day three of four, holiday weekend

Despite a generous invitation from a very good friend, nothing on Earth could have dragged me to see this movie and then stick around for the follow-up discussions with my fellow Port Townsendites:

  • “When are we going to close off the Water Street thoroughfare to bicycles and foot-traffic only?”;
  • “What is the Rose Theatre’s protocol on recycling the contents from their melted butter tureen?”; and
  • [arrogant, self-effacing chuckle]: “I’ve been writing a grant for a biodynamic research co-op here in town, and I find it interesting how…” [thoughtfully stroking goatee]

etc. etc.

The movie, surely, I will see – and soon. I’m just not up for anything heavy (or PT-Annoying!) this particular evening – especially when said evening alternative involves swilling screwtop wine and watching BBC’s finest (and darkest) comedy with my husband.

Of course, not all is lighthearted frivolous ass-time here at Casa Del Hogaboom. Yes, we’re gearing up for the 4th of July and all the gastronomic indecencies that will entail. Acting from a foggy memory of a snack my mother described courtesy of one of my sexy MySpace ladies (I may only have a few friends but they are my REAL FRIENDS, Pegs!), today in addition to burger and coleslaw fixin’s I also gathered up accoutrement for the fabled pretzel-Rolo-pecan snack (five minutes ago while scrolling past the second picture in this article – looking for a photo for my dear readers – I found I had bought the exact same ingredients, yes, right down to the variety of Snyder’s pretzels! Anyone else feeling a 4th of July premonitory thrill? Oh, well. Me neither). I expect dutifully impressed guests, and if I don’t get that response I will blindly stumble down my hallway, throwing watermelon basket salad in giant handfuls and sobbing my CoverGirl mascara off.

Just this second I told Ralph, “I think I’m going to throw up!” since I’m feeling our typical post-Macadoo’s meal nausea. Sophie heard this, came down from upstairs with her milk-mustache and banana-breath and said, “Mama, it’s OK! … Come on, you can puke in the bathroom upstairs,” while gripping me with clammy hands and leaning consolingly against my shoulder. It’s nice to be loved.

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