MY WEEKEND WITTREAT

The Husband is in Kansas. Sophie is bunked at a charming little doggie hotel. Apparently her audition there went well—her temperament is acceptable—and when we retrieve her, I expect her report card will read Plays well with others, which is good, because the cost of her week-long stay there will nearly equate the cost of my college education. She’s the smallest kid there, and when meeting the other guests, she squatted low to the floor and released her bladder. We learned that in the canine world, that’s a good thing. It’s less good in the people world.

I spent the last few days in Citrus Heights as a guest of Uncle Mickey and Aunt Sue, as I had a weekend yoga workshop near their home. Though we’ve been bound in our joyful marriage for five years, The Husband has yet to meet Uncle Mickey and recently informed me that he believes Mickey is a myth. (It stands to reason that Uncle Mickey would think the same thing about my other half.)

I’d like to submit into evidence, the following photo of Sue and Mickey Witt to validate of the veracity of my claim to an Uncle named Mickey. Take note of the handsome roses Aunt Sue cultivated in her garden and sent Mickey out to collect; she likes to keep a vase of them in her first-grade classroom.


As an additional treat, I've included these photos of darling G’Ma Betts and me.