This post is going to be ALL ABOUT BRYAN, and what a great husband he is.

I do not give compliments well, that’s all there is to it.

Bryan told me that should be the first line of my very next post because I keep neglecting to mention all the fantastic, thoughtful things he has done for me this week. Not to mention all the fun we’ve had.

He has a point.

I tend to use my writing as a voice for the angst within, and there’s nothing very interesting about resolution: no suspense, no climax, no tension, nothin’.

So this post is dedicated to the one I love.

Tonight we saw The Violent Femmes play at Zoo Tunes, which is a great outdoor venue on a green lawn with blankets and picnic baskets and wine smuggled in tinted water bottles. Kids are running around everywhere, because kids under age twelve get in for free.

FREE, I tell ya.

In the words of Bob the Tomato, What more do you need to be happy?

There I was, sitting on my blanket, leaning against my picnic basket, listening to great music, reading the book Bryan bought me last week – the book he gave me as a sweet, unprompted gift; the book which he found while browsing Barnes and Noble because I was late picking him up for LAST week’s Zoo Tunes concert (Patty Griffin – talk about musical diversity!); the book which I LOVE and can’t put down – so I was sitting on my blanket enjoying the evening with my husband who was so gracious to me after I forgot the tickets and we had to drive all the way home after I had picked him up from work so we could theoretically get to the zoo early for a good spot, and we actually didn’t get there until ten minutes before it started and had to sit way in the back… and I was content.

The evening could have gone very very bad.

Jokingly, Bryan said, “You have the tickets, right?

Dramatically, I slammed the steering wheel and growled, “FUCK!”

I guess he thought I was kidding, you know, like “Oh no, I thought you had the tickets, ha-ha-ha,” but no, I really meant FUCK!

For the next hour as we made the round trip-and-a-half through evening rush hour traffic to get the tickets I said “I’m so sorry,” with, I believe, twenty-six different inflections and nuances because ONCE could never be enough in Zug Land when you’re an hour late for a show.

But darn it if that Bryan didn’t just blow my Keens off when he says to me, “Don’t worry about it, babe. I’m just enjoying the time I get to spend with you.”

And here’s the best part: HE DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A COMPLETE CHEESEBALL WHEN HE SAID IT! He really meant it. He wasn’t saying it through clenched teeth as he really thought to himself, “I need to set up a color coded charted and timed system to ensure this doesn’t happen NEXT week….”

He was very sweet, and I finally relaxed, and we had some of our best conversation of the evening during that drive.

It was pretty surreal to see Gordon standing there right in front of me as he sang (well, not RIGHT in front of me, more like at the other end of a football field, but still, it was surreal). He just has one of those distinct voices that you think is make-believe – kind of like Elmo or Grover – and to see that a real person makes that sound was, well, surreal.

I had the same experience the first time I saw Stevie Nicks sing.

The climax of the evening came during ‘Add It Up,’ the song that was The Femmes’ greatest – their paramount, if you will – which of course they saved for the last song of the evening, at which point all bodies leaped (leapt?) up from their picnic blankets to dance.

Tattooed bodies, magenta hair, average thirty-somethings with kids: they all danced. Children danced hand in hand with their parents, doing the jitterbug, or the twist, or some such dance.

Have you ever heard the words to ‘Add It Up?’

Watching the children dance with their parents, Bryan says, “I think I’m scarred.”

Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jig

You know you’ve had a great vacation when you are oh so ready to come home and clean your house.

We had a great time, and camping with two kids was, well, not a breeze, but it went very well. Ruthie was very proud to be sleeping in her sleeping bag, and she didn’t even pee in it until the last night so that worked out well.

I have many stories to tell, starting with Bryan’s Amazing-Race-like dash to the best camping spot, but I will have to leave your mouth watering for more because I have dust bunnies the size of my dog that need to be tamed into submission.

I will find time later to tell tales of slugs, sprinkles, and teenage drama.

Vacation Preparations

I really shouldn’t be writing this right now. Currently Ruthie is in slumberland and Thomas is gazing happily at his own reflection, so I should be running around like a mad woman getting ready for our vacation. It’s no small task to pack for a five day camping trip with two small children. Fortunately it’s “car camping,” so we’re packing up just about our entire household… including the backyard hammock!

Normally I would say, What’s the point? Why go through the trouble to take your nice, indoor, plumbed, kitchen with a lovely fan and take it outdoors where there is no running water and no fan to cool your glistening skin? Ahhh… but there’s a perk! We are attending a secret music festival on one of the San Juan Islands. I say secret because if all of you realized how cool this music festival was you would want to come, too, then it would just be too big and not be very cool anymore.

Sorry, but that’s the way it is. You’re not invited.

The other night Bryan and I took the kids to a café in West Seattle where we met a friend and her kids. This café had live music and served the most amazing mocha I’ve ever had in my whole life. Or maybe I was just dying for some chocolate. At any rate, this café was very “kid friendly” and had games and coloring books on a little kid-sized table.

Once it got later and the place cleared out a bit we let Ruthie run around. I love watching her run. She reminds me of the bouncing head of an electric typewriter, running stiffly and quickly and bouncy while giggling like popping bubbles. She was, of course, barefoot. I never bother with socks anymore because who has the time to look for all the clothing that gets flung around? The shoes are bad enough to find.

I look forward to our vacation so I can see her running around like a busy typewriter, giggling, and growling ROAR at me from behind a chair. “Roar, mama! Roar!” And then, of course, I have to chase her around a tree and pretend to scare her. This will be a great weekend for her to be free, to be adventurous, and to be truly tuckered out.

So now I will stop writing and continue packing.

Hump Day

I love Wednesdays.

Wednesday is my favorite day of the week. Fridays are pretty cool, too. And Saturday is usually fun. Sunday ranks pretty high, being the Lord’s Day, but Wednesday is definitely my favorite day of the week.

On Wednesday I don my inner Ya-Ya persona with the ladies as our petite ya-yas flitter about from slide to pool to trampoline. I live for this day. I sleep in, I make pancakes, we eat leftovers for dinner, because on Wednesday mamma takes the day off!

I am a firm believer that everyone needs at least one friend. I had one friend for over ten years and she’s great. Really. She is still a very dear friend. But I’ve recently come to realize the benefits of a plurality of friends. A symphony, if you will, of girls who know me deeply. Girls who reassure me that I’m not a bad mother because I take Zoloft; who routinely offer me margaritas; who make me laugh until I pee; who love my kids so much they’re not afraid to open The Can when one gets out of line.

I find that any inclination I may have had on Tuesday to accidentally leave my children in the McDonald’s play land seems to dissipate on Thursday because of Wednesdays.

If you are reading this and you are having a bad day, turn off the computer and call a friend.