A couple of nights ago, I got into bed, closed my eyes, and cuddled up next to my husband... who had eight more legs than I was expecting.
I looked outside last night at 7pm and it was well past dusk and moving on to full dark. I guess it's fall.
My summer hopes for a glorious pumpkin patch in my front yard fell short. The dry crunchy pumpkin vines out there have yielded one softball sized lumina and nothing else thus far. I did get some lovely pumpkin flowers anyway. And I can console myself that we're sticking to our advised water rationing guidelines, and also supporting my local farmers at the pumpkin patch down the road.
On Saturday, I was putting my hair up for ballet class when my seven-year old walked into the bathroom.
"You look very pretty in that suit you're wearing, Mommy. Are you going to a party?"
"Thank you, sweetie, but no, I'm going to ballet class."
I paused for a second to consider how my son might have gotten the idea that a leotard and tights constituted appropriate evening attire. "And also, it's possible that we're reading too many superhero comics."
Today is the anniversary of the day that Skynet would have become self-aware and begun the war between man and machine. So everyone shout out a thanks to Sarah Connor for squashing Arnold Schwarzenegger's metal skeleton in a mechanical press and then blowing up a tech company, thus adverting the apocalypse. I hear those are a bummer.
Of course that was in 1997, or the 1984 version of a 1997 that didn't happen.
All of which is a long and complicated way of saying the future has arrived, the world hasn't ended, and somehow we're still not cruising around in flying cars.
So I return from the happiest place on earth. How was it, you ask? I've been amusing myself by telling people it was uplifting, which it was, but in more ways that I intended.
"We're pretty good team," is what goes through my head. Weird thought to occur at 2 a.m. while you and your husband are managing a vomiting child, but perhaps every thought is weird at 2 a.m.
I hadn't been sleeping well that night. Neither of us had, I think, though there were no obvious outward signs of trouble brewing in the next room. I got up to use the bathroom and came back to find the light on in the kiddo's room. I altered course and found my husband speaking soothing words and holding a bowl for a puking child.
Rarely a dull moment around here.
She walked into my office on a hot, muggy night, one of those nights where you could wring the sky out like a wet pair of wool socks. She dabbed at her red eyes with a lace knit hanky and fell into the chair opposite me.
I pulled my feet off the desk and looked the dame over. She didn't look like my usual clientele, not by a long shot.
I'm Gyle, by the way. R. Gyle, and I'm a detective.
The last few weeks have taken me on many adventures, traveling some of my favorite veins of California's water system. I've been camping in the woods along the Big Sur river, swimming with family in Lewis Creek, and drifting on lazy parts of the Merced River in Yosemite. A couple of the state's greatest hits, really.
Last Monday, I went to a movie with a friend. Having sort of skipped dinner, I did something uncharacteristic and actually bought food (or the closest approximation thereof) at the theater. My hotdog came with a medium drink. When the clerk hoisted the beverage onto the counter, the resounding thump was followed by a beat of total silence, before my friend and I burst out laughing. The receptical before me was a 44 ounce trough. I would only be exagerating slightly if I said I could fit my cat Weasley in that cup. And Weasley? Not small.