer read.

Shoe fly...

Two of my daughters take dance; and with the new school year come new dance classes. This September my 5 year old will take tap for the first time, and my 8 year old, jazz. Both classes require special shoes.

I bought these special shoes earlier this week, when the girls were not with me, hoping both would fit. Neither pair worked out. So today I headed back to the shoe store to exchange them. It was a minor miracle that they had both pairs in the now correct sizes, but they did.

After the trade I was feeling like quite the good mommy. So good, in fact, that I decided I'd just run the jazz shoes over to the dance studio so they'd be waiting for my daughter when she arrived there for her first class.

Little did I know the studio is not open during mid day. The classes all take place in the mornings, late afternoons, and evenings. It was only 2:14. Bad timing.

But I felt determined to leave these well-fitting jazz shoes there for my daughter come hell or high water.

What were my options? I could wait around until the studio opened, which was not really much of an option as I had left the baby with my mom, and needed to get back.

So, option two. How about I ask the nice people in the storefront next to the studio if they'd be willing to hold on to the shoes until my daughter could grab them from her.

What the hell, right? So I open the door and smile my most winning smile at the woman behind the desk. Fabiola.

Fabiola looked at me dubiously. She did not seem to especially like what she saw. I started in on my, "So, I have a bit of an unusual request......" Her look become even more dubious with an added shake to her head. "So there's no way?" I asked prematurely. She kindly pointed out that I never actually got to the request. So I laid it out there, and made sure to ask how late they were open.

Until 5, at the very latest. (Gotta love a woman who leaves work on time.) But it turns out there was no guarantee that my daughter would make it there by 5 pm, so my plan, which she had, in fact, agreed to, was no longer viable. Shoot.

I mentioned that I'd go look for a place outside to hide the shoe box, coyly adding, "unless you'd be willing to walk them over at 5."

Fabiola gets up at this point. She comes around the counter and we venture out together; she has, for some reason (can you say to get the crazy lady out of the office?) decided to help me.

There is no shrubbery against the building. No good hiding places. We near the door to the dance studio. She says, "Too bad there's not a box for packages." Too bad indeed. HOWEVER, there is a mail slot. One of those vertical, open door slots, rounded on both the top and bottom.

I open the box and look at the shoes. They could make it through that slot, I think to myself. I voice this out loud. Fabiola agrees. Plus she agrees that I can once again enter her place of employment to bum another pink sticky on which to write my daughter's name again, so that I can stick a sticky into each shoe. I feel strongly that both shoes be labeled.

I borrow, I inscribe, I place each sticky lovingly in the heel area so the name is clearly visible.

I bid Fabiola farewell. (I'll miss her!)

Okay, here goes. I shove the shoes, one at a time, through the slot. Barely. Then comes a moment of remorse. What if I've done the wrong thing? What if these new black beauties never find their way to my daughter?

Too late now.

I get in my car and slowly pull out, my mind envisioning my wasted $25 and a third trip to the shoe store. But, by Jove, I see a car pull up and park, right outside the dance studio!

I pull the SUV over, illegally, jump out and detail my plight to the driver, who it turns out, does not have a key to the studio. OOPS.

She's a mom dropping her daughter off for class (good luck with that!), who seems to find me somewhat less crazy than Fabiola. She agrees to tell the shoes' story, IF, she and her daughter manage to get into the dance studio.

What more can I do?

Two jazz shoes, neatly labeled, rest safely atop of the studio mail with a fellow mom to voice their arrival.

My job is done. Somewhat shoddily, but done regardless.

Still, I remain wondering if I've succeeded....

Aw, Fudge

About ten years ago, Bill and I were visiting my sister Julie in the Asheville area. We were sitting in the front yard with my nephew Joe, who was 2 or 3 at the time, and with Julie’s wonderful chocolate lab, Fudge. Fudgie was soaking up the sun, and her fur was getting hot. Bill said to Joe, “She's a hot dog, Joe. Maybe we should get the mustard.” Joe walked over to the dog, pet her, and in her defense said, “Aw, Fudge.”

Ever since then, no one has ever been able to address Fudge, or talk about her, without saying, “Aw, Fudge.”

Poor ol' Fudgie died yesterday, after a long, happy, glorious life with a family who adored her, and lots of relatives and friends who were big fans, too.

We visited Julie and her kids a lot during our years on the road, and Fudge would greet us like long-lost family. Which we were. Then she'd take a nap in the Westy.

I’d never been a huge dog-lover, but Fudge won me over because she took care of me. I’d go running with Julie on the trails – the domain of Julie and every dog she’d ever owned. Julie would be way ahead, I’d be way behind, and Fudge would be between us, desperate to run ahead with Julie, the love of her life, but also worried about “that one back there, she’s nice; I like her, but man she’s so slow! Hurry! Faster!” She'd get twice her usual exercise those days, catching up with Julie, then running back to check on me.

Fudge hadn't been able to run on the trails with Julie for the last few years, but she was doing some long hikes with Julie and her daughter Erin recently, until The Incident this past May:

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When we realized she was out of sight, we decided to go ahead to the turn around just ahead, and catch her on the rebound. We walked and walked and walked, and never came upon her! She had just disappeared. Which is odd, because that dog does not venture off the trail, and she does not move fast. We thought maybe she'd gone back to the car and was waiting there for us, but alas when we got there - no Fudge. I checked my cell phone in the car and sure enough someone had called and had her. I called the guy, he said he was running on the trail and came upon her, didn't see anyone with her, it looked like she was hurt (everyone always thinks she's hurt because she limps from her arthritis) so he CARRIED her to the parkway, FLAGGED DOWN A CAR, and asked the girls who stopped to drop her at the Animal Hospital. The next message on my cell phone was from the Animal Hospital saying they had Fudge and just to come whenever I got the message.

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So we drove there and went in, and they brought her out. They'd given her IV fluids, because her temp was a little high, and she was a bit dehydrated. We were on a hike! It gets thirsty out there! So Fudge was basically kidnapped and pampered. Nice way to get out of a hike, Fudge.

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You were a good girl, Fudgie, and a great dog. We miss you already.

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Aw, Fudge.

poor kanye west

My first clue to the drama came in the form of a flurry of indignant tweets from people on the east coast on Sunday afternoon, most of whom were likening Kanye West to a certain feminine hygiene product, with or without the bag. So I set my DVR to record the MTV music awards. I didn’t mention it at all that night, I was reserving the right to delete the thing unwatched if I deemed it inappropriate for my kids. I kept an eye on Twitter, and was intrigued. Beyonce’s bootie (fantastic), Lady GaGa’s fashion (criminally insane), and of course, Kanyegate.

My son, (and his sister by default) is a big fan. In fact, the answer to this:

was Heartless.

Oh Kanye, how could you be so heartless?

The next morning over breakfast, I gave the kids a quick summary of what had transpired: (this will also serve to enlighten any of you who have no clue what I'm talking about, not that I'd mention any co-bloggers names):

So, last night at the MTV video music awards, they were doing the award for best female video. The nominees were Pink, Kelly Clarkson, Lady GaGa, Beyonce, and Taylor Swift. And Taylor Swift won! She was so excited, she’s only 19 and it’s a pretty big deal. She ran up to the stage and was starting to talk about how surprised she was to have won, being a country singer and all… then all of a sudden, Kanye West jumped onto the stage, grabbed the microphone right out of her hand, and told everyone that Beyonce’s video was better! And he handed the microphone back to Taylor Swift, and you guys should have seen how embarrassed and sad she looked. And after that, whenever anyone said Kanye’s name, the whole crowd booed! And then later, when they announced that Beyonce had won the biggest award of the night, video of the year, she invited Taylor Swift to come back onto the stage so she could say her thank you speech.

My kids were shocked and appalled. My boy especially. I assured them that we would watch the footage later that night, and we talked about it a lot in the car on the way to school. I shared my opinion about people who believe that they are better than others, who feel that they are entitled to behave any way they please because of what they have achieved or just who they are. I explained that it’s not just about being rich or being famous, because a lot of people who are rich and famous are decidedly not assholes, and some people who have neither fame nor fortune most definitely are.

I want my kids to value their character. I want them to internalize a code of conduct that would prevent them from acting on the impulses that we all have to behave badly. Who among us has not felt the urge to yell at an offical who's made a bad call, or to blurt out "you lie" during our boss' speech? But we don't. It's rude. I want my kids to believe that being a good sport is more important than winning, that showing respect is more important than saving face, and that contentment means more than just getting what they want.

That night, Jay Leno was given an unique gift with which to launch his new primetime show: he had booked Kanye West to perform. I had heard that he now planned to sit and chat with Jay, and I tuned in to see what Kanye would say. Again, I recorded the program and reserved the right to delete it without mention. Again, I showed it to my kids the next morning.

I decided to show them because what I saw was important: humility. Despite that ridiculous haircut and inarticulate manner, Kanye West was humbled, and it showed. Was it an act? Who knows. He admitted that he had been rude. He said he was sorry. He said that that he needed to take some time off to reflect about how to live his life better. He seemed to be fighting back tears when he was asked what his mom would have said about his behavior.

We watched together. Then we all danced to “Run This Town” and laughed at the fact that Rhianna seemed to have forgotten her pants. Then we headed off to school.

On the way, we agreed that we should wait and see before deciding whether or not we’d buy any more of Kanye's itunes. Much as I’d love an excuse to curtail the hip hop fixation, there’s a bigger lesson here that I want my kids to know: when you screw up, the best you can do is admit you were wrong, apologize, and don't let it happen again. That’s two out of three, Kanye. Don’t let my kids down again.

We wondered about what Kanye's mom might have said, and when I told the kids that she had died recently, my girl said: "Poor Kanye West." Poor, indeed.

Humanity, humility, forgiveness, compassion.

I think they get it.

No pair

My husband is set on a 18- 25-year-old Swedish au pair, I'm looking for someone older, with more experience. If you have any doubt who's going to win this one, let me remind you that my husband works from home, so he'll be in close quarters with the future nanny, while I work fulltime out of the house.

Yes, I'll win, but I can't believe it's already time to find the perfect person to watch the baby while we're both earning a living.

Seeing as I worked from home just part time when my other daughters were babies (and beyond) this is the first time I find myself undertaking this particular task.

Hold the relish; I'm not looking forward. Actually, we have someone in mind, but if this (yes, older, more mature) person is not able to commit, or is in some other way not a good fit, we're on our own, left to figure it out ourselves.

It's the "ourselves" that gives me pause. It would be so much simpler if it were "myself." And it really should be, right? I mean, I'm her MOM. I know what's best for her, and I've recruited many a babysitter in my day, and, well, I'm a control freak.

But it's my husband who has to interact with said person on a daily basis. It's he who has to communicate the daily needs to her, share his home space with her, and generally get along with her.

Hey, now that I think about it, maybe we'd be better off with a 25-year-old manny...

Reprobates

I don't know.

You tell me.

If you were me . . .

. . . would you let any of these people . . .

. . . near your Westy??

Weekend 3-Way: Salty Snacks Edition

Salty snacks. Yum.

Who doesn't love salty snacks? Nobody, that's who. Well, wait a minute. Maybe that's not true. Maybe we should go straight to the source and find out once and for all what our lovely co-bloggers think.

Salty Snacks. Love them? Hate them? Favorite kind? And if you have a salty snack anecdote, we're all ears.

Ellie:
Love them. But I'm very particular about what I love and what I hate. Because there is no middle ground there, not as far as I'm concerned.

I love pretzels. Most kinds, but particularly sticks. I mean, rods are fine, and those little waffle-shaped ones are cool, but I am bored out of my skull by tiny twists. I'm a sticks girl. I've been known to eat a lot of sticks and drink a lot of chardonnay while watching a movie or sporting event. Which can make for sluggishness in the morning. But it's worth it.

My favorite pretzel quote:
"Pretzels are God's gift to the salt-loving snacker."
-Julie Corey
-Asheville NC
-4/30/06

I also love potato chips, but I think flavored potato chips taste like chemicals, and I hate onion dip because I think sour cream is disgusting.

Also? Unlike my friend Lisa, who's a lover of orange snacks, I cannot abide orange snack food. Doritos, cheetos (what are cheetos, anyway?), orange-coated mystery twists? For the birds.

Oh! And I love popcorn, but only freshly-popped on the stove-top. I thought I was a popcorn-popping guru until Mistah Schleckah took over that particular duty. He, apparently, uses triple the amount of oil I ever used. Genius.

Jacquie:

It's difficult for me to express the depths of my love for salty snacks. I am a snacky girl. You could even call me "Snacquie Jacquie" if you were so inclined. But be warned, I might punch you if you do so.

Where to begin? I feel like I should offer a rebuttal to Ellie's rude comments about orange snacks. What is a cheeto? A cheeto is love, Ellie. Love. You know that mix that Doritos makes that they give you on Jetblue with doritos, cheetos, and pretzels? Pure. Joy.

And onion dip? Duuuuuuude. Just use plain, nonfat yogurt! Plain Lays chips and onion dip is one of life's true pleasures. I also make a mean homemade onion dip, with carmelized sweet onions and balsamic vinegar. Oh my God, I'm starving.

I am also an ardent fan of pretzels, shape be damned. I love a big old soft salty pretzel, preferably on the streets of NYC, with bright yellow mustard slathered all over. I also like rods because you can hit the couch with the bag and a bottle of squeeze (spicy brown, natch) mustard and make beautiful lines of love.

In closing, I must pay homage to the queen and king of all snacks salty, chips and salsa. And their rock-and-roll bastard son: NACHOS! I've been known to enjoy nachos for dinner, they are so delish and versatile and awesome. I have to have a jalapeno in every bite, and the best is when my mouth is so hot that I have to hang it open and pant before continuing to chew.

Now excuse me while I go raid the cupboards.

Beth:
Salty snacks? I love them. Maybe not as much as Snaquie Jacquie, but I do love them.

My favorite salty snacks are nuts, but I don't know if they count, as they were not pictured in the fabulous photo above. But salty peanuts, almonds, pistachios -- well, almost any salty nut (or unsalted for that matter) -- YUM. I also love the delicious snack mix, with the unmentionable name, that Snaquie Jacquie is known to bring to people's houses for sharing. The kind with the hot wasabi peas and sesame sticks and whatnot? Delish.

And sorry, Ellie, but how can you deny the tastiness of the cheeto? I'm secretly so pleased that my children love cheetos, so that I can be the hero once in a while and buy a bag for them (and eat half of it).

I agree with Jacquie on the matter of dip too. I love sour cream, and onion dip, and especially Jacquie's caramelized onion dip. You really must try it, Ellie, really!

Pretzels are a favorite of mine too, although my very favorite are the hard, large twists that you buy in the big brown box. Those pretzels keep you busy, are perfect with beer, and you can truthfully admit to having just two pretzels and being full. Luckily, there are some in the pantry right now.

family life

We are four days into the new school year, and an ominous future looms large before us. My boy brought it up over dinner after his first day of fifth grade: “You know, I’m going to have family life this year” (cue menacing, foreboding soundtrack).

We’ve known this in theory; it was a scandalous premonition last year when we watched the then-fifth graders emerge like moles from their burrows, blinking and stunned, after their sessions. I remember thinking that our boy would be fine when his time came; he’d have endured the talk at home well before the topic was broached at school.

Imagine learning about family life (dun dun duuuuuuun) from your teacher? Even your hippie, self actualized, first-name-basis charter school teacher? My boy would die. The only thing I can imagine that would be worse than that is the possibility that I’m going to have to tell him myself.

I always dreamed that this would be a strictly man-to-man talk. That because he shares the same “front privates” as our son, my husband would naturally assume the responsibility of explaining the true purpose of the equipment. But the thing about that is............... have you met my husband? I think it's going to have to be me.

My boy would simply not consider his man-bits in the same thought bubble as a girl. He communicates with the opposite sex by clinging to the belief that they do not exist. The girls in his class really don’t even count as people. But I must say that he’s been asking me lately about my first boyfriend, and my first kiss, and if I liked boys in fifth grade. And you know what? I did! Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I kissed Skip Hagerty in fifth grade! Holy shit. My boy still talks about plans for his next birthday to take place at an amusement park or a bowling alley. By February, is he going to change his tune and request the disco ball and a bunch of empty bottles?

I think that many of you will say that you’ve already had the talk with your 10 ½ year olds. Some kids are just more street smart than others. My boy is not savvy to the ways of the world, he is keeping too busy inside of his own head to notice much of what's going on around him. And all I can think of when I imagine having this talk with him, this talk when I try to explain that which does not matter now, but will become critically important to him in the very near future, is that once he figures out that mommy has actually done these things… with Daddy… he’ll never look me in the eye again.

to be continued...God help me

Disposaclothes

So I'm probably going to hell. And I am not even trying Al Gore.

I just don't have it in me right now.

As anyone who has just had a baby can attest to, your body is not what it was before you began the whole long journey of pregnancy. It's bigger, in SO many places. And it's worked and tired and just longs for comfort, especially if you've delivered via Cesarean section and have an impressive scar running across your abdomen. A scar that is still healing, and still hurts, and limits your activities.

I've tried real clothes, I have. I've gotten dressed up, and tried to be presentable, but nothing looks right and very few garments are comfortable enough for wear that spans more than a few hours. In addition, whatever I wear is commonly spotted with spit up or spilled baby formula, or both.

All I want to wear are disposaclothes.

You know, those really, really cheap yoga pants that you buy at those incredibly cheap stores that cater to teeny boppers on a tight budget? Those stores that you just know are selling clothes made by people making way less than they should be each day?

These pants are all I wear these days. I even had to send my husband out to get more during my stint in the hospital; I described what I needed and told him they're typically around $9. It turns out they were down to $4.99. How is that possible?

It can't be good. I know that. The tag I checked yesterday said the pants were made in Cambodia. Folks there likely make in a year what I make in a paycheck.

But I'm addicted, so I don't really want to know the specifics.

I hope to be off the junk in the next few months. But until then, it's more disposaclothes....

Anatomy of a Birthday

It was my birthday last weekend. Have I mentioned that?

There was only one place on Earth for me to be. Ocean Beach Park, New London, Connecticut.
.With my peeps. We had a total of 7 coolers, I think, and 2 picnic baskets, 3 tables, 2 umbrellas, and about 84 chairs. We brought lunch and happy hour and dinner.

I set up shop to receive calls.

. Happy? Oh yes.

Poor MB and Mark suffered through a ride in traffic before their triumphant arrival. The Ocean Beach boardwalk is completed, and is beautiful.

And look. Look who was there.

Ledgie. In all her glory.

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We had quite an encampment down by the beach.

I took the opportunity to play Champagne Homerun Derby with some of the many bottles of champers we had with us, but Champagne Homerun Derby is impossible on the beach. Because there is no bittersweet-covered fence at Champagne Park; there is nothing to pop the cork over. The good news, though, is I jacked one over the fence the next day. Schleckah: 2, Ellie: 2, Dawnie: 1.

I got a fierce birthday card from Jennie. She and I like to compare shark bites.

Happy? Oh yes.

And then, it was time to decamp to our second site, up near the Gam and the stage.

Mister Dibble hates the beach but loves to haul stuff. He is a firefighter. He's good at hauling stuff.

Happy Girl Jennie was on table duty . . .

. . . while Nancy and I hauled the chairs.

It was a swift and successful operation . . .

. . . with MB and Mark bringing up the rear.

The day was a veritable birthday lovefest. And Jonny M. was no exception.

And then? More presents. I love presents. Especially on the beach, under a sunset, in the shadow of the Gam. That's the second shirt MB gave me. I'm already wearing the first one.
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And the biggest treat of all? We got to watch the full moon rise over the water.

. And the Reducers were pretty great, too.

It was a perfect day. I love birthdays. Have I mentioned that?

and they're off

Supplies have been purchased, backpacks are organized, lunchbox-friendly (now that's an oxymoron) groceries fill the fridge. We're ready for school!

So what does one do with the last weekend of summer before third and fifth grade?

What else? A little roots, rock, reggae!

with my boyfriend Ziggy.

He's so dreamy.

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The festival followed another fabulous day at the races,

and this time we nailed it!

We finally found a couple of handicappers who were calling them hot

Look at the wholesome, happy family!

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Punchdrunk on our winnings. And the ice cream. And the hard lemonade.
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Is it me, or do those children look a little... funky?

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All that was left for them to do was try on their back-to-school clothes, taking care to choose just the right outfit to make a good impression on that important first day of school.
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perfect!

Labor day

Here's hoping that none of you are laboring today, but instead soaking in the last of summer's sweetness.

I know we are....

Weekend 3-way: cElllie-bration

Today is Ellie's birthday. Let's celebrate her!

Ellie is a one-of-a-kind, kindred spirit. The room lights up when she enters, and continues to glow for the remainder of her stay. So, for this weekend's 3-way, let's share what we love MOST about Ellie.

Hmm, does this put Ellie herself in an awkward position? Nah, go ahead and toot your own horn Ellie, or if you'd rather not, ask Mistah to do it for you. It IS your birthday, so you can force ask people to do things for you....ALL DAY LONG!

We love you, Ellie!

Beth:
Ah, Ellie. I so look forward to when she and Mistah swing into town. It definitely adds fun to my social calendar, and Ellie can whip up some mean margaritas. She and Mistah are usually up for most anything, and they truly know how to enjoy the beach and ocean. They bring joy to whatever they are doing.

But, one of my most favorite things about Ellie is how industrious she is. You may think to yourself, What? Ellie? She took 7 plus years off and tooled around the country in her Westy, lounging in Key West and West Texas and the like. She dropped OUT of the grind. And that she did. However, Ellie keeps busy. Very busy. And she likes things neat and orderly. I don't think Jacquie's floor ever gets mopped as much as when Ellie's in town (no offence to you, J!!). And she's willing to pick up all sorts of work, from data entry and filing, to painting houses, to keeping bar, to kid and pet sitting. So, although Ellie knows how to party, she also knows how to keep busy. In a good way.

I can hardly wait until Ellie returns, both to drink margs with her, and to see when she's available to watch my baby girl!

Happy Birthday, Ellie!!!

Jacquie:
Happy Birthday, Ellie! And great idea for a weekend post, Beth. Although I simply must correct your mistaken impression that it's Ellie who is mopping my floor. That is strictly a job for the Schlekah.

There are so many great things about Ellie, it's impossible to limit myself to the confines of this here blog. I should really write a musical about Ellie.... but that will have to wait for another day. For today, this Big Day, the anniversary of the birth of Ellie, I'll just tell you about Ellie and her prep.

I love how Ellie preps. The woman was born to prep. She could prep the pope for purgatory. She could prep the pimples off a preteen. Ellie is the master of party prep. If you're ever lucky enough to be invited to an Ellie party, you should go because it will not only be fun and raging, but you can bet your sweet bippy that it will have been artfully prepped. I have a great, clear visual image of being ready for a party to start with Ellie, everything prepped, all systems go, just waiting for the first guest to arrive. Flash to the next image, party in full swing, Ellie working the crowd, dancing, laughing, bussing, providing, keeping the ball rolling for her peeps. You have to pity the fool who tries to leave early, who must endure the piercing, crestfallen greenish eyed glare of Ellie, who simply cannot STAND for you to leave her. Please stay, be the last guest! We always loved the last guest the best. Maybe this is why Ellie's parties tended to last so long.

I wish I was around to party with you today, Ellie. It sounds like you've prepped a great one. Who's going to be the last guest????

Happy Birthday, Schnookie!!! I love you!

Ellie:
Oh you two. Really. You’re turning my head. This is just too much for one Birthday Girl to bear.

Instead of tooting my own horn – because really, that would be superfluous at this point – I’ll just show you how my morning is going so far.

First I was serenaded by Mister Schleckah, whose guitar repertoire now includes “When the Roll is Called up Yonder” and “Happy Birthday”.

And then I found a Bucket of Love on my deck. Champers, coffee, pretzels, cashews, avocados, bike gloves and a margarita water bottle. And a bucket. What more, I ask you, could a Birthday Girl possibly want?

And finally, this weekend’s display: All Ellie, All the Time. I’d like to say Mistah Schleckah set it up, but it was me. Because I’m a geek. And because it’s my birthday, I get to be a geek. Unapologetically.

Thanks kids! You rock. Happy Birthday!

The Race

It all started at the Tavern on Wednesday night.

We all got loaded and Owen and I decided that the very next morning would be the perfect time to finally settle, once and for all, the trash talk that's been swirling around all summer about The Race. A swim race. 100 meters. Winner take all.
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Bill warned Owen that it was a bad idea to race me, but did Owen listen? No. No, he did not.

It was a beautiful, quiet, Thursday morning at 11 a.m. at Ocean Beach. I guess school must be back in session?

A kid named Mike duly took his place as our cheering section lifeguard.

A 50 meter pool is not for the faint of heart.

Owen stretched for what seemed like hours. Me, I stood at the edge of the pool repeating, "Are you ready?"

Our delightful friend Deb works at Ocean Beach, and has a whistle. She was our designated starter. We had to start from the wall, instead of diving in. I think that was protest #2 for Owen. Protest #1 was I was 5 minutes late. Because of Bill.

On your marks.

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Get set.

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Go!

It started out pretty close; it really did.

Relatively close.

I started to pull away, though.

And even though we were in the midst of a fierce competition, it was great being out there, being in a pool, being outside and alive and doing something cool on a summer morning.

By the time we we about to hit the wall at the 50 meter mark, the race was mine.

I owned the second 50 meters.

I think at this point Owen decided to give up smoking . . .

. . . or maybe work out in the pool more.

And..... Done. With nary a competitor in sight.

Oh there he is.

Nice job, buddy.

Good race.

Better luck next time.

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Now excuse me while I do my victory pool dance.