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Pre- and Post-Power Outage

July 27 The ice cream truck has been coming around my neighborhood a few nights a week. My husband is usually the one to sound the alarm, “Lynn! Lynn! It’s coming!” The two of us get very excited about the ice cream truck. It’s a race to see who can get out the door first. Like little children, my husband is sometimes too shy to approach the truck and makes me order for him, and the last few times they’ve been out of my favorite--toasted almond—and I’ve pouted. Yesterday, my nice neighbor Dennis and I happened to be at our mailboxes when the truck came by at 6pm. He flagged it down and got me a chocolate éclair. I teased him, saying I couldn’t remember the last time a man bought me dinner.  July 28 It’s been so hot, and I have so few summer clothes, I’ve been wearing the same two sundresses over and over, for what feels like months. My husband, who never notices anything, commented, “Didn’t you wear that yesterday? And the day before?” I told him I’m like his idol Steve Job
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Camping

We spent two days camping at Lake Waramaug. Off the grid: No cell service. No internet. No news. No worries. We walked in the woods. We played cards and croquet. We watched a baby deer watch us. Some of us canoed while some of us lounged on towels by the lake’s edge, listening to the waves lap at the grass. We ate well: snacks all day, s’mores all night. We talked and laughed by the campfire. We saw the lightning bugs glow through the tent. We slept to the drumming of the rain. We woke up with the birds. I felt like I was transported to a world that made sense. I wish I could have stayed longer.
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More about dinner

I wish I could blame it on the pandemic, but my husband and I have been arguing about food for 17 years. ”What’s for dinner” is *the* fight of our marriage. He wants to not be involved at all, with any of it. He wants me to make something and serve it to him. Meanwhile, I’m rarely hungry, and I have this stupid idea that he should tell me what he wants so I can provide it. He says, “Just make what you want!” I say, “I’m not hungry! I don’t want anything! You’re the one who’s hungry!”  He grits his teeth, “Just make whatever!” I shout, “Tell me what you want and I’ll make it!” (For the sake of wordcount I’ve left out about a dozen f-bombs that would have peppered this conversation.) In the marriage-counseling world this fight is known as an impasse. We are both looking for the other person to fix it, and we are both resentful because we believe the other person could fix it if they wanted to, but they’re just being a jerk. Usually, when my husband says, “What’s
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June Recap

I chopped off all my hair. I look like a cross between Rachel Maddow and Elizabeth Warren. My son cut it for me. He did a fine enough job; vanity has never been my jam anyway. I started playing pickleball again, after a 3-month hiatus. It has been a sanity-saver. Several times a week, I get to be safely-social, take out a little aggression, and have a reason to leave my house. It has eaten up a lot of my time though: once I drive to the court, play, drive home, shower, empty my water-bottle and put my gear away, somehow 5 hours have gone by. Then I make a meal, or not, and the day is done. I don’t know if this is good or bad. My son has a girlfriend now and they have had to get creative to see each other. So far, they’ve gone to the beach, the Audubon society and an Aspetuck Land Trust. They hug hello and goodbye, but the rest of the time, they don’t get close. My teenage-years were filled with movies, bowling, ball-games, pizza places, public transportation, malls, baseme
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New Friend

There’s an eight-year-old boy who lives next-door to me. He’s named Colbert, (after Stephen). We have spied each other many times but have never spoken. If I wave, he usually darts behind the trees or hides behind his dad’s car. I always feel guilty for activating his “Stranger Danger” alarm, so I had given up trying to be neighborly. Today I was at the screen door in my kitchen, admiring my new bird-feeders, when Colbert popped up out of nowhere, like he was sprouted by the hosta. He stood at the bottom of my steps and pointed up and down the length of the feeder pole and said, “That’s yours? I wish I had that! I’ve been watching! There were FIVE squirrels under there today! All at the same time! FIVE! And the chipmunks! And the birds! Do you know them?!!” Before I could open my mouth, he continued, “And look what they did! Did they do that?! They smashed the plants! Did they eat them?” (The hostas and weeds under the feeder have been completely flattened by the wildlife parade
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Bugs

Yesterday, for dinner, we grilled—shish-kabobs and veggie dogs. It was the first time we had used the grill in almost two years, so it needed a thorough going-over. The grill had become a hotel for spiders and stinkbugs, and my no-kill-policy-husband kept flicking them into the shrubs as he cleaned. I also subscribe to the no-kill-policy, but it is nice to have help. Inside the house, I leave spiders if I find them, or encourage the creepier ones out the window; Brian is usually the one called upon to catch all manner of other insects in Tupperware and take them outside. Except for ants. We both hate ants, and relish their demise. Our son subscribes to the “I hate all bugs and am blessed with parents who will get them out of my sight” policy. I wonder what he’ll do when he’s out on his own. As I was typing this story, my son walked in and said, so sweetly, “Mom, can I get your help with something?” He led me to his room and pointed at a stink bug lurking on his ceiling. He sa
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Zombies

Today, on our walk, my husband gave a heavy sigh and said, “Well. This is about the least amount of fun you could have while still having fun.” That made me laugh. A few steps on, he put his blistered, rashy, disgusting arms out in front of him, lolled his head to one side and started walking down the street making zombie noises. I followed in kind, except my arms looked pretty. We did our Walking Dead act past a few houses until our neighbor’s dog went ballistic, charged the fence and scared the hell out of us. We jumped and clutched each other, laughing. My husband said, “Wow. That dog really doesn’t like zombies.” We might have had a little more fun than the least amount. 
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