Equinox

Monday: Last week, a coworker and friend was suffering some eye discomfort, and I suggested that she look at her eye makeup and eye cream ingredients. She did, and found that a simple product change made all the difference. Maybe I should do the same thing, because it's almost 9 PM and my eyes are burned out like an old string of Christmas lights. So maybe it's just eye cream. It probably has nothing to do with age-related macular degeneration or cataracts or glaucoma or any other of the many blindness-causing ailments that I imagine that I have every time my eyes are tired.

I mean, I don't see any reason why it would.

*****
Tuesday: The Washington Capitals' Stanley Cup win is fast becoming the greatest financial catastrophe ever to befall my family. Do you know how many Capitals Stanley Cup shirts we own? No, I don't either. I lost count. And here's what arrived in the mail today:

Yes, that's a bottle of wine that I can't drink. 

That's exactly what it looks like: A custom-engraved, limited edition, Washington Capitals 2018 Stanley Cup Champions wine bottle; filled with wine of some sort, I presume. It showed up in a box the size of a dumpster, and I'm sure that shipping alone cost $50. We kept the box. We might end up living in it.

*****
Friday: Every summer, there's a turning point. Darkness falls a tiny bit earlier, and the air, even though it's warm, starts to develop a barely perceptible but real edge of coolness. The haze lifts and the sky becomes azure-clear blue in mid-afternoon, warmed with a red-pink glow at sunset, which comes just a tiny bit earlier each day. Of course, the hazy warmth will return and linger throughout August, but by the third week of July, it's impossible to ignore the signs of the coming end of summer and the beginning of fall. The pool was noticeably cooler tonight, and even though I know that summer isn't over, I can feel it slipping away. It's always later than you think. I should make that a tag.

Open mouth, insert food

"No, not Spanish Fly.  Spanish RICE."

Sometimes, a conversation is funnier imagined than heard.

My children are 13 (almost 14) and 10 now.  I had to attend a meeting tonight, and my husband texted me at the last possible minute that he had been delayed at work.  I had already made dinner, with the idea that my husband and the boys could just warm it up after they got home from work and swim practice, respectively.

With my husband delayed, I had to let the kids know that they'd be on their own after practice, and that they could just warm up the food and eat by themselves.  I left written instructions: taco meat 30 to 45 seconds, Spanish rice 30 seconds, taco shells 10 to 15 seconds, no aluminum foil, lids, or spoons. .

45 minutes or so into my meeting, my phone rang.  My 10-year-old's first words were "Mom, do you remember how you wrote no aluminum foil and no lids?"

"Oh no," I thought. "Yes, I remember.  What happened?"

"Nothing, but we wanted to make sure that we're supposed to keep the rice and the meat in the bowls."

My fellow PTA board members had to wait a few minutes for me to regain my composure.  After I caught my breath and wiped the tears away, I explained.   The funniest thing was not the idea that I'd just narrowly escaped having a microwave full of uncontained meat and rice, but imagining the several minutes of earnest discussion that had probably taken place just before they called me.  Are you sure we're supposed to use the bowl?  I mean it says no aluminum foil and no lids, but it doesn't say to keep the stuff in the bowls, right?  What should we do?  Should we just try it?  Maybe we should just eat it cold.  Hold on, we should call her.  You call her.  No, you call her.  OK, I'll call her.

Maybe more detailed instructions next time. Bon appetit.