They celebrate their last night sans kids
with cocktails
on the deck.

It is a humidity-free night, a breeze whispers past their shoulders and through their hair, a full moon hangs low and pregnant in a clear sky. The heady, earthy scent of newly laid mulch is subtle and lovely.

Inexplicably, but also because it makes complete sense, chicken stock simmers on the stove, liquid amber redolent of leeks and celery and a happy bird. The bones leave each other, the skin slips, the broth is golden; never having boiled, it is not cloudy.

A pizza sizzles on the grill, another round of cocktails boogie with icy cubes in a silver shaker. They show their age by dancing madly, wildly, happily, freely to the Summer of '69 and You Shook Me All Night Long stations on Pandora.

Fat Bottomed Girls, Jessie's Girl, Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Right Now, Dream On, Paradise City, Your Love, House of the Rising Sun scream from the speakers; anthems for two who came of age in the 80s, that time of awful hair, leg-warmers and great music.

Their cat watches with gimlet eyes. What does he think? He flicks his tail imperiously, knowing he is beloved.

They dance and twist and spin and breathe heavily; they are not in their twenties anymore. They are glad.

Their boys are coming home tomorrow, and they can't wait to wrap their arms around their tan little bodies but they will also miss this sort of time.

The Mamas and the Papas sing about the leaves turning brown and winter's days. The Stones paint it black, the cocktails are drunk, the stock starts to cool, tired bodies take to the couch, the cat joins, purring.

The utter randomness of that post title pretty much sums of my week. Let me also add that I completely forgot about Safari's recent crash proclivity, typed up an entire post yesterday and watched it disappear before my eyes in a flash. I drank from this, then.

And shut my computer and finished readying things for the fourth grade parent potluck we were soon to host.

I love this school tradition. T and I host a potluck or two each year and always have such a fun, enriching night. We are so lucky to be part of such a fascinating community of parents and kids. Last night was no exception. Added bonus, look at this toasted coconut tart one friend brought. Lawd a mercy!

Earlier this week, I took a pal with me to hear Cheryl Strayed present her new book, Brave Enough. Essentially crowd-sourced, It's a compilation of quotes from her previous works that have resonated most often with readers. I'm not wild for it, but Cheryl is a deeply insightful, seriously lovely, funny woman, and I felt lucky to hear the many pearls of wisdom she shared. To paraphrase...

"We're all going to suffer. The best way to handle that is to carry it with us. What do you do with the ugliest thing you receive? I tried to make the ugliest thing beautiful."

As anyone who's read anything by Strayed, you know that she's talking about her mother's death.

"I reached rockbottom after she died. But she loved me so much and so well, and I felt I owed it to her to live a better life." That "glimmer" is what we must all search for when we sink toward the lowest depths because "ultimately there are things only we can do for ourselves. We are in charge of our own narrative- what defines/rules us? Does something bad define or teach us?"

Veering left, I need to tell you about a fabulous new pedicure color by OPI: Ro-MAN-ce on the moon. If you want a festive, sexy, gorgeously rich color, get ye to a salon and find this hue. I intended to take a pic of my toes to further entice you, but then I looked at said pic of my toes and realized that was not a good plan. Feet. Kinda yuck. Love mine in great heels but a close-up shot? Not as much.

On Friday, while dealing with the parking meter in front of the salon where I was about to discover Ro-MAN-ce on the moon, Jack called. I tell y'all, thick twice about teaching your children to use the phone. I had been gone not twenty minutes, the babysitter with the kids was there for only the third time, and I was dying for my 2.5 hours of solitude. I mean, I was getting a gingerbread latte AND a pedicure, people. A big event for this mom.

So, Jack's sobbing into the phone about how Oliver was chasing him with a plunger suctioned to his tummy, and Jack had sustained an injury of sorts AND spilled his apple cider. I insisted on speaking to Oliver. Keep in mind that I'm standing on the sidewalk in between one of the busiest streets in DC and a Starbucks. North Georgetown, rush hour. People everywhere.

"Oliver, YOU HAVE LOST DESSERT PRIVILEGES."

"Why, Mama?" Cue his tears.

"YOU CANNOT CHASE PEOPLE WITH PLUNGERS. YOU CANNOT HIT THEM WITH PLUNGERS."

It occurred to me, then, that I must sound like a complete lunatic. Who else yells into a phone that another person simply must stop chasing and hitting others with toilet utensils?

It is always something. Happy Sunday, friends.