• the quotidian (9.24.12)

    September 24, 2012
    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    I discovered this picture on my camera, courtesy of one of the kids. 
    It spoke to me.

    Awaiting the arrival of a girlfriend.

    Hanging out in the grape arbor.
    (A no-longer permissible activity as they were damaging the vines.)

    Apple pie: every September should have one. Or six. 

    Sunbathing.
     

    Soaking up every minute of a visit from The Greats.

    Helping Grandma stuff envelopes for a mailing.

    Trying to close a closet door with his toes. 
    Back story: I showed the kids some videos of Tisha UnArmed 
    Immediately afterwards, I told the kids to blitz the house. 
    However, thanks to Tisha, they insisted on doing all the chores with their feet: 
    dusting, sweeping (didn’t go over so well), putting things away, folding blankets.
    The house didn’t get very clean, but they had a blast.
     (Thanks, Kate!)

    Studying the algebra. 
    Actually, in this case, it’s more a lesson in the importance of being neat 
    than of numerical computations.

    Apples, popcorn, and Sunday night movie: a tradition.
    (It’s quite the letdown when the Netflix movie doesn’t work, though.)

    This same time, years previous: when the relatives came, Thousand Island slaw with roast chicken, hurdle-free molten brownie cakes (I forgot about these!), soiree 2010, we love Fred, soiree 2009, simple roast chicken, one hot chica

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  • candid camera

    September 19, 2012

    My husband and I have hardly any pictures of us together. There are several reasons for this.

    1. We rarely think to take them.
    2. My husband isn’t fond of having his picture taken.
    3. I’m usually the one taking pictures.
    4. We rarely wear nice clothes.
    5. My husband has no patience for smiling at a black box.
    6. It takes time.
    7. My husband hates posing.

    The other night when we were on our way out the door to go to a wedding, I grabbed the camera, husband, and a willing daughter, and stomped them into the front yard. You stand here, I ordered my daughter. We’ll stand over here. Get pictures from the waist up. Click fast. Go! Go! GO!

    I knew we only had about 14 seconds before my husband stalked off. If she held the clicky-thing down for the full 14 seconds, there was a slight chance we’d get something halfway decent.

    Except that we were squinting into the sun, so, without knowing it, we shot any chances of a good picture all to smithereens before we even started, dagnabbit.

    Which didn’t really matter much because I was too busy looking like a crazy lady.

    Dying flower, courtesy of our little boy.

    And my husband was too busy looking like a Class-A Dork.

    But, looking like a dork rather than an Uptight Angry Man is an improvement, I say. Baby steps, people! Baby steps!

    And then I about ripped his head off his neck trying to get him to kiss me.

    Not-So-Little Secret: my husband hates it when people get in his personal space. When I (or the kids) get too close, he hunches his shoulders and whaps the air with his arms, exactly like a panicked duck. And then I say, “You’re flapping again, honey.”

    Even Sam, the guy he works with, knows all about this personal space thing. In fact, sometimes when they’re talking, Sam will intentionally move closer.

    And closer.

    And closer.

    Sam gets a big kick watching my husband try to edge away discreetly.

    About 13 seconds in, my husband announced he was done.

    “Oh no we are NOT!” I informed him.

    See? That’s me informing him.

    But then my daughter, in an effort to get a better shot, took a step backwards and fell smack into the forsythia. I had to help her extricate herself.

    We tried a few more shots, but attention spans were waning. My daughter, however, was just catching on to the idea of continuous clicking, and I had to tear the camera out of her hands.

    But not before she blurred me up real good.

    The end.

    PS. The wedding was lovely. These glasses were the favors, and now the kids fight over them at every meal.

    This same time, years previous: the potluck solution, cornmeal whole wheat waffles, hard knocks

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  • the quotidian (9.17.12)

    September 17, 2012
    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace 

    Painted piggies.

    Chilly mornings: this little guy got to light the first fire.

    Picked without permission, but so pretty I couldn’t bring myself to care.

    My newest (and cutest) student: so far, she’s learned her name 
    and the commands for sit, stay, and down. 
    Next, to teach her not to jump up (my biggest doggie-related pet peeve).

    The perfect bar for whenever I need something sweet, and fast.
    Lately, I’ve been making these with alarming frequency.

    Supper, foraged.

    Proof that we are completely uncivilized.
    (Yes, that’s the dogs’ water bucket.)

    How he’s supposed to do it.
    (The little sinker.)

    Playing hard: at our annual church retreat.

    Retreating, of a Sunday morning: crisp and bright, fresh donuts, friends.

    When it’s over: heading home to recuperate.
    (Backstory: how the bumper got its hole.)

    The look I get when my husband realizes that he’s doing all the work 
    while I’m standing around snapping pictures.

    Of her own volition: I now have a clean fridge!

    Summer evenings: after supper, I dole out ice cream cones
    and we head out to the porch to lollygag … and wrestle.
     Always, to wrestle.

    Golden, my evening writing time: sequestered in my room.

    This same time, years previous: goodbye summer, hello fall, a new day dawning, Greek pasta salad

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