I live in Oregon wine country, and it’s grape harvest season. Pretty soon the back roads by our house will be full of fall wine tourists, and truly, it’s an idyllic time to visit our valley with its vine covered hills and evergreen forests, clean water and invisible air, and, of course, our llama farms which are a constant source of comfort because they relieve my fear of the ever-impending zombie apocalypse; frankly, folks, while the rest of the world is at war with the undead, we here in the Willamette Valley will be too high on leg of llama and fantastic pinot to know what hit us. ...
My kid owns more than 100 pairs of panties.
Like, 109 or 120 or 2,300 or something.
We sorted clothes for the start of school, an annual chore I mentally schedule for July and accomplish no later than oh-crap-it’s-September, when I noticed one kid’s panty pile growing to mountainous proportions. Curious, I started counting pairs, tossing them one at a time into an old, broken Ivar’s clam chowder box. ...
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, sweet child, whom I love very, very, very, very, very, very much,
Knock it off.
You are driving your family crazy, man.
Crazy to the moon.
And when I say “your family,” I include you in it, ’cause I can see it in your eyes, this confusion at your own behavior. This mystery at the vitriol that erupts. This wondering at the drama. This fact that you’re driving yourself crazy, too. And I assure you, you’re not alone. ...
Conversation between my teenager, my husband and me:
Abby: You didn’t save me any chicken last night.
Me: What? What was last night?
Abby: I had dance ’til really late. I came home and the chicken was gone. You didn’t save me any.
Me: Huh. That’s weird.
Abby: It’s not weird, Mom. It’s mean.
Me: Well, I’m not sure I’d say it’s mean. That might be a tiny exaggeration, right? Mean implies intent, and I certainly didn’t intend to not save you any chicken. ...
Gloria Elizabeth Krueger
September 2, 1972 – September 17, 2002
I’ll walk your grave today, friend, and I will laugh, and I will cry. So very grateful for the time I had with you. So very sad that you’re not here.
I can’t believe it’s been ten years.
Ten years today.
Ten years of thinking you could just burst through my front door, any minute, full of life, full of joy. ...
Easy Peasy Apple Cake
It feels like my whole little world is ripe right now, as the blackberry season ends, the tomatoes grow fat, and the apples start to drop. We’re full swing into our back-to-school madness, and this mama and her kids want to drop, too, heavy with soaking up all of September’s changes and willing to lay on the hard earth and rot for a bit if it means we can rest. ...
I really wanted to title this post “Butt Weight, there’s more!” Because it’s about running and why I run and my weight, and, you know, butt weight, there’s more. But then I thought that title might be mean to me, and I’m trying to knock that crap off. So, well, this is the conversation I had with myself abou tit:
But it’s funny!
But it’s mean.
Butt it’s funny!
Yeah. I totally saw that. Knock it off.
Fine. Forge tit.
I think you meant to type forget it.
Oops. Those t‘s and the tricky space bar always mess me up.
You’re the most immature person I know, Beth.