This business of blogging during the summer is rather interesting. I have come to realize how much I expect certain individuals to just “be out there” and when they have the audacity to go on vacation? Well, it’s kinda quiet in Bloggsville. The kind of quiet that happens when you arrive at a friend’s front porch and knock on the door expecting them to be there, and then they’re not. But you’re still there under that porch light. The one with the golden glow that hasn’t stopped the moths from practicing their persistent dance around its perimeter. Standing there. Alone. Holding the tuna casserole you baked especially to share. *ewww* I’m thinking a few nights there were actually crickets chirping just loudly enough to punctuate those bloggers’ absence.
Vacationing?
You were vacationing? Is that allowed? I mean, come on.
There’s no vacationing in Bloggsville.
What? Your life matters, and you have a family? Whoa. Where’s your commitment to the cause? Your dedication? Your principles? Sheesh.
And no, I wasn’t getting even by not writing since Friday. Technically, I wrote that wonkin’ meme on my other blog, so that counts. You know we have weekend-itis around here. We christened the opening of our local race track this past weekend by flopping down in our sand chairs, stretching out our legs, lazing in the overcast greyness of the day and slapping two dollar bets on the “grey horse,” “number 8,” “that good jockey,” or the “50/1” horse.
Okay, so those are the kind of bets I make. And I usually make the bet to place or show — rarely win. Why? It’s economical. More chances to actually win something. I think I cashed in on a whole $3.20 on one horse. Is that cool, or what? That’s like income to me about now. Let’s see — earn over 100% on an investment that pays out in less than two minutes while I’m sitting on my caboose. Not bad. Not bad at all. My husband does the whole numbers thing — of course. The Racing Form, past performance, adjustments in class, blah, blah, blah…I usually do as well as he does for all his analysis. It’s a numbers addiction. I’m telling you. Numbers…Mmmmmm…numberzzzzzzzzz.. On the way home, we were treated to a lovely sunset and a view of the hot air balloons that launch from Del Mar each evening. Wouldn’t that be something to do… Um… Honey?
If you add up all the weekends we’ve been making like tourists, it comes close to a vacation. It’s fairly easy to pretend to be on a vacation here, which is nice. We have successfully avoided the Zoo and Seaworld — which is about 10 minutes from our house — but I did see a gleam in my husband’s eye the other day when the Zoo came up, because they have “Nights at the Zoo.” Has anyone figured out all the animals are asleep? What do you look at for hoot’s sake? Owls?
It looks like our turn for a real vacation is just around the corner. We weren’t sure we were going to make it, but it looks like we’ll be gone for about eight days with friends and their families. No hotels. No maids, no room service, and lake water as cold about as warm as the ocean in Paradise. All night poker games and trashy romance or crime novels. We’re chipping in on a Lake Tahoe rental near the beach (completely more cost effective to stay on the Left Coast). So we’ll be cooking up a storm, and making beds ourselves. Raiding the refrigerator in the night. Parading in “public” in our jammies. And swimming, and hiking, a possible sunset cruise on a catamaran, and horseback riding? Water skiing? Kayaks? Maybe. I’m sure there’s a casino visit or two on the agenda as well. Fun will be had by all. Well, except maybe for my youngest whom we’re dragging along. We were hoping to bring along his cousin, but that didn’t work out. The doldrums of pseudo only-childness at the age of 15. We’ll keep him hopping and he’s a good sport, so all should be quite well.
My older boys will hold down the fort while we’re away and put a dent in the food in the freezer and fridge. I’m sure I’ll have a wealth of hairballs and pet yack to scrape off the rug when we return. I think it’s the way the mules get even with us for leaving them.
Of course, like the very responsible person that I am, I will try to keep you enthralled from afar. I’ll bet you just can’t wait. But if I can’t figure out how to do it, then I want you to remember those crickets chirping mournfully in the dark when you click up to my bloggstep and I’m not home.
Just don’t throw your Swedish Meatball Delight at me.
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