Over the weekend I went to an Ulta which, if you are not familiar with this store, is like an IKEA for your face. They even have this section where you can park your kids and go devour Swedish meatballs to boost your energy after trying on all that eyeliner. I was there to purchase a flat iron, which is second only in nerve-wracking decisions to choosing who you’re going to marry. I'm not kidding. I ended up getting one called the Cricket because it made me so many tantalizing promises, just like my husband did (and it is with great reluctance that I act my age and hereby step away from this joke).
After giving it a whirl, I believe the Cricket and I have something special between us. We’re not exactly engaged, but I think I can speak for the two of us when I say we’re very happy with one another. Here is a picture of the results, which also features Sophie and I preparing for the piano exam to end all piano exams--it's too bad she's turned away from the camera, because the expression on her face is one of pure joy.
At any rate...I think the Cricket did quite nicely for me. All I want from this flat iron is the ability to look as if I spent some time on my appearance, when in reality I didn’t—that’s not too much to expect from a relationship, is it?
On Saturday morning Roger got up early and asked if I would like to switch my studio from the smaller spare room to the larger one. With decisions of this magnitude, and by “magnitude” I mean “anything that involves dramatic upheaval to the house,” I typically spend the next ten years contemplating, waffling, and repressing it at the back of my mind. Which drives Roger nuts, because he prefers to approach major decisions in this way. So I tried to avoid eye contact with him because I knew if my pupils dilated even a smidge, he would bound upstairs and start turning the house upside down. Which is exactly what happened and which is why I am happily writing this post from a bigger, sunnier room today.
Other highlights from the weekend included mobilizing the girls to make apricot jam, only to find out (three grocery stores later), that canning supplies apparently went out with the 20th century. Or is this just a phenomenon of living in Las Vegas?
On Sunday, I told the girls I wanted to take a quick nap. They looked up from the cookbooks they were poring over and asked if they could make cookies without my supervision. So I said, "Fine by me, and will you whip up a six course dinner while you're at it?"
When I came downstairs twenty minutes later (I don't know what's wrong with me, but I cannot fall asleep in the middle of the day), they had these little morsels all ready to go into the oven.
The rest of the weekend was filled with lovely moments such as a wonderful dinner with dear friends who, after years of trying to conceive, are finally expecting...triplets! Also, we had another campfire with the girls and they played a game they learned at school called "Oregon Trail" wherein each girl takes a first name of her choice and the last name of a state, such as "Annie Delaware" (they took this part very seriously), and then they devise all sorts of frontier-type scenarios. I got to be the frail old granny who was too weak to do anything but sleep in the back of the wagon while they ran around hunting wild turkeys.
And finally, I send my warmest congratulations to this young man. Well done, Sameer! I must admit Tia and Kavya were the favorites for my girls, but we cheered on the entire group with great enthusiasm. Watching these amazing little spellers bring so much spirit and pluck to the competition melted my cold, brittle heart (residual damage from all those Canadian winters). I'm telling you--going out on the word huapango?? Is emotional. The Scripps National Spelling Bee is ESPN sports broadcasting at its best, hands down.
