Wednesday, July 23, 2014

BUTT HOLE

Usually busy months zip by, right? Not this one. This July has felt three months long. We’ve had some something going on every weekend since the beginning of the month. It’s not a bad thing to be spoiled with so much friend and family time, but I may be coming up on fatigue.

For Christmas this last year I told Jim I wanted one thing: get me to a yoga class; at 7:15AM, pull me from my bed and put me in the car no matter what excuses I may give. I want the same thing from every work-off holiday. “What are you doing for the Fourth of July, Megan?” “Yoga.” “Anything else?” “Probably.” “Like what?” “No idea. Not important.”

Independence Day morning we left the house at a quarter to eight and drove up to the lake so Jim could ride the Tahoe Rim Trail. I waited for him, folded origami, and then we drove back down the mountain to yoga class. Dear Reader I have a husband that has three bikes—road, mountain, and commuter. He, like, exercises. In case you didn’t know, this is my second marriage, and I can tell you that the husband I had in the first marriage, well, I’m not even sure he knew how to ride a bike. That’s how often I saw him on a rider-propelled device. I dig this upgraded iteration of a spouse. He likes to sweat and has these things called “muscles.”

That same weekend we had Benjamin’s baptism. Family. Friends. Cake.

The following weekend was the annual Victory Woodworks summer party that Jim and his business partner sort of live to throw. They reserve the Sand Harbor pavilion up at the lake and invite 500 of their closest friends for breakfast and kayaks and crawdad catching and lunch and paddle boards and tacos and ice cream and shade. A full day of all manner of lake things, really. My family came out for it. Nearly all of them. Eighty-percent of my loud and loving family drove out from Utah to experience the fun that is Jim.

A few days later we returned the favor and flew out to Utah to spend days in my mom’s pool, eat grilled pound cake, take class at Brick Canvas Bikram Yoga, visit Jim’s Utah sisters, enjoy our over-from-Belgium family, eat Whitney's perfect cinnamon rolls, drink nothing but diet soda (and probably some pool water), and take the kids to Seven Peaks.

It’s been a good 17 years since I’ve been to Seven Peaks water park in Provo. But Josie read about it somewhere and got her determined heart set on a visit. I am therefore suffering from a burn on my tailbone acquired while going down some terrible slide on which the send-off lifeguard told us to lift our bums in the tubes, which I did not do, and so, at the speed of sound, scraped my tailbone against the fiberglass. The swimsuit I wore? Yeah, it’s in a trash can at the SLC airport. Not lifting one’s butt as one is told may result in a hole in one’s swim bottoms. At least the hole didn’t go through the lining.

Two of my sissies, Cat and Whit, got sitters for their kidlings and came with Jim, Josie, Ben and me to the water park. They were the perfect companions for water tomfoolery, which included but was not limited to: trying and failing to trade places on double tubes while careening down a dark water slide, untying Whitney’s swim top—twice—on another trip down that same slide, getting swimsuit wedgies from very tall and fast water slides (tip: while getting clobbered by gravity, do keep your ankles crossed as the life guard instructs), lazing, and listening to Jim comment at least thirty times regarding how genius it was to get a cabana, for without it the day surely would have been unbearable. We went right from the water park to the airport and made it home at midnight on Monday.

Last week Jim said, “Hey, I think I’m going to need you to take off next Friday. I may have tickets for something.” So tomorrow Jim and I will continue July’s perpetual par-tay with a trip to San Francisco for—wait for it—Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me! The delish husband figure knows the way to his lady’s heart: tickets to an NPR news quiz show. I’ve always wanted to go one of the live shows and Jim’s the make-it-happen kind.

5 comments:

Spring Robinson said...

I love reading your writing, but all the words became a muddled mess after you mentioned eating grilled pound cake!! I am going to need more details on this subject. Was it a Whitney concoction?

My25Cents said...

Tickets to "Wait, wait"?!?! Marry that man pronto! Oh wait, you already have. That man of yours totally gets it, doesn't he?
(I've tried, and failed, to get tickets for this show on THREE separate occasions. Hoot and holler for me, too..ok?)

As a long-time-blog stalker I can't tell you how thrilled I am for your "upgraded" life.

Ryan said...

That's what I get for waiting until now to read your post. Spring done stole my comment right out from under me. My precise sentiment. Regale us with tales of ye olde grillede pounde cake(e).

Megan said...

Ryan, here's what I told Spring:

The grilled pound cake was a Whit thing. Slice a purchased pound cake into about 3/4"-1" slices, brush both sides with a simple syrup and grill on each side until you've got char marks. You can also do it in a cast iron pan inside. It makes the butter flavor of the pound cake more magical. We served them with strawberries and whipped up some cream.

Megan said...

Quarter friend-- the tickets in Chicago are way hard to get! Jim has been trying for those with no luck. We got lucky with the show coming to San Francisco. Tickets weren't hard to get. Just stupid expensive.

Good move in marrying him, I agree. Your well-wishes and glee for my glee coming at me from somewhere out there really tickles me. Thank you.