When I text the girls, sometimes I want to put in "honey", as in "ok, honey". Seems inocuous enough, but for some reason, my phone disputes the input of a noun as an endearment, and corrects it to "homey". As in "thanks, homey, I'll see you later", or "Love you, homey". It sounds like I am a particularly affectionate gangsta rapper.
The Mister and I took Thing 2 and a gaggle of her friends to the beach yesterday....it was stinking hot and extremely crowded (Two of my favorite things! Along with blue cheese and accordion music!) The Mister and I huddled under a beach umbrella and people watched.
- I get that lots of people like tattoos; it's not something I'd ever want for myself, but if you do, knock yourself out. But I do puzzle over the choice of tattoo some people get...for instance, I understand the whole "chinese character that means 'strength' " even if you are not Chinese, or a rose or a flag somewhere, but we saw a guy with a huge Teenage Mutant Ninja urtle on his upper arm. That seems like a very strange image to which you would want to associate yourself for the rest of your life. Especially since, in another couple of years, you are going to have to explain what a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle is, endlessly.
- A bathing suit that is too small to cover your bum is fine when you are three years old, but less acceptable when you are thirty three. Why not buy a bathing suit that fits you and does not require yanking out of your butt-crack every twenty seconds?
- Sunscreen is your friend, particularly when you have Irish/Scottish/English DNA that was never designed to see more than 4 minutes of continuous sunlight ever. I'm pretty sure there was going to be some horrific sunburns making some lives pretty miserable around 9:00 last night. A couple of people could even be described as "deep-fried".
- No matter how diligent I am with the sunscreen, I always manage to miss a spot or two, which then announces itself at top volume around 9:00 at night. Yesterday: the tops of both my feet, three square inches at the top of my leg and the back of my left hand.
There is a farmer's market near us that sets up every Friday morning, and I like to go and get a few fruit and veg there every week. (I don't care what the foodie police tell you, the farmer's market is NOT cheaper than the grocery store, but the stuff there is amazing. I like that it's all local and all, but it also means that I can't buy mangos or limes there. I still end up going to the grocery store, too.) There is a family, I think they are Mennonite or Amish, and they have eleventy-two children who are home-schooled who help with the stand, and they all are adorable and blond and terribly earnest and nice. Their job is to get bags and make change and tell the customers the difference between spinach and arugula. Last week when I was there, the oldest kid, about 11, tried to give me 8 dollars in change for my 6 dollar purchase. The problem was, I gave him a 10$ bill. I gently told him to think it out again, and he insisted that that was right, so I said he should ask his dad and he looked like he was going to burst into tears. So I said that was fine, and now I have to figure out next week how to slip 4 dollars back into their coffers without anyone noticing.