End of Summer Bits

As we rounded out our summer weeks, our weather turned delightful - the kind of delightful that makes you feel suddenly capable of life’s toughest challenges, like cleaning out the workshop, getting a jump start on your taxes, or eating one less cookie after dinner because crisp air reminds you that life is worth jumping into. You should keep spry and fit. Do you think that’s why those Scandinavians are so progressive? This crisp, hopeful air? 

I have a reptilian love for the hot weather, so I’ll rarely complain about it hindering my enthusiasm, but after months in the nineties, the seventies almost tickle your skin. I’ve also noticed that this kind of Hawaiian weather can fool you into thinking that you want to do things you don’t actually want to do - like move into an bungalow in a schlubby part of town where you could afford to buy a house without needing a mortgage. Because in this weather, even 

The Hood feels picturesque and well worth the savings. “This weather is dangerous.” I told Brett, and he agreed. 

Here we are after our Triple-Decker September Birthday Blowout dinner for Lee, Mama, and Ellen.

I had my official first day as an intern at Brett’s company when he bit off a huge job in Hilton Head that first resulted in needing to book a hotel room for “just a night” and then resulted in asking his wife if she’d drive down and crawl around under the condos with him. I thought of the hundreds of hours Brett logged at ol’ Lux n’ U tearing down wedding decor at midnight, so I left Mom and Dad some pet-care instructions and barreled down the road to my first and second days as an assistant (to the) engineer. It was a dirty, slightly sweaty job up under a crumbling building from the eighties. We were measuring the piers it sat on and that required sliding around on your belly, climbing up over insulation and HVAC tubes, and doing a wispy swatting maneuver to get the cobwebs off your nose. I logged a number of hours sitting next to disturbingly motionless spiders.

Brett and I decided it would make him look unprofessional if the point-of-contact person found out I was Brett's wife, so we decided I was just an office assistant (This is true. I write a lot of Brett’s more complex or confrontational emails.) and that I volunteered to give Mr. Brett and hand in the field. On my drive down I came up with a whole backstory. Brett poached me from my family’s property management and development company. I’ve worked in Mr. Brett’s office for a little over a year now. My husband, Casey, works in IT and we have two cats. 

We were halfway through my first day, eating our lunch, when the Head Guy came over. Brett introduced me just as “Laura” and I made some comment about being glad to get out of the office. Then, when we found out the guy is originally from Syracuse, NY, Brett blew our cover by talking about our last trip up to see our friends in Rochester. The man’s eyes flicked suspiciously back over to me where I responded with a look of professional defeat. Days later, on Thursday of Brett’s “I’ll be done by Tuesday” job, he saw that guy again and was asked, “Hey, that woman that was helping you? Is she your wife?” 

So now Brett looks silly, bringing his wife to work. We are hopeful he assumes this is a family business. 

A Folly outing with friends.

In other news, I have been trying to harness- train Cam, the handicapped cat. “Handi-Cam” He is as happy about it as Brett is, which is to say they are both bothered by my intentions. Brett is horrified that a neighbor will see me “walking a cat,” while Cam maintains that when wearing the harness, he cannot move his legs. I scoot him along in the grass and he just lets all four legs drag behind him. 

He wants to be outside, mind you, but he doesn’t like the harness. So mostly we just sit out in the grass for awhile and then I carry him back in. On our most recent “lesson” he army crawled away from me, so I’ll mark that as progress. 

I'm not crazy... I feel sad about his boring life!

Mom and I recently stepped out for a day of errands together and when I jumped in her car at our rendezvous spot, she was fiddling with her shoes. “The bottom of my shoe just fell off!” and then she held it up. We laughed and laughed at this because she and I (and Grandpa Bob) notoriously wear our clothing items until they combust and the people around us think we are absurd because of it. It is very “Mom” to be wearing shoes that you can feel pebbles through. When we finished laughing I suggested we run into the store and grab some glue but Mom said it was fine. She’d carry on without the bottom. 

A couple hours later, as we walked into a consignment store, the bottom of the other shoe just dropped right off in the parking lot. Mom simply bent down, picked it up and tossed it in the trashcan by the store's front door. “Shall we?” And we stepped in to look around. She walked along, remarking that she could feel everything she stepped on, but also managed to find some cute seashell pictures to hang in a bathroom. We went in opposite directions and while I was sorting through a rack of clothes I heard Mom come up behind me, giggle and simply say, “Hey Laura?” I turned to find her stifling her laughter. 

When we finished guffawing, she shuffled (literally) back to the car while I waited in the checkout line with her seashell pictures. 

Ever since we've gotten back from Florida, I’ve found myself deeply missing Olivia. Seeing her everyday was the best. Now she’s at school and I only see her on Sundays. She’s all long-legged and talkative and I’m disheartened by how fast its all going. I think the best word for it is crestfallen.

Loosely related, I watched a show about centenarians the other day. They're all ready to die. They had lots to say about life and young people and grief and what not, but what really struck me was how none of them looked much older than their mid-eighties. "Why, you don't look a day over 86!" It made me wonder if you get to a point of decrepitude where upon the skin has sagged as far as possible given the volume and mass within it. Sandbags finally settle somewhere, you know? The hair goes wispy. The ears go long. The bottom teeth become quite prevalent. BUT, you only look 84, so... a silver lining?

Lastly, I joined Dad for a day of his Handyman/ Problem-solving services and we wound up on a small farm in Ravenel working on what Mom calls The Crapper 2000. The organization that took Dad to Burma a few times to get clean water at the orphanage, is now working on getting a version of gas cooktops available in some small villages in Africa. They discovered a manure-based opportunity for such undertakings and ol' Popples U had to go out and troubleshoot it. 

They'd put too much water in the crap bag so the gas wasn't drifting out. While Dad tinkered with valves and tubes, I wandered the property, cooing at animals that seemed burdened by my presence. I looped back around to help Dad. It was hot and sunny, and we were in a shadeless area next to a huge bag of cow crap with off-gasing capabilities, so.

I'll zoom ahead and tell you that when we saw we were missing a part and couldn't get things moving, I suggested we just press down on the crap bag. Dad thought it was a good idea, so he held the valve while I gently laid my body upon the giant bag. Dad was looking up at me, waiting to hear or smell the farty gases, so he didn't noice that all the poo water was bubbling up and puddling around his hands. When I noticed, I yelled, "Oh no!" and Dad simply continued looking at me with a pleasant, curious look on his face. "It's getting all over your hands!" That's when he looked down to find the warm poo particles flowing between his fingers. 

His reaction was understandably elementary and I could sense that he would not appreciate my laughter. I struggled to keep it to myself. He immediately went running off towards the barn in search of soap and water. That's when I was able to indulge in my amusement. We rode the 45 minutes home, both drench in sweat and smelling like farts. A special memory for sure.

I have since checked on the status of The Crapper 2000 and it is up and running -certain to debut in Africa soon.

Peri-Peri Disease

You want honesty? Book an affordable hotel room and then go look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Do I not have true friends? How many rouge facial hairs will a girl have to sprout before someone will gently recommend their favorite barber. Because that's what I need now.
Gone are the days of a quick, cute pluck from the brow. "Oh, why look at that little straggler!" We're checking cheeks and chins these days. What I need now could be best described as grooming shears - wire cutters, even. And again, how did this happen so quickly? And so young! Am I not barely out of high school? 

Rage is a new sensation I'm experiencing. Its often not aimed at anything. I'll be sitting, minding my own, when red hot aggravated energy washes through my blood stream. I'm infuriated - at nothing. And then it subsides. After all, nothing was wrong. It's like the panic attacks. Those weren't about anything. Am I going insane? Maybe my brain is sick. I do see things moving in my peripheral vision. It's easy to write it off as one of my many cats (another symptom?) but when I look, there is no one there. And by the way, do you smell smoke? Who is following me around with a lit cigarette?

I'm not done. 

Other problems: a workout I did easily last week will be marked incomplete this week. My strength seems to only be  available according to an unreliable A/B schedule. And why is my heart racing? What is that sharp electric zap in my chest? Also I have a little pimple farm up by my hair line. And the brain fog. "You know ma'am, I can't actually remember my birthday. Is there a different security question? I promise I really am her!" 

Who's body have I been dropped into? And why don't they tell you this is going to happen? The night sweats alone could irrigate a small lawn. "Oh menopause? You'll be hot for a bit and then you'll run out of eggs [like a lizard] and can't have any kids." 

Well that sounds easy enough.

This is why people have trust issues. You mean the perpetually reliable, strong and ready body that I have lived in for 36 years, that has never missed a morning poo, never failed to carry the groceries in on one trip, that never bloated even once, that could enjoy a single, celebratory margarita without needing intensive care the next day, that never forgot a birthday... that brain that kept negative feelings at bay, that never got mad enough to lash out or sad enough to cry at a commercial, dextrous pain-less fingers, eyes that can focus up close... you mean all of that just ends in a two month window and no one warns you? Frankly I'm appalled. 

I saw a menopause specialist last month. I am in perimenopause, the build-up to menopause. All that that I just mentioned, all those things that have happened to me in the last few months or so, those are typical, minor symptoms. 
And I'm just supposed to carry on like I know how to tend to his body. 

I don't know this body. It doesn't do right. It doesn't respond to the things I've always done. It's like having to learn a new language now, but if you try out the wrong word, you may have to go see a joint specialist to undo what you did. Because this body doesn't heal linearly, oh no, it swaps out aliments for new sensations, fat pads that erupt in the night and settle into odd locations before you wake up in the morning. Itchy inner ears. The gentle suggestion that something is on fire.

And have I mentioned that I smell? Because I do. Forget deodorant. I need a chlorine gas to neutralize the smell of my existence. 

Oh, and my face - yes, the hotel mirror that set off this whole rant; I can see it beginning its gentle descent from 30,000 feet. Nothing major. No emergency landing. Just a subtle shift, as if gravity has discovered me personally. I have always claimed to be excited about aging. I imagined myself as a fabulous older woman with strong opinions and a dramatic coat. But suddenly it is here and it kind of hurts. 

And my friends are getting minor cosmetic tweaks. They look shiny and polished, as though someone has buffed them lightly with a soft cloth. I, too, would like to be buffed. But I also resent the idea of participating in society’s “Forever 29 Pageant.”

I just thought I had more time before I’d have hip pain and thinning hair, before I had to do protein math to keep the osteoporosis at bay. (Doc says I'm a shoo-in for ol' Osteo.) I don’t feel like I’m done being young yet… but what does that even mean? 

And when I tell all this to people (of all ages and genders) they dismiss it, because I'm too young. The dismissal is one of the worst parts of the whole ordeal. "You're just tired. Well you don't eat enough. That's not what it is, you're too young."

Well I'm not. I've done the research and talked to the specialist - she suggested HRT.

But don't listen to me, I was born yesterday.

Leave it to the harsh light of a hotel bathroom to be more honest with you than your friends.

The Nausea Accessory Business

As for the occupational saga, I’ve given up on applications and wooing hiring managers and instead purchased a little business so that I can tend to that in the mornings and then use my afternoons for advocacy and humor writing like God intended. Huzzah! I cracked the case.

I closed on the business on June 16th which made me smirk because I started Lux on July 16th exactly ten years ago. It felt a little kismet-y. The less kismet-y part is that I don’t know how to run this type of business, but I can learn. Also, after eight years of “if you mess up, my whole wedding day is ruined” this business strikes one as having a high barrier to disaster. 

The business: acupressure bracelets. Isn’t that funny? As a nauseous member of society, I’m well aware of the nausea bands. I believe every one of my queasy family members has worn them at sometime or another; and they are schlubby, utilitarian things. Quite conspicuous as well. “Look everyone, I might blow chunks!” As motion-sick mavens, my family has participated in all kinds of nausea remedies.

For almost a year now, I’ve been keeping an eye on businesses for sale. I like working for me. But I wasn’t just going to buy a business to solve my unemployment woes - it had to be something  I could get behind, something that met an extensive list of criteria. Primarily, I didn’t want a business selling crap to people. The list of business rules included these things:

-No selling gewgaws or doodads

-No ill-fitting, flammable clothing

-No drop-shipping businesses

-No SAAS businesses

-Nothing with lots of unrecyclable plastic components

-I don’t want to manage a team of more than 10

-Nothing techy, medical, or overly complicated

-Nothing with bookkeeping that exceeds my art school education

-No agency businesses

-I’m not buying anyones blog or ad-based income situation

-No meat, dairy, leather, or feather based products

-No cosmetics, supplements, or other products that suggest you're ugly or broken

-I will not be filming workout videos or tutorials

-Not interested in sports

-Nothing politically, religiously or ethically outrageous or polarizing

-And ideally I get to stay home

So obviously my options were abundant. I considered the rare few that met this criteria but they weren't things I could proudly stand behind. I put in an offer on one and then the guy decided to raise the price. Can you believe that? I was outraged.

And then came the barf bracelet business. Here’s what’s neat about it, they don’t look like barf bracelets. They look like fun wrist bands - that’s the whole schtick. “Fight nausea, look great” the marketing says, and by golly, they do. In considering this business, I thought about the bulky set Mom was given too late on an ill-fated boat ride around a Caribbean island. Mom flung herself overboard, swam to shore and barfed in the bushes nexts to some happy beach-goers. I thought of the pinching sweatbands I was given to wear on a cruise on formal night, and the grey elastic did not go with my shimmery outfit. 

It suddenly seemed so obvious. Nausea bands that like look like jewelry. What a brilliant idea. 

So I hopped on a call with the owner/founder. We got on like wildfire. She came up with the idea after one of her colleagues noticed the ugly, “Hey, I’m queasy” sweatbands on her wrists and subsequently outed her new pregnancy at the office. She got on a prototype right away - she’s has six kids so far, so she’s always wearing nausea bands. 

But in talking to her, I learned that the pregnant and the motion sick are only half of the customers - the other half come from the “medical woes” sector of life. Chemotherapy, vestibular disorders, assorted medical treatments that leave people rolling. She told me about the little notes she receives from people with debilitating, chronic dizziness that are so excited about the inconspicuous bands. 

A worry that this might be a good business for me set in. Have I found IT? I'm a nauseous nancy, a vertigo veteran, a queasy queen! I was made to sell this product. Is this my ticket out of financial ruin and traditional employment? Should I do it? 

I got on a second call with the owner. This time I asked more in-depth questions, the operational kind that made me look like I knew what to ask about. I could find no real cons, apart from not knowing how to do the things she mentioned. I hemmed and hawed. I was preoccupied by the idea that I didn’t know enough to even know what to ask about. I looked at the P&L, the supplier agreements, the marketing strategies. I asked Chat GPT what I’d forgotten to consider. 

As you can imagine, I had the consult of Popples Union in my ear as well, and while his fallback was, “I don’t know  e-commerce” he was enlivened by the opportunity. He told me all kinds of businessy things in acronyms I haven’t learned yet, and made sure I understood that “no one expects to get their asking price for the business.” While the P&L brought him and me to a similar suggested offer-price range, I wanted to factor in all the invisible labor and the fact that she will see her business as more valuable than it is because it’s her big thing. 

Business-man Dad was amused by my sweetness. We went back and forth on the matter. It’s not that wanted to pay more, but I was worried about insulting her with what we thought was fair. “It’s business. It’s not personal.” Dad would say, and I know he’s right, but also, it’s a little bit wrong too. If I was buying Home Depot, sure, but this is one woman’s small business for a product she designed herself. Dad smiled sympathetically at me and left me to make the decision on my own. "I can’t make it for you,” he has conveniently said at all points in life when I want him to choose for me. 

I took Pip for a walk around the block and then came home and low-balled her. Lower than Dad suggested.

She accepted!

I called Dad to tell him. “I can’t believe you went that low!” he said.

“I thought she would counter!” I retorted.

“You're a business woman! I’m so proud of you!”

So I got a deal AND made my dad proud. There was no backing out now. 

Over the last two months we’ve been migrating the assets (the phrase makes me laugh every time I say it to people) to my name and I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on. The founder is very nice and open but she never wrote an instruction manual so it’s a lot of taking things apart, looking at the pieces, making notes, and putting it back together again before I update it all in a few months when I’m more comfy. I’ve got big plans, baby!

It has all been as tricky as I thought it would be. Somethings are easy and obvious - answering emails about sizes and shipments - other things are more complicated than expected. I've bought it while inventory is extremely low and have had to get more materials manufactured (never done that before) and had to send existing materials to the company in China that assembles them (or that), and man oh man, shipping stuff to China is tricky. I’ve already messed this up and have to have the assembly company hire an agent to get my shipment out of trouble at the customs dock next week. Whoopsies! 

Now I know for next time. 

After I bought the business, the founder shipped me hundreds of pounds, thousands of yards of the elastic fabric. She had this sitting in storage in Texas where she lives and would send bits of it to the assembler in China as needed. She lost points for organization when I opened these boxes to find chaos. There was no packing list. No notes on how much of each pattern I had. It was quite literally thousands of yards of loose elastic, patterns intermingling, unopened shipments of elastic, nearly complete rolls with a mystery amount missing. I stood frozen by the magnitude of the job at hand. 

I have to measure all of it. And worse, way way worse, wind all of it into wheels. You know Big Mama came over to help wind things into rolls, and EisenEars has been winding while watching TV at night. Tomorrow should be my last day of measuring. I’ve arranged to have the assemblers store it for a small fee, and they can just measure out what they need as I order. I can’t be having fabric made, and sent to me just so I can measure chunks of it, pack it back up and send it to China every few months. Huh uh, no way. I can’t be storin’ all that!

So I’m going to ship all this to China on a palate just as soon as I figure out how to do that. 

In placing manufacturing orders for elastic and pressure beads and charms and packaging and flyers and all the other crap you don't realize is involved, I've made a big master key of suppliers and inventory. The specs sheets, the sizes, the pantone colors - its all in the key. Then I made a landing costs chart - isn't that funny? Today I need to buy an accounting software.

For my next improvement, I’ll tackle the website, which I think under represents the goods. Then, add some new designs. Next, marketing strategies. And later, for my first big act, I’ll try to get these bad boys into the drug stores.

I’ll keep you posted.

www.blisslets.com

Beach Week

The UniBartonHauer's spent a week snacking and sitting around in Florida. Bradenton to be precise, though tiny trips to Tampa, St. Pete, and Anna Maria act as the industrious highlights of the vacation. On a family trip where we are all staying the same house, my favorite thing is always the same: watching everyone experience the trip differently given the assorted obstacles and scenarios presented. Our time in Florida was a textbook example of each family member's preferences mushed up against accommodating our newest additions; and by those I mean Nick and Liv.

For Ellen, a trip is a time to participate in something luxurious and then lay down. For Lee, relaxation is the ticket. He just needs a fishing rod and some music. Mom wants to trinket shop. Brett chooses to seek out newness, whether its a new dish to taste or a physical feat to overcome. I prefer a mixture of Lee's serenity pool and Brett's experience seeking, and Dad is most inclined to go with the flow until he gets bored. Once bored, he's quite pleased to do some reading. 

So here we all are, in one house for a full week, each seeking something slightly different. Historically, we maneuver a easy vacation dance with one or two people claiming intentions for the day and the rest latching on to whichever (or neither) seems most aligned with moods, priorities, and hungriness factors. So Mom's desire to "hit the shops" on Anna Maria Island lined up nicely with my desire to see the beautiful scenery there and Ellen's fondness for expensive locations. So us girls spent a morning there popping in and out of the overpriced stores inside of the charming, colorful buildings. 

But on this trip, for the first time since both were mobile, Nick and Liv joined in on the fun. And it was fun. They were chatty and excitable. Each morning they would wake up early and commence the chattering for the day. Despite having an ample-sized living room just off the kitchen, the morning routine was for the eight of us to crowd around a small coffee table in a tiny space between the kitchen and the back door. The kids would bring their briefcases of Hot Wheels into the little space and insist on using two of the six chairs for display purposes. So we'd be leaning on walls, rotating who sat down, and otherwise just standing there because it never really occurred to us to inconvenience the children instead. I found the morning cluster ritual very funny until about the fourth day when I woke up and realized I didn't want to go squeeze into that space anymore. Additionally, the chairs were on swivels, so Liv would make me seasick every morning, swirling her chair which would bump mine and send me rotating slightly this way or that. Or she would sit in my lap to chatter about things but she doesn't sit still, so every flailing limb or enthusiastic gesture would twirl the chair just enough for a person's equilibrium to doubt their stability. The trouble is that she is so precious and this moment in time so fleeting that you don't want her to not sit in your lap and talk about her dream to be a mermaid, so you sit, feeling a little pukey, and remind yourself that this is the good stuff.
But then day four hit and I chose not to sit down. 

Nick is still but a little tike so sensitivities are quite high. He is understandably not interested in doing things like getting water or looking for Dad by himself, so escort services were required from anyone within earshot. His main driver each day though, is to do as Livvy does. Does Liv want to swim? Then Nick wants to swim. Does Liv not want to taste watermelon? Then Nick does not want to taste watermelon. Did Liv pull her arm out of her sleeve? Nick will pull his arm out of his sleeve too. My favorite part about this is that Nick is in a stage (4 years long stage) of not wanting to wear pants. So he winds up performing fairly effeminate movements in a speedo, making him frequently look like a tiny gay man with a potbelly.

Brett and I enjoyed our time in our own little bubble. He did have to work a few hours each day, so I would entertain or hide from the children, chat with mom, or do some light reading. When he was free, we'd go into Tampa for lunch, or search out authentic Floridian ice cream, or find a place that makes coffee the way he likes it. We did have grey weather with dumping rain for most of the trip, but the last two or three days we had enough sun for splashing around in the pool with the kids. We are proud to have earned top regards from the kids. ("Uncle Bretty is so tall." "Aunt Lue is silly.")

Mom and Dad did more childcare than we did but also managed to go for a date night or two, read books and magazines, and help orchestrate the Shanghai tournaments. They took the lot of us bowling on one of those rainy days which was met with great success. Liv especially enjoyed it and Lee bowled strike after strike. Nick was entertained at first but quickly lost interest so Ellen took him over to the arcade - a choice that proved to be a fatal mistake. Meanwhile Dad mistook Brett's real shoes for his bowling shoes and then howled with delight by his mistake. I had selected a particularly greasy bowling ball which made my hands sweat right from the get-go and I never recovered. The place was a little sticky and we all sat with our hands in upward turned claws when it wasn't our turn. Then we received complimentary cookies which promptly caused half of us to disregard our germ concerns and dig right in. When it was time to go, Ellen and Nick came back from the arcade with a little capsule toy from a vending machine. It was a little rubber bear in a plastic bubble with a pink lid, Liv's favorite color. Livvy's eyes glittered with interest, so they gave her fifty cents to go get her own. Well, she got the same little rubber bear but the lid to the plastic bubble was red.

When I tell you all hell broke loose...

Liv is the most cheerful, positive, sweet little person. She rarely cries. So we were shocked that this child had to be carried out of the bowling alley, and the uncontrollable sobbing over the red lid lasted the entire drive home and up the stairs into the house where it turned into a hiccupy cry, and thirty minutes after that, a perpetual pouty lip. This was the point during the trip when I noticed that Ellen and Lee were not having the calm, relaxing trip that the rest of us were. Come to think of it, Lee was spending most nights in the quiet room downstairs. You know, Ellen hasn't suggested anything that would give her time away from the kids... hmm. Are they quietly enduring the utter chaos of tending to children outside of their typical routines?

Turns out, kinda. Yeah. Ellen and Lee are such conscientious parents that they were exerting extra and unnecessary energy making sure that the kids weren't bothering the rest of us. When we realized this, we were quick to tell them to stop that. They aren't bothering us. We like spending time with them. Leave them with us and you two go do something!
They conceded to one measly dinner out together but otherwise stood solidly, taking the lashings that overstimulated children in new environments manage to wield with an intensity reserved for parents alone. They were happy little squirts, but also uprooted from the familiar routines that keep them confidently engaged in things besides Mom and Dad. They did not have their toys and beds and assorted crap - so they felt adrift in a big busy house with extra family members. They hit a tiredness wall somewhere near the end and became easily reduced to tears or whimpering. Ellen and Lee were at wits end, counting down the days to heading home again. 

We all took turns cooking dinner and the leftovers amassed with all the necessary kid-food (fruit, yogurt, applesauce, cheese, etc, etc) to create a fridge jam packed full of things that none of us wanted to eat or throw out. On the last night, we had a fridge-clean-out dinner, which resulted in finding coleslaw and baked beans from the night we arrived a week ago, that had been pushed to the deep recesses of the fridge. Dad placed these items on the dinner table as though it wouldn't be a threat to health and safety. When we balked at the idea, he maintained that it was fine and we shouldn't throw it away. Mom discreetly removed the items from the table when Dad left to heat up the nub of a baguette from who knows when. 

Brett watched as more and more creepy, old eats made their way to the table; smashed berries the kids had coughed on, one roasted bell pepper from four nights ago, the pale pink ends of watermelon half submerged in their juices, the dregs of a bag of tortilla chips, two broccoli florets. While there was a collective amused distain for the selection, we ate it, because we don't throw food away. Brett, who comes from a family that will chuck half a perfectly good ham just because they've had their fill, gazed at the display and then lifted his eyes to look at me and said simply, "I see where you get it."

I found this as validating as I did amusing because I catch him throwing out perfectly good food at least twice each week and I chastise him every time. "This is perfectly fine. Why would you throw it out?"
"I don't want to eat anymore of it."
"What's that go to do with it? You paid for it."
"So?"
"So you have to eat it."

Trip highlights include:
-Watching both squirts become increasingly proficient swimmers. (Nick can hold his breath for ages. It's awful to watch. He wanted me to drag him to the bottom of the pool so he could sit just down there. "Absolutely not, Nikki!")

-Watching Brett experience the Union family listening to The Sound Of Music soundtrack. (He was not impressed.)

-The whole family went to an enormous crap-focused, broken down flea market where I saw a dozen roosters packed into a tiny cage together and it completely ruined my morning. Everyone thought it was sad, mind you, but I took it the hardest. Dad wholeheartedly supported my thought to buy them all and bring them to a sanctuary. Brett said nothing but stood tensely next to us while I worked out supply and demand for roosters in western Florida. Later, when I admitted that buying them would only boost the industry, Dad became enlivened by my next suggestion of him causing a scene while I set them free.

-Listening to Lee talk in his Brooklyn chain-smokers accent.

-A particularly gruesome Nick meltdown while waiting to eat at a restaurant. This resulted in Lee wordlessly grabbing both children, getting into the car and going home. (Not funny to him or Ellen at the time but a retrospectively hilarious dad-move.) (Ellen and Lee anticipated the meltdown approximately two minutes before it began, while both kids were still happy, giving them enough time to take the kids outside, do some quick strategizing and already have Livvy walking towards the car before Nick broke loose. I was thoroughly impressed.)

-Nick getting excited about fishing with his dad.

I liked the cozy rainstorms and the messy kitchen and the exciting trees that grow down there. As always, I enjoyed the cheap shots from Dad, the one-liners from Brett, and getting even tiny moments to chat with Ellen. On our drive home, Brett foolishly asked Mom about her family history and she talked for so long that it had Dad in stitches. "Oh, and I'll tell you this..." She went on and on and on. Even when we pointed out that she'd been talking for hours, she still had things to say. 

Here's a sweet photo of Ellen riding back to the house with us on the night that Lee evacuated the kids from the restaurant in the nick of time. 

And then Dad let out a hearty belch.

We're all glad to be home. 

Especially Ellen and Lee.

Cats, Protests, and Teenage Boys

Boy oh boy a fresh sheet to write on.
It's about time I tell you about my new job.
But I also want to tell you about a recent protest.

So I'll start with three pictures that make my heart feel fizzy. Susan was throwing out old photos, so I snagged a handful of Big Bubba Brett when he was the opposite. Look at those little legs! And that belly!

It's strange to be able to see Brett in this very blonde teenager. I don't know him, and yet there he is.

Speaking of blonde teenagers, Brett, Erik and I went to a little pub to watch one of the World Cup games, and we were just minding our business, playing bingo (I won $15!) and eating fries when a seventeen year old boy plopped himself next to me at the bar and struck up conversation. I was shocked! The audacity! Erik was sitting between me and Brett so I got to see Brett lean forward to size up the little Casanova with an expression of disbelief. Erik laughed out loud while looking the kid in the eyes. Nothing shook Leo's nerve though and I had to talk to him for two hours.

 
During that time I learned that Leo wants to be a screenwriter or psychologist. He had recently returned from a school trip to Peru where he met a girl he thinks will wait for him. He talked on and on about himself and was shocked every time he found out that I have done many of the things on his radar. "Oh wow, you've also been to England?", "People had house parties when you were in high school?", "Really, you dated in college?" I began to wonder if there is something about me that suggests an unsocialized existence. I pleaded for help with my eyes, but Erik and Brett were busy enjoying the outing. 

Then Leo, who lacked the attention-span for a round of Bingo (I've never seen anything like it), pulled the cap off his Bingo marker with such gusto that the whole thing exploded. It splashed across his shirt and puddled in the crotch of his pants. It went all over the bar and dripped down onto the floor. He reacted with childlike confusion and looked to me, suddenly a mother-figure, to find a solution. I dabbed him off with napkins but the ink had stained his fingers blue. There was a blue puddle on the floor that he was unknowingly twirling his feet in and tapping around his chair. Erik laughed loudly at the explosion, offering no help and possibly embarrassing the child.

Moreover, the permanent ink splashed onto my white jeans and Leo was so focused on himself that he hadn't noticed the others affected by his ineptitude. I was not going to say anything or make him feel bad about ruining my pants but the more time that passed without him acknowledging it, the more miffed I became. When Leo went to the bathroom to wash his hands, I scolded Brett and Erik for leaving me alone with him but they didn't care one bit. Leo came back from the bathroom and rebounded from his blunder the way a seventeen year old boy would. He simply moved on. "You've had jobs before too? Wow. Interesting." 

Finally, I threw Erik under bus and made some comment about his assorted girlfriends and Leo became enlivened by the future possibility of being a ladies-man. He was enthralled with Erik, as though it had never occurred to him that one might be dating multiple people at the same time. Erik was surprisingly pleased by the awe bestowed on him by this child and began showing off. It was when Erik showed Leo a picture of a big-boobed girl he met in Georgia that Leo made fun of Erik for falling for an "AI bot" and then the two of them got into a spat about whether it was a real girl or not. I was still stuck between them, dabbing at my pants and checking the time, while Erik insisted he had made out with this person. 

We finally left Leo at the bar eating chicken wings, and within 4 seconds of stepping outside, a collection of blood-curdling screams ripped through the night air. My legs buckled. Brett froze. Erik leapt backwards. Turns out it was just a table full of my old pet shelter coworkers, with several dogs circling the table, who were especially excited to me. I received a barrage of hugs and rapid fire updates about several dogs and humans. Once the three of us recovered from the shock, I found it very flattering.

Here's a grandma Ruth style picture of Pipps sitting in front of the garden.  

Last year I got mad when I was driving Downtown on a day when my car thermometer read 103˚ and I found myself behind a carriage horse. The city has a "rule" about stopping the tours when it's over 95˚ but four different thermometers on breezy rooftops (not the hot asphalt where the horses are pulling overcrowded carriages) each have to show the temp for 20 minutes before the carriage companies will take them off the street. The result is that they rarely have to stop tours. The carriage companies are one of the biggest tourist attractions in town, and they pay certain city officials to ignore crazy rules about welfare. Well! I don't like that one bit. I found a group of other outraged locals (and tourists) and now we participate in peaceful harassment efforts to get the temperature threshold lowered to 85˚ - knowing they will still have the horses out when it is 90+. It's all were asking.

I brought some of my chicken group to my first carriage horse protest, and let me tell you, it is a contentious issue. The majority of people are either not interested or they agree that 95˚ is too hot. Fine.

 The carriage companies and guides (understandably... I guess?) disagree. They go on and on about how well the horses are treated "at the barn", except that's not what were arguing about, is it? A tourist told us that if we really cared about the horses, we wouldn't protest in the shade. (Great point, Sir. You really got us with that one!) One tour guide said "the horse's muscles would atrophy if they didn't pull that carriages and that would make them depressed." Another said that the horses would be killed if they couldn't have jobs. (But wait, I thought you said you loved them. It's almost like you're just... using them?) One outraged "horse-lover" called for a counter-protest that day, but no one showed up. Instead she came to pick a fight with us and I'm man enough to admit to you that my knees started knocking as she yelled. 

I'm accustomed to receiving The Finger or being shouted at from a moving vehicle, but no one ever confronts us. We aren't usually asking for things that anybody disagrees with (except the folks making money off of it - but they're never around). When this combative horse woman came over with her video camera trying to get a rise out of us, I felt like a little kid on the playground before a brawl was set to begin and girls would tear at each others weaves. I got scurred. Then she looked right at me as asked if I owned any horses. Everything I know about animal welfare left my mind and I smiled at her as though she'd given me a thoughtful complement. Why did I do that? Someone else had to jump in and respond to her. 

The next day she plastered photos of us on the interwebs, calling the twelve of us "uneducated lunatics" and claiming someone spit on her. Commenters chimed in that unemployed people like us should be thrown in jail. Someone else said we were paid protesters - wouldn't that be wonderful?

Here I am laughing in the face of fear! (If I keep smiling, maybe she won't hit me.)

Now here I've rambled on so long, I'll save the rest for later. In the meantime enjoy this photo of all four animals sitting in the same room. This is quite an accomplishment.

Also, see how Cam doesn't stand out against the rug? This has become problematic in the kitchen. He likes to lay in there while we're cooking and we just can't see him. 

We constantly kick and step on him, but he never wises-up. He just keeps taking the hits. 

Spot the cat in this photo.