Several nights ago I dreamed that my husband was a famous movie star. For one of his numbers he performed in drag, and it was such a hit that he had his own line of dresses—both men and women were crazy over them.

The whole next day I was fuzzy-warm infatuated with the man, but only when he wasn’t around. As soon as we were together, the ga-ga feelings faded.

Probably because he wasn’t wearing a dress.

He did wear a dress once. (Actually, twice, but only once when I knew him.) (The first time was when his sister was fussing about wearing a dress and he got so irritated he said, “Here, give me the stupid thing. I’ll wear it.” And then he did.)

The only time I ever saw my husband in a dress was the eve of his surgery, about ten years ago. Earlier that day, he had gone to see a urologist because he thought he might have cancer. He had hatched this strange idea the last couple months of our three-year term in Nicaragua and I had laughed in his face. I think I probably said something kind like, “You’re such a hypochondriac. Just get over yourself.”

So our first month back in the states, when our firstborn was not even a year old and we were still living with my parents and reeling from culture shock, my husband took himself off to Doctor Becker (I kid you not) who informed him that he did indeed have testicular cancer. They would operate the very next day.

That night we were all hanging out downstairs when my husband descended the stairs in a slinky, fire engine-red dress. We shrieked wildly and pounded our thighs while he sashayed up and down in front of us, hips a-wiggle. And then, in a super-high falsetto, he announced, “After tomorrow I’ll be talking like this.”

Twenty-four hours later it was all over. He was doing more hobbling than sashaying, but the dress was nowhere in sight and his voice sounded perfectly normal, thank goodness.

That dream the other night, though, I don’t know. Something tells me I maybe ought to buy him a dress and some kinky boots. He may have secret talents that I’m not aware of.

This same time, years previous: chickpeas with spinach, the case of the flying book, spinach-cheese crepes, and skillet-blackened asparagus

It’s 80 degrees and the flies are thick as thieves.

Laundry is on the line. My house is mostly clean. The fridge is stuffed with leftovers.

Bread is cooling. Granola is done. Yogurt is yogurtizing.

The asparagus is up.

Horses like carrots.

Happy Monday!

Story Number One
A couple days ago our dead Christmas tree showed up on our back yard. We had properly disposed of the tree by tossing it on the burn pile, but we had neglected to properly dispose of the burn pile. Meaning, we haven’t burned it.

So anyway, the other day I looked out my window and there was a very dead Christmas tree in the yard, a chain around its trunk and my daughter astride the tree, horseback-riding fashion. The other end of the chain was attached to the back of the mower. My son was siting on the mower.

Are you getting the picture? Here, let me help.

Now do you get the picture?

This was serious business, this tree-riding exercise. They fashioned a seat (saddle?) out of an old pillow and gave the younger sibs riding lessons.

Correct turnage was of utmost importance.

(Note my baby’s shoes. He’s wearing my only decent pair of flip-flops.)

I am not a fan of joy riding. Senseless fuel-burning and jetting all over God’s creation is not my idea of a good kind of fun. But I forestalled putting the brakes on such a creative venture, remembering all too well my own pre-teen craving for motorized fun (some of my most vivid fantasies had me in the driver’s seat of go-carts, bumper cars, and mowers).

Then my husband came home, watched for a minute, witnessed a near accident and put a stop to the fun.

The end.

Story Number Two
My oldest son thought he wanted to grow out his hair. I wasn’t too fond of assuming the role of Mother of Hairy Mammoth, but I kept my mouth shut.

Except for enforcing daily hair washes.

And then on Sunday morning, after watching his papa cut his hair, the Hairy Mammoth decided it might be fun to follow suit.

So he did.

Aside from carving a couple race tracks in the back of his head, he did a pretty fair job.

The end.

Story Number Three

I have no words.

The end.

This same time, years previous: oven fries