As M and I have yet fully to realize our irrelevance to national politics, we do partake in political junkyism. It should be no surprise that our apple falleth not far from its trees.
The other night, N decided to sneak a peek at M’s Hillary read:
She must have enjoyed it, because she was back at it today:
My nephew J borrowed my camera for a while on Sunday, and took quite a few of his brother N. These are a select few, compiled into a logical order:
Spring is here. It rained steadily for a long time today, making indoors the cozy place to be for April showers.
Other signs of springtime include N’s increasing comfort sans winter-esque bundling.
‘Tis also the season for trimming. I took along my new trimmer to the Ms’, and J had a good long go at it.
And finally, at a youth group birthday party, the birthday girl’s kite flew high. Her brother, too, sought the skies.
M is a member of an exercise gym that wants to turn her into a machine.
It’s never been exactly, say, organic, since at the club women (who, on their lucky days, get to watch N gaze upon them lackadaisically from her car seat in the center of the circuit) plod, push, pull, and strain on a series of machines that each promise fewer flabbinesses in targeted areas.
However, the ladies in charge want to ramp it all up. For a “half-off” $25 setup fee, M can receive a technological, computerized device that makes each machine customize itself to her current level and presumably challenge her to go! go! at appropriate times.
She’s not sure yet if she’ll take the bait.
A new strategy has cut my commuter gas pump addiction by 40%.
Twice each week, I hitch a ride with a fellow congregant who lives nearby and travels past my school on the way to his. I pay him $3 per day (12.5 cents per mile), which is a bit less than I would put into my own gas tank each day, and he pays for the wear and tear on his car. I also get short walks in on either end of the ride, which makes my passengership less inconvenient for him.
I prefer to drive myself–it’s easier and I like to drive–but when I look at the 40% figure, I find carpooling rather irresistible.
Early this morning, after yesterday’s excited acquisition of yard-oriented electronics, I had a nightmare: Our neighbor got up early and, in a spirit of good neighborliness, mowed our lawn. I knew I should be grateful for his efforts, but really I was sorely disappointed that I wouldn’t get to use my new weed eater for a while.
Thankfully it was just a dream, and now our yard is nicely trimmed, thanks to my own labors.
As for yesterday’s rockin’ality, M had one comment for me as I headed out to school today: “Don’t drink coffee.”
Church usually wears me out. A little lunch in my belly sends me right into a Sunday afternoon recovery snooze. Today, “Marriage Sunday,” was no exception.
We were one of five couples celebrating a multiple-of-five-years anniversary this year, which meant we could speak for 5-7 minutes about marriage. I talked about our monthly dates as keeping us connected and having fun, M noted how we have worked through rough spots, and then we sang one of my songs, one about relational stick-to-it-iveness.
Other couples had fine things to say, as well, including the story of “the spaghetti incident of 1983,” when the new husband threw the pot of spaghetti out into the yard (she didn’t cook again for a month, until he apologized), the need for a “cat” in every marriage (Commitment, A…oops, I forget, and T…rats, I forget that one, too), and the advice not to speak of one’s spouse’s faults in public–issue forth praise only (this advice came from a couple married 50 years, from the husband, after he called their first year of marriage “the year of whipped cream,” since in that year she always masked dessert with plenty of it. I guess past faults now rectified are acceptable for public deprecation).
The song leader chimed in, too, announcing that Jesus didn’t have a cat and wasn’t married.
The service ended, finally, at nearly 12:30, and we all trooped downstairs for a potluck. Fortunately, there was a huge cake in honor of the married couples, because the rest of the desserts were all gone by the time I got to them, except for some delicious apple crisp. I had some of both.
We sat at the same table as did the music leader, who told us about a cross-over jazz musician’s use of the rhythm 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2 (and so on).
Anyway, as I scraped up the last of my apple crisp and what was nearly the last of my cake (I snitched a bite more on the way out), N woke up and promised to cry soon, so we high-tailed it home, where Hawthorne’s introduction to The Scarlett Letter failed miserably at keeping me awake.
