Wordless Wednesday

Before we start, let’s remember how idyllic the lake can be when nobody is tugging on your shirt asking for things. Ansel Adams even took a photo of it back in the day. (I’m lying, but I could have tricked you with this shot, amazing what Instagram can do with our cell phones.)

The skies are less cloudy here, but it still feels like there’s an impending Cat 3, maybe a Tropical level storm on the horizon. The is the type of weather that should cause you to run inside for cover, not lounge on an inflatable with someone who is 7-months pregnant.  

One of our visitors, let’s just call him Derrick, stocks a plastic tub with an avalanche of ice, beer and white wine. And juice boxes. So thoughtful, even though they were an afterthought. We later transfer the ice and drinks to a larger plastic tub as this one has to be refilled every hour.  

4th of July calls for some cliff jumping. Or jumping off the edge of a dock that’s just a few inches off the water. But it kind of feels like cliff jumping when you’re 4 and 5.

Rest time. Sam’s had a little too much wine and passes out in my lap. At least his fraternity brothers didn’t cover him in lipstick. Although I wouldn’t have allowed that as my mom paws are firmly planted in a protective shield.  Seriously, back off, I will fight dirty if you lay a hand on him.  That’s not a smile, it’s a fear grimace.  I feel threatened and there’s no telling what I’ll do.

Down on the dock, Rodney and Derrick debate who is slurring more. Derrick is telling Rodney “ish you, ish you”. Rodney’s saying “no, ish you”. Emma understands all communications and sounds the alarm for me to rescue her from this seriously bad time.

Having relieved Emma from the situation, she immediately points out the source of our problem. “Are you guys proud of yourselves?” she asks. “We’re going to have a talk about this later.” I skulk off to cook dinner, confident that I’m going to get a retaliatory early wake up call tomorrow.

Derrick is now back from the dock and is searching for ingredients to make an exotic cocktail. I see his slow movements in my peripheral vision, including the thought bubble that appears above his head as he reaches into the freezer. Finding the ice pops, he bashes them caveman style on the counter, dumps in lemonade and some vodka, and proudly hands me his masterpiece. 

I take a few sips of my ice pop cocktail, hide my gag reflex behind a cough, and dump the rest down the drain while Derrick hunts for snacks in my cupboard. He finds Doritos, and instead of making dinner, I head out to the porch to drink a margarita and eat GMO/cheese-flavored tortilla chips from a sunny yellow bowl. Dinner, as usual up here, can wait.  It’s sunset for crying out loud.

At last it’s nighttime, the sky is dark. We’ve eaten some scraps from the fridge that filled the empty void left post-Doritos consumption. The kids head down to the yard to catch fireflies.  Thankfully Derrick has made a terrarium out of an empty tennis ball can.  I knew he’d be useful at some point.  Well, that, and his awesome chicken quesadilla-making skills.  Guests, we will miss you.  See you next year.