Voyage - Day 7

Summer is a collection of days, like beads on a rosary, periodically interrupted by moments of pure, unspoiled sweetness. I've never tasted a rosary, but, I think you know what I mean. It's the first strawberry, the first ice cream cone, the first bike ride, the first inhale of salt-spray-laden ocean air. It's the first sip of home brewed sun tea, it's the first night spent in a tent (the one you build in your bedroom using a bunkbed, diningroom chairs and old quilts) whilst watching an old Indiana Jones adventure. It is a perfectly burned hot dog, a sticky marshmallow, the smell of sunscreen mixed with the scent of sweaty babies, it is the song of cicadas and locusts and crickets. It is the smell of night-blooming jasmine and pick-up kickball games. It is imagined (and unimagined) wars fought with water balloons and nerf dart guns (nerf guns should be the weapon of choice for post-nuclear countries, "Mr. Gorbechev, tear down this wall...and while you're at it, throw in the missile silos. Gentlemen, take up your nerf guns!) Today, summer was eating breakfast at 11am, and practicing the guitar and coloring 8 million pictures, and declaring them all masterpieces worthy of refrigerator space. My fridge is starting to look an abandoned storefront in Brooklyn (minus the "escort services" ads.) I don't want to sound ungrateful, I love my boys and I love having them around, I love them in all their mess and mayhem! I have a strange, perhaps maudlin, desire to document the insanity of modern family life. Hopefully this doesn't turn out like my misguided attempt at homemade fondant....more on that later.

Voyage - Day 6

Wednesday: TRANSLATION: Mom will have chores that need to be done, and the boys will argue as if they are members of the British Parliament (which is ironic because I was the one representing the labor party.) All that was missing was powdered wigs and less-than-stellar dentition. I cleaned the dining room and proceeded to the kitchen, meanwhile, back at the ranch, the boys decided to convert said dining room into an art studio. I apologize to those who truly defend our environment, I allowed multiple trees to be sacrificed in the name of entertainment. I was desperate, at least, I was, until I stepped, barefoot, on the thousands of bent staples they left on the floor. My children invented a weapon of mass destruction, an iron maiden you can't see to avoid. After the initial shock, the pain is intense, you raise one foot to examine the wound and place more pressure on the other foot, driving the tiny metal spikes deeper into the sole of your foot. It's similar to running through a field during a garden gnome convention, they're all dressed up wearing their official conical hats, sharpened to a vicious point. it's wall to wall gnomes and they're not feeling friendly. Not that I have encountered such a convention, I'm just trying to put this in terms you can understand. The staple is one of those office supplies that flies under the radar, normally. You rarely hear of someone committing Hari Kari or other despicable acts using their friendly desk stapler. You see, (don't feel too bad, I was ignorant of this vital detail as well,) when you have folded a piece of paper 1,852 times, it is very difficult to force a tiny metal staple through it. Apparently, I should have provided more suitable supplies for the art station, which include, but are not limited to, C-clamps, a saws-all, lead and epoxy based paints and, most importantly, industrial metal fasteners. Next summer, I will plan ahead to purchase a plasma cutter for sheet metal.

Bon Voyage

Well, here we are again, the school year has ground to a slow halt, like a car without brake pads, a shower of sparks the likes of which have only been witnessed by the lucky few who have seen my husbands family perform their annual illegal fireworks display. This is a treat best reserved for the brave or those with a deathwish who happen to be on a budget. The end of school heralds the beginning of summer. Summer arrives in Florida like retirees at the local Perkins Restaurant, early. At the beginning of the summer, my occupation changes significantly, I magically become the social director of the budget cruiseline known as the Metzner family. It's like a public service position, mentally taxing, very little pay, and cranky clientele. I put in my resume for other positions, like, lady of leisure and professional pool guard. Unfortunately all the positions of that ilk were taken by those who lack their own set of underage howler monkeys. It's a task of monumental proportions, yes; both, the raising of said howler monkeys and their seasonal entertainment. It's as if my children have morphed into upper-crusty members of the ton courtesy of a Harlequin Regency Romance novel; they have perfected the air of cultured ennui. If I didn't know them so well, I might feel sorry for them. Last summer was spent on two sides of a well-known river...the cross-country move. We sacrificed the first 6 weeks of summer break packing our lives into small, cardboard cubes; the second, removing all of our earthy posessions from said cubes. We arrived in Florida with just enough time to find our slapchop (to lose such an important appliance would be criminal, we wrapped that in bubble wrap: linguine, fettucine, martini, bikini! I mean, seriously, it's like Popeye's doing an informercial.) and buy school uniforms. So, I decided to embrace my inner cruise director. I have purposed to find free and cheap ways to make this the summer of fun (The summer of George was already taken.) I have uncovered some gems, and I will keep you posted, mostly on my goal of preventing a daily thrombo, but also on the results of our pursuit of happyness. Let's slap this broad with a bottle of champagne and shove off for A Voyage of Lunacy.