The Man Who Lives In My House has acquired a mountain bike. He is very excited about this. I was completely neutral on the subject until today (Sunday) when it was (miraculously) not raining. It seemed like an auspicious moment for some raking, maybe a trip to the dog park, and taking turns shuttling the Hooligans to various birthday parties, playdates, and an indoor soccer game. We went to a terrific party* last night--one would think our fun needs had been met for one weekend--but then......the phone rang around 10 a.m. It was fellow mountain biking enthusiast Mark, hoping The Man could go for a ride. Could he? Sure he could.
Which I assumed would be fine, because he'd be home in plenty of time to take the larger Hooligan to his 2:30 playdate, while I took the smaller one to soccer?
2:30? They were aghast. A combined twelve and a half feet of man were looking at me like I was the world's biggest party pooper/battle ax/ball and chain/old lady. No way could they make it home by 2:30.
It's 10:30. 2:30 is four hours away. Where are you going? California?
It turns out that you can't get a "decent ride" any closer than 45 minutes away. And a ride could take anywhere from 2 to 8 hours, depending on speed, flat tires, washed out bridges, cougar attacks, etc.
I coped. It was actually an easy and enjoyable day. No one fought or even made an excessive mess. Friends came and went, parties and playdates were attended. We skipped the soccer game. Nonetheless it was not what I envisioned. I did not have an adult to banter with! I look forward to this all week!
You will not be surprised to learn that I failed to meet the Man Who Lives House at the door with an icy cold drink when he rolled in around 4:30. I was surly, actually. I did make a very good dinner (beet, chevre and wilted spinach salad with orange vinaigrette, italian sausage, fresh bread and molasses cookies). It could have been worse--I could have made roast chicken (see past post "Who Hates Roast Chicken?). If I were really mad I'd have made Tuna Casserole. Ha.
He had a spectacular fall right on his face, first thing. This is Karma. He is perhaps very slightly chagrined. He keeps making little references to how he's going to be really sore, and should take more ibuprofen. My lack of sympathy baffles him. After 15 and a half years, you'd think he'd have noticed: I'm not that nice.
*Where I met Holly, who reads this blog! I was uncharacteristically tongue tied. What is there to say? she's read it already. Thanks for reading, and so nice to meet you, Holly!