This past Saturday afternoon marked the first victory of my softball team, the Reds.
At this time, I will pause, and let you take a break to dance up and down. I'm sure you've been anxiously awaiting this day.
You good? Alright.
Our previous games were not complete blow-outs, but we are still finding our way as a team, both teammates and coaches. Our first game, which I missed, we lost by forfeit. The second, we lost to the Bombers, a team coached by their parents, we believe and one that "played by the rules." Their coaches wore jean shorts. While they were not great, they definitely played better together as a team so they ended up winning. Our third game was against the Diamondbacks. Again, we lost, but their team clearly had a "team" spirit going.
And thus we get to our fourth game, the game of our first big "W." Again, we played the Bombers, that team coached by the dads with their jean shorts. This was a team fond of the rules. For example, you throw the bat, you're out. Makes sense, right? Well, I'm a newly minted coach. I haven't played softball myself since I was about twelve years old. The specific rules are rusty to me.
Several of my friends got a kick out of me coaching softball as they'd never known me to play the sport. Rest assured, I have always known the basic rules (my short stint in t-ball and softball as well as growing up with a brother that played baseball). Furthermore, I knew that my abilities as a "Softball Mom" would be killer. I AM the cookie baking-, snack pack buying-type. They love that. So what if I need a little direction in how to fill out the score sheet.
In any event, I was learning the specific rules of the game. So the "throw the bat you're out rule" was one I had to learn before I could enforce it in any way. Turns out, there are more rules. Once the pitcher has the ball, the play is over. No more running the bases. Got it. Oh, and you can't run outside the baseline to get to another base. Even if the play is nowhere near the baseline you're running. Whaaaa?
Yeah, that last one threw us for a loop. Especially when the girl running home was clearly a newbie to the sport and was so excited to get a run. Even moreso when that girl had been running the wrong direction on the bases only two weeks earlier. (True story.) So, jean shorts coach number 2 decides to yell about her being out. But he only began yelling after the next batter had taken two pitches.
Argh. So, not only do we have a large-bellied man yelling at us that we are cheaters, we have young girls wondering why they are being called cheaters. Our team has minimal parental attendance at the games. No moms and dads to stand up in the bleachers and start yelling at the umpire or the other coach. They have no one to advocate for them aside from us. Me? I tend to go a little passive here because I don't know all the rules. But Coach C decides to give them a piece of her mind. She is the more softball-minded of the two of us, obviously. The run ended up standing. Victory!
Furthermore, Coach C is mad now. This coach showed up late, delaying our game by fifteen minutes. He has been complaining about how we are breaking the rules from the very beginning. This was the last straw. So at one point, she notices six people in the infield. There is an extra player in between first and second base. She asks the umpire to stop the game, telling him that it's not fair for them to have six people in the infield. The coach gets all upset. He says that it's fine, there is nothing in the rules about this. He then snottily asks the extra player to take two steps back. She is still in the baseline between first and second plate, along with the girl playing second base. Annoying, yes? Well, joke was on them. Honestly, as Coach C pointed out (and I was nowhere near as astute to the strategy as was she), they would have been better served throwing an additional player in the outfield. Each time we had a big play, it was because they could not get to the ball in the outfield. Clearly their efforts to pad the infield were for naught.
We ended up winning fourteen to four. The games are supposed to last six innings or two hours, whichever comes first. After two hours and twenty minutes, we had finished five innings. Coach C goes to talk to the umpire about wrapping the game up. We had been there since noon (the game was at one) and were pretty beat. The girls had played very well and were getting a little distracted, moreso than the usual level. Of course, Jean Shorts calls us "cheap" for this, and accuses us of trying to end the game because we were afraid they were going to win. Seriously.
Umpire calls the game, and the Reds walked away with their first win. Oh, but we had to move out of the diamond because Jean Shorts had his team run the bases as punishment for their loss.
Seriously.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
A fabulous coat.
It would seem that I am not the only one of my friends to have awkward moments. Of course not. We all have awkward moments. So, Ms. Sass comes into my office this morning and says to me, "I have to tell you what happened on my way to court. You should write about it. It is the definition of awkward."
Nice.
A little back story: Ms. Sass had been dying for a trench coat a few months back. Despite the fact that trench coats are worn perhaps only two days out of the year, we all love them. They make you look put together even when there is a hot mess hiding underneath. I should know, I have two. Ms. Sass finds the perfect trench coat in a lovely deep purple about six weeks ago and has been rocking it ever since. It suits her perfectly.
This morning, she was hustling into court, in her trench coat, naturally, when an elderly lady (EL) stops her.
EL: "Excuse me, miss, your coat is just lovely."
MS: "Thank you." (She smiles, thinking today might not be so bad after all.)
EL: "The color is nice on you, it is just a nice coat."
MS: "Well...thank you."
(At this point in the story, I am thinking that she's about to tell me that she got wooed by the world's oldest Mary Kay lady. I was wrong.)
EL: "You know, honey, in my day, that's the kinda coat we would wear with nothing on underneath."
Silence.
EL then winks, walking away, leaving Ms. Sass speechless (a very difficult feat, I might add.)
Ah, Ms. Sass was right. Today is going to be a good day. Awkward moments from the get go. I like.
Nice.
A little back story: Ms. Sass had been dying for a trench coat a few months back. Despite the fact that trench coats are worn perhaps only two days out of the year, we all love them. They make you look put together even when there is a hot mess hiding underneath. I should know, I have two. Ms. Sass finds the perfect trench coat in a lovely deep purple about six weeks ago and has been rocking it ever since. It suits her perfectly.
This morning, she was hustling into court, in her trench coat, naturally, when an elderly lady (EL) stops her.
EL: "Excuse me, miss, your coat is just lovely."
MS: "Thank you." (She smiles, thinking today might not be so bad after all.)
EL: "The color is nice on you, it is just a nice coat."
MS: "Well...thank you."
(At this point in the story, I am thinking that she's about to tell me that she got wooed by the world's oldest Mary Kay lady. I was wrong.)
EL: "You know, honey, in my day, that's the kinda coat we would wear with nothing on underneath."
Silence.
EL then winks, walking away, leaving Ms. Sass speechless (a very difficult feat, I might add.)
Ah, Ms. Sass was right. Today is going to be a good day. Awkward moments from the get go. I like.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Nothing but love for my feline roomie
Oxford has been giving me the old side-eye lately. I was wondering why this might be until it dawned on me: He read my blog about wanting a puppy. Busted.
Therefore, I have decided to write a little diddy about my little Prince of Fur. When I decided to get my very own apartment in the city, I also decided to get a feline friend, allergies be damned. Well, honestly, I knew that my parents' Himalayans cats didn't bother my allergic sensibilities, so I thought if I got a similarly flat-faced cat, I would be alright. One visit in response to an ad in the local paper to see a little of the little guys and I fell in love. Eight weeks old, not much more than a little ball of fur, literally, I knew he must be mine. Two days later, on my way back to my new apartment, we swung by to get him for good. He as all mine, and I named him Oxford.
On a side note, I went thought many different names for this cat before I ever even laid eyes on him. Since I knew I was going to get a cat when I returned from my European excursion that summer, I had been trying to figure out a creative and fun name for him. He as Giovanni Paulo Due when I was in Rome (you know, the last Pope). Then he was Johannes (this was another version of the pope). I settled on Oxford. I can't imagine him having any other name.
The first day I left him alone in my apartment, he cried. Little baby mews I could hear the instant my heavy door shut. I remember plodding down the green carpet of my first apartment building with tears in my eyes, feeling rotten for leaving that tiny little soul alone. He was so tiny at that point, he needed a pillow to serve as a step so he could jump up onto my couch. Of course, I gladly obliged. He was so cute, there wasn't much I wouldn't do to help him.
The same sentiment rings true to this day. Next month, he will be seven years old and considered a "senior" according to some cat food packaging. He is still spry and loves his cat nip cigars and his Trader Joe's double wide scratcher. He will get a little wild and do the sideways run. He still will sneak up to you when you're not paying attention and slyly bite your toe if it's dangling ever-so-temptingly. (This was a favorite past-time he had as a kitten. You wouldn't dare let a foot dangle from underneath the covers for risk of getting a sharp kitten tooth in your toe.)
His latest shenanigan? Puke bombs. This has happened before, resulting in a very expensive trip to the vet with x-rays where they told me, "We don't know, maybe he is allergic to his food and that is why he keeps throwing up." Well, he did it again. Apparently, he became allergic to his affordable food and I now have to spend twice as much on "natural" food from a fancy pet store. Honestly, it's worth it to not get "puke bombed" and step in his vomit when I'm half asleep (GROSS). But for this:
It's hard to not do anything for that little sweetheart. Call me a crazy cat lady, I don't care. He meows when he hears me coming up the stairs, he snuggles with me in bed, he's my little guy. And clearly, he is the boss. I mean, his subtle side eye prompted his own special posting.
Well done, cat.
Therefore, I have decided to write a little diddy about my little Prince of Fur. When I decided to get my very own apartment in the city, I also decided to get a feline friend, allergies be damned. Well, honestly, I knew that my parents' Himalayans cats didn't bother my allergic sensibilities, so I thought if I got a similarly flat-faced cat, I would be alright. One visit in response to an ad in the local paper to see a little of the little guys and I fell in love. Eight weeks old, not much more than a little ball of fur, literally, I knew he must be mine. Two days later, on my way back to my new apartment, we swung by to get him for good. He as all mine, and I named him Oxford.
On a side note, I went thought many different names for this cat before I ever even laid eyes on him. Since I knew I was going to get a cat when I returned from my European excursion that summer, I had been trying to figure out a creative and fun name for him. He as Giovanni Paulo Due when I was in Rome (you know, the last Pope). Then he was Johannes (this was another version of the pope). I settled on Oxford. I can't imagine him having any other name.
The first day I left him alone in my apartment, he cried. Little baby mews I could hear the instant my heavy door shut. I remember plodding down the green carpet of my first apartment building with tears in my eyes, feeling rotten for leaving that tiny little soul alone. He was so tiny at that point, he needed a pillow to serve as a step so he could jump up onto my couch. Of course, I gladly obliged. He was so cute, there wasn't much I wouldn't do to help him.
The same sentiment rings true to this day. Next month, he will be seven years old and considered a "senior" according to some cat food packaging. He is still spry and loves his cat nip cigars and his Trader Joe's double wide scratcher. He will get a little wild and do the sideways run. He still will sneak up to you when you're not paying attention and slyly bite your toe if it's dangling ever-so-temptingly. (This was a favorite past-time he had as a kitten. You wouldn't dare let a foot dangle from underneath the covers for risk of getting a sharp kitten tooth in your toe.)
His latest shenanigan? Puke bombs. This has happened before, resulting in a very expensive trip to the vet with x-rays where they told me, "We don't know, maybe he is allergic to his food and that is why he keeps throwing up." Well, he did it again. Apparently, he became allergic to his affordable food and I now have to spend twice as much on "natural" food from a fancy pet store. Honestly, it's worth it to not get "puke bombed" and step in his vomit when I'm half asleep (GROSS). But for this:
It's hard to not do anything for that little sweetheart. Call me a crazy cat lady, I don't care. He meows when he hears me coming up the stairs, he snuggles with me in bed, he's my little guy. And clearly, he is the boss. I mean, his subtle side eye prompted his own special posting.
Well done, cat.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Ode to my favorite drug.
Last night, as I laid in bed, willing myself to fall asleep, I consoled myself with the fact that when I awoke in the morning, I could make a lovely pot of coffee that would make my day start off right. That thought made me think, "Wow, coffee is truly an addiction for me."
I was not always a coffee lover. In fact, I recall telling my mother rather sassily when I was younger, "I will never ever drink coffee." My family has always been big coffee drinkers. Every household from my mom's to my grandparents' had that trusty drip machine, always going at the first light of the day.
When I went to college, I was struck with the realization that it was cool to hang out in cafes and that those Starbucks cups were the ultimate collegiate accessory. I started off drinking a medium cardboard Starbucks container half-filled with Starbucks bitter blend, topped off with a hefty pour of milk and a long pour of sugar. Slowly, I worked the ratio down to just a little topping of half and half and then no sugar. In fact, by my sophomore year, my gal pals and I would get into the habit of having "dessert and coffee" after our cafeteria dinners. We'd fill our little diner mugs with the coffee and keep our fingers crossed for something really good, like cherry pie or desserts. But coffee was always included.
A summer spent in Europe many years ago further nurtured this love of coffee. Quick espressos sipped standing up at train stations in Rome, frothy cappucinos enjoyed at Rinaldo's before class in the morning (despite learning that cappucinos were afternoon drinks in Italia) and sitting outside under the awning in a summer rainstorm with an americano in Strasbourg, France, coffee was sexy, and a real lifestyle, over the pond. And, aside from realizing that tea was the better option in London (instant coffee is ggggggrrrrosss), I had some of the best coffee of my life that summer.
From that early time over ten years ago, coffee has become a critical part of my day and my life. I make it at my home every morning and do not comprehend how people can make it all the way to work before they have their first sip of coffee. I have a fancy-ish coffee pot that grinds my coffee beans stored in their own vacuum Tupperware container every morning for the freshest brew possible. In fact, when I started dating my boyfriend, he advised me that if we wanted to keep dating, I would have to kiss the Folgers goodbye. Clearly, the best part of waking up for him was not Folgers in his cup. I like him, so I decided to fancify my life and have fresh-ground beans every day.
I know that I'm full-blown addicted. My boyfriend this weekend says to me, "Amanda, when you have kids, you're really going to have to ween yourself off of coffee. I think if you went cold turkey, you'd kill someone." He may have a point there. I do try to avoid all human contact before I have had my morning coffee.
Perhaps one day I will have to ween myself off the good stuff. But for now, I will continue to support my addiction. Just a smidge of real creamer and no sugar, thanks.
I was not always a coffee lover. In fact, I recall telling my mother rather sassily when I was younger, "I will never ever drink coffee." My family has always been big coffee drinkers. Every household from my mom's to my grandparents' had that trusty drip machine, always going at the first light of the day.
When I went to college, I was struck with the realization that it was cool to hang out in cafes and that those Starbucks cups were the ultimate collegiate accessory. I started off drinking a medium cardboard Starbucks container half-filled with Starbucks bitter blend, topped off with a hefty pour of milk and a long pour of sugar. Slowly, I worked the ratio down to just a little topping of half and half and then no sugar. In fact, by my sophomore year, my gal pals and I would get into the habit of having "dessert and coffee" after our cafeteria dinners. We'd fill our little diner mugs with the coffee and keep our fingers crossed for something really good, like cherry pie or desserts. But coffee was always included.
A summer spent in Europe many years ago further nurtured this love of coffee. Quick espressos sipped standing up at train stations in Rome, frothy cappucinos enjoyed at Rinaldo's before class in the morning (despite learning that cappucinos were afternoon drinks in Italia) and sitting outside under the awning in a summer rainstorm with an americano in Strasbourg, France, coffee was sexy, and a real lifestyle, over the pond. And, aside from realizing that tea was the better option in London (instant coffee is ggggggrrrrosss), I had some of the best coffee of my life that summer.
From that early time over ten years ago, coffee has become a critical part of my day and my life. I make it at my home every morning and do not comprehend how people can make it all the way to work before they have their first sip of coffee. I have a fancy-ish coffee pot that grinds my coffee beans stored in their own vacuum Tupperware container every morning for the freshest brew possible. In fact, when I started dating my boyfriend, he advised me that if we wanted to keep dating, I would have to kiss the Folgers goodbye. Clearly, the best part of waking up for him was not Folgers in his cup. I like him, so I decided to fancify my life and have fresh-ground beans every day.
I know that I'm full-blown addicted. My boyfriend this weekend says to me, "Amanda, when you have kids, you're really going to have to ween yourself off of coffee. I think if you went cold turkey, you'd kill someone." He may have a point there. I do try to avoid all human contact before I have had my morning coffee.
Perhaps one day I will have to ween myself off the good stuff. But for now, I will continue to support my addiction. Just a smidge of real creamer and no sugar, thanks.
Friday, May 7, 2010
"She's got puppy feeeevah" (sung to the tune of J.D. from Scubs as he waves a french fry across the table, taunting Turk.)
Yep. I do.
So, P.I.C. starts in on some cruel activities today. He sends me a seemingly innocuous link to a website stating only: "I want so bad I could cry." I open it up, and to my utter horror, it is a web page for PUPPY ADOPTION.
Let me back up a bit. He and I have discussed how we both want a dog. Unfortunately, my landlord has forbidden that occurrence (as has Prince Oxford for now). Furthermore, we came to the conclusion that getting a dog would be a much easier endeavor when we live together. Which will happen soon, but not that soon. So what does he do? He finds the most lovely, beautiful puppy in the world with eyes begging me to kiss her little snout and take her for a long walk. And he sends this picture to me. What a jerk.
I love animals. Perhaps it is because for the majority of my childhood, I didn't have pets. When I was very small, my parents had Great Danes (amazing dogs, by the way, I highly recommend). But after my parents' divorce when I was young, my mom was on her own and therefore we went pet free. As a young kid, I thought my mom was horribly mean for this. (I also thought my parents were the meanest people in the world because we had to go to...MICHIGAN...every summer rather than Disneyland. But that's a story for another time.) Turns out, as a young lady living on my own, I get it. I can't imagine having a dog right now living on my own. My puke machine cat is a handful enough.
When I finally got my own apartment, I made the decision to get a cat. I knew that despite being tested and diagnosed with cat allergies, for whatever reason, Himalayan cats didn't bother me. So shortly after a summer abroad, I found my little man, aptly named Oxford from my recent studying at the University. However, I always knew that I wanted a dog too. I'm an animal lover, fuzzy friends bring a level of joy to my heart that can erase the memories of any crappy day as good as a stiff drink. Why not go for one more?
Since I am being a practical adult by not getting a dog knowing that I cannot properly care for one yet, I like to pet other people's dogs. In fact, I will cross the street to make myself available to pet other people's dogs. I like to think of myself as a dog whisperer. More times than not, if I make eye contact with the dog I am approaching (and the owner seems friendly and not in too much of a hurry), that dog will go NUTS for my petting skills. (Truthfully, my dog whisperer skills are put to shame by those of my brother. He can train a dog in a ridiculously short amount of time to do the best tricks. Bang, bang, Chewy.)
In any event, dogs make me go weak in the knees. They just do. I love them, and their slobbery, sweet and dumb expressions. I love their enthusiasm. I currently am having a very difficult time resisting the siren call of this dog they call "Goldie." Of course, I will rename her something fantastic. Like Sassafras. Or something else clever.
Sigh. All I have to say right now is for those people walking their dogs on my way home, look out. I will likely walk a half block out of my way today just to pet your dog.
Don't be afraid or creeped out.
So, P.I.C. starts in on some cruel activities today. He sends me a seemingly innocuous link to a website stating only: "I want so bad I could cry." I open it up, and to my utter horror, it is a web page for PUPPY ADOPTION.
Let me back up a bit. He and I have discussed how we both want a dog. Unfortunately, my landlord has forbidden that occurrence (as has Prince Oxford for now). Furthermore, we came to the conclusion that getting a dog would be a much easier endeavor when we live together. Which will happen soon, but not that soon. So what does he do? He finds the most lovely, beautiful puppy in the world with eyes begging me to kiss her little snout and take her for a long walk. And he sends this picture to me. What a jerk.
I love animals. Perhaps it is because for the majority of my childhood, I didn't have pets. When I was very small, my parents had Great Danes (amazing dogs, by the way, I highly recommend). But after my parents' divorce when I was young, my mom was on her own and therefore we went pet free. As a young kid, I thought my mom was horribly mean for this. (I also thought my parents were the meanest people in the world because we had to go to...MICHIGAN...every summer rather than Disneyland. But that's a story for another time.) Turns out, as a young lady living on my own, I get it. I can't imagine having a dog right now living on my own. My puke machine cat is a handful enough.
When I finally got my own apartment, I made the decision to get a cat. I knew that despite being tested and diagnosed with cat allergies, for whatever reason, Himalayan cats didn't bother me. So shortly after a summer abroad, I found my little man, aptly named Oxford from my recent studying at the University. However, I always knew that I wanted a dog too. I'm an animal lover, fuzzy friends bring a level of joy to my heart that can erase the memories of any crappy day as good as a stiff drink. Why not go for one more?
Since I am being a practical adult by not getting a dog knowing that I cannot properly care for one yet, I like to pet other people's dogs. In fact, I will cross the street to make myself available to pet other people's dogs. I like to think of myself as a dog whisperer. More times than not, if I make eye contact with the dog I am approaching (and the owner seems friendly and not in too much of a hurry), that dog will go NUTS for my petting skills. (Truthfully, my dog whisperer skills are put to shame by those of my brother. He can train a dog in a ridiculously short amount of time to do the best tricks. Bang, bang, Chewy.)
In any event, dogs make me go weak in the knees. They just do. I love them, and their slobbery, sweet and dumb expressions. I love their enthusiasm. I currently am having a very difficult time resisting the siren call of this dog they call "Goldie." Of course, I will rename her something fantastic. Like Sassafras. Or something else clever.
Sigh. All I have to say right now is for those people walking their dogs on my way home, look out. I will likely walk a half block out of my way today just to pet your dog.
Don't be afraid or creeped out.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Today.
Remember how I said awhile ago that I realized I was the tallest person in the elevator and wanted to shout that out?
Today, I was in the elevator at the courthouse. But this time, I realized I was the SHORTEST person in the elevator. And I felt sad. And small.
Today, I did not want to shout out about being the shortest person in the elevator.
(Just an observation.)
Today, I was in the elevator at the courthouse. But this time, I realized I was the SHORTEST person in the elevator. And I felt sad. And small.
Today, I did not want to shout out about being the shortest person in the elevator.
(Just an observation.)
Worst. Flight. Ever.
As you know from my last posting, I took a quick jaunt down to Florida for a weekend of sun and fun on the beach. Not to worry, fun and entirely too much sun was had, but the trip did not start out the way I had planned. I got to the airport early, as is my usual custom. I like to stake out my gate, grab something to eat, and perhaps find a perch in the bar and enjoy a cocktail and watch the travelers. MDW to TPA is the perfect flight for a good nap. A little over two hours, when I fly in late knowing that we will be going out straight away, the nap is perfect.
Well.
The airport was packed. No spots at the bar for me to sit. Oh, and all flights to Florida were delayed, causing me stress, thinking that I was going to be delayed. After a nice chat with my mom, I was relieved to note that my flight was only five minutes late. I found that the Greek place in Midway offered Greek yogurt and fruit, so I had something healthy to eat, boarded the plane with ease and settled in for my planned two-hour nap.
But I was thwarted. I pretended that the baby that boarded during the "Family Boarding" hadn't let out a horrific shriek as he boarded. I pretended that he did not make that same shriek as I sad down several rows behind him. But as I put in my headphones, I realized with horror that the baby would. not. stop. crying. Despite cranking up my ipod to a relatively loud volume, that baby shrieked every five minutes or so for the entire flight. Oh, and turns out, there were some sorority girls sitting two rows behind me heading down to Tampa for a beachy weekend too. I realized that about an hour into the flight when their squeals of "I am SO ready for the beach, Courtney," began to pop out of their mouths, adding another dimension to the baby shrieking. Oh, and twenty minutes before landing, something really hilarious began happening because I discovered I was sharing the plan with a clap-laugher. You know what I am talking about, the guy that punctuates each "ha ha" with a loud clap.
Needless to say, with the baby, the girls and the clap-laugher making such a disruptive symphony of annoyance, I did not get my nap.
Rest assured, I did have a cocktail to recover soon thereafter. And vacation was back on. Thank goodness.
Well.
The airport was packed. No spots at the bar for me to sit. Oh, and all flights to Florida were delayed, causing me stress, thinking that I was going to be delayed. After a nice chat with my mom, I was relieved to note that my flight was only five minutes late. I found that the Greek place in Midway offered Greek yogurt and fruit, so I had something healthy to eat, boarded the plane with ease and settled in for my planned two-hour nap.
But I was thwarted. I pretended that the baby that boarded during the "Family Boarding" hadn't let out a horrific shriek as he boarded. I pretended that he did not make that same shriek as I sad down several rows behind him. But as I put in my headphones, I realized with horror that the baby would. not. stop. crying. Despite cranking up my ipod to a relatively loud volume, that baby shrieked every five minutes or so for the entire flight. Oh, and turns out, there were some sorority girls sitting two rows behind me heading down to Tampa for a beachy weekend too. I realized that about an hour into the flight when their squeals of "I am SO ready for the beach, Courtney," began to pop out of their mouths, adding another dimension to the baby shrieking. Oh, and twenty minutes before landing, something really hilarious began happening because I discovered I was sharing the plan with a clap-laugher. You know what I am talking about, the guy that punctuates each "ha ha" with a loud clap.
Needless to say, with the baby, the girls and the clap-laugher making such a disruptive symphony of annoyance, I did not get my nap.
Rest assured, I did have a cocktail to recover soon thereafter. And vacation was back on. Thank goodness.
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