It’s been so long, Gentle Reader, since we’ve had a good, rambling (albeit one sided) chat, so let’s talk. I’m imagining us standing on the banks of the pond in my neighborhood, throwing bread crusts to ducks swimming by, while keeping a wary eye on the slightly violent geese on the other side. Oh, those geese. So beautiful and yet so grouchy.
(By the way, it’s a wee bit humid, these days in Indianapolis, so please be a true friend and don’t mock the Nellie Olsen ringlets I’m rocking these days. I’m not sure what is worse: frizz or poodle worthy ringlets.)
You would have been so proud of me last night, friend. I began a new book that turned out to be so delightful that I was well on my way to pulling an all nighter just to finish it. However, a little after midnight I glanced at the clock and decided to be reasonable and responsible. Which are two words I don’t normally ascribe to my reading habits. So I put the book down, unfinished, and climbed into bed.
For my decidedly mature actions I was punished with a husband who tossed and turned all night in my bed, thus keeping me from being as rested as I should be. Oh irony, you heartless wench.
It reminded me of that episode on How I Met Your Mother when Lily and Marshall get twin beds while at a bed and breakfast place and wind up having the most restful night of sleep they’ve had in years. It’s okay if you don’t watch How I Met Your Mother, because I’m pretty sure this idea of married people having separate beds is used in an episode in every sitcom. Kings of Queens had one, Rules of Engagement had one. It’s a classic idea. Probably, it has its own chapter in How to Write T.V. Sitcom Episodes For Dummies.
(This makes me sound like all I do is sit around on the couch watching television. That is erroneous. I also sit around on the couch reading books.)
But there is a reason this “separate beds for married people” plot is so used- there’s some truth in it. I love my husband and I (usually) love the closeness that comes from sleeping in the same bed as him, but good gravy the man can hog some covers. He also has an unnatural obsession with pillows. There are four that he carefully situates every single night, but despite (or perhaps because of) his fastidiousness they inevitably cross the dividing line onto MY side. (I, myself, only use three pillows, which I’m sure you recognize as being much more reasonable and normal. And I am positive that with that small number of pillows I never encroach into his territory.)
My husband tries to tell me that married people should have all things in common- from money to bed space. I agree with him on the money issues, but I am a firm advocate that just like good fences make good neighbors, clearly marked bed sides make good marriages. Everyone needs a little space. Even when they are unconscious.
Eventually, someday, many years from now, we’re going to get a king size bed which will be large enough to declare an official ‘neutral zone’ in the middle of the bed where all the pillows can be free to mingle without repercussions. Until that day, I silently and sleeplessly seethe.
But despite being rather tired (and not from a good excuse like staying up to finish a great book), all is relatively well on the Bunkersdown front.
Last week I employed my signature ease-back-into-school routine by only having the kids work on a few subjects. It’s very similar to my ease-into-a-swimming-pool routine. No one cried (me included) so I would call our first week a howling success. (The trick to homeschooling is to have low, easily attainable goals in the beginning such as “no crying” or “don’t kill anyone.” It gives the illusion of success early on.)
This week I’m adding a couple of more subjects on the schedule, which means I’m moving from dipping my figurative toes in the education kiddie pool to being waist high in deep water. I can still touch, but I see some big waves on the horizon coming my way.
Now let’s talk tomatoes, friends. Are they or are they not, Nature’s perfect food? (Taste-wise I would say that Cheetos are Nature’s perfect food, but I’m pretty sure that nature has nothing to do with Cheetos.) I love them so, so much. Homemade salsa has made our weekly dinner rotation, which is fabulous, because not only is it delicious, it’s super easy to make and doesn’t heat up my house through oven use.
This year, despite the cooler temperatures and rain, our tomatoes are going strong. I’m reasonably sure that I have canned enough salsa to make it through the upcoming winter so now I am trying my hand at preserving tomato soup. My children gingerly tried my recipe the other day and declared it to be good. Almost as good, they said, as Campbells. (They didn’t add the “but not quite” bit but I could hear it in their voices.)
My chickens love tomatoes too. I (very graciously, might I add) share the overly ripe or split tomatoes with my feathered ladies and they devour them in seconds. Then they strut around, pouting outrageously and clucking how sad their lives are, because the tomatoes are all gone and only chunks of zucchini are left. Apparently, even chickens have crosses to bear in life.
Speaking of crosses to bear, my son needs me to teach him the additive property of negative numbers so I must go. But let’s chat again soon, eh?
(I hope you read that last sentence in a Canadian accent, because that’s exactly how I wrote it. Sometimes you just need to channel your inner Canadian. Robin Scherbatsky taught me that.)