Summer House

Summer has finally arrived in the Summers house. Warm weather has officially distracted my three able-bodied teens, and I am here, as always, to clean up after the fun.

Here are some of my favorite summer activities:

1. Finding not one but a full STACK of freshly folded, line-dried dishtowels smeared with mouth drippings of a microwaved bean and cheese burrito;

2. Flies baked into the aforementioned burrito schmutz on the glass window of the microwave;

3. Finding my beloved lap top under a pile of rank, decomposing teenage girl laundry and lunch leftovers;

4. Grocery shopping five to six times a week in places that fundamentally terrify me like Costco;

5. Cleaning guinea pig poop off clean beach towels;

6. Having to track down my 21 year-old mountain bike at the baseball fields;

7. Finding fruit pits in the garbage disposal;

8. Sending this sort of text message to my husband: “coffee beans, cumin, tampons.”

9. Having to go to Santa Rosa for any reason at all. (I actually had a massive panic attack last week after I’d been coerced into taking three boys to an indoor skate park called Ramp Rats located a business park in West Santa Rosa. Sometimes no means No, sometimes it means No F-ing Way Ever for All Eternity Don’t Ever Ask Me Again.)

But I’m not bitter! The newly translated Stanislaw Lem book Solaris just came out on audiobook (the perfect format for a scullery maid) giving me an unprecedented opportunity to contemplate the most profound questions of our time –ontological auto-metamorphosis, oceanic yogi vs. oceanic idiot, taxonomic singularity, sentient plasma, old mimoids, subjectivity vs. identity – while simultaneously re-plastering the hallway.

(I’m sounding more and more like Patty Berglund with my bucket of joint compound and fruitless domesticity. I did get rid of the ponytail, but Franzen is still an asshole.)

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