Week in Review

I had all these pictures of things we've done this week and have been thinking about how great it is that I'm going to blog about them in such a timely fashion. But, lest I get too sure of myself, my Mac can't find all the pictures that I took, downloaded, and promptly erased from my camera. If they ever magically reappear, I will add pictures to my text.

It finally warmed up enough to swim this week. I took the kids to the classy public pool. What is the difference between the classy pool and the trashy one? Ah, it's a subtle distinction that takes a sensitive eye to discern. In the end, it's all about the tattoos. At the trashy pool, I have seen some truly horrific and pornographic tattoos. But this week, I saw a tattoo of Chopin. Just to be sure, I had my mezzo soprano friend double check. And you know that a good mezzo is always true. It really was him - Frederic Chopin. Right there on a man's upper left arm. I really wanted to take a picture, but I was afraid that all the other tattooed people would be offended, and since nearly everyone at the pool had at least one tattoo, I wasn't willing to risk it. It got me thinking, though: is there such thing as a classy tattoo? In college, the president of the sorority had a little Chi Omega tattooed on her ankle and we all thought it was so cool, even though it was against sorority rules to use the Greek letters to deface the body. I wonder if now, nearly 20 years later, people look at her ankle and think it looks cool. Someone on NPR (see, there I go again) once called a tattoo a permanent reminder of a temporary satisfaction. My problem is that they seem to fade over time to a sickly blue and as the skin ages and sags, become unrecognizable. I suppose, though, that when you are 18, lovesick, or totally drunk, you're not thinking of the future or of saggy skin.

Thanks to Kelly, who refused to let the computer hold our photos captive.

Yesterday, we took the girls strawberry picking. We usually go in June, but with all the rain and cold we've had, the season was delayed. Kelly and I started our jam last night. I have switched from the regular recipe to the low-sugar kind in the pink box and haven't looked back once. In fact, last year, my friend Jen suggested we try a comparison. We made a batch of full sugar and a batch of low sugar and there was no question that the low sugar tasted better. Neither of us wanted the full sugar batch at all, so we gave it to a woman in the ward who couldn't make her own. This year, she asked us for the recipe to that "low sugar jam that we all loved so much." I don't have the heart to tell her that she's been eating what amounts to Kool Aid with chunks.

In between the picking and the jamming, we took the girls to the beach about an hour from our house. We always love going to Lake Michigan and yesterday was the best beach weather we've had since we've lived here: 80's with a light breeze. We got our stuff all set up, and started noticing a strange scent reminiscent of the reptile house at the Hogle Zoo. You know, the one that makes all the kids plug their nose. We dismissed it as a slight inconvenience. Then the girls came running up each holding a dead fish. I am getting shivers up my back and my eye is twitching just remembering it. They were little fish and the girls didn't realize that they were dead. They were so excited to have been able to catch a fish because usually that's a real feat. As we looked around, the beach was absolutely littered with these little dead fish and seagull feathers. It must have been like seafood night at the Chuck-a-Rama for all those birds. Can you imagine it?? On the plus side, not only did that explain the smell, but it totally curbed our appetites all afternoon. In fact, I told Kelly that it will be a while before I can eat fish again.

I have been reading a lot this summer and recently finished Born to Run. My brother suggested that I read it, and I'm glad I did. Yes, it made me glad to be a runner and I have changed my gait a bit to see if there is merit to the idea that man is meant to run; not fast, but far. I hope I never have to chase down my food like in the book (although when I was training for a marathon, I did chase down a cheeseburger once on a 20-mile long run), but I think I was meant to run for a different reason. Running has increased my pain threshold immeasurably, has made me more confident and strong, and has given me a new perspective on distance, both measured and timed. It has also allowed me to keep up with my kids. Yesterday, there was a mother on the beach whose toddler had run away from her. In the most tactful way I can think, I will only say that it was obvious that she was not a runner... or a walker. As the kid ran further from her, she went from screaming, "Aiden, come back here right now" to "Somebody stop that kid!" She was doing her best to hustle, but the kid with 12-inch legs and a swim diaper was just too much for her. People up and down the beach were laughing when she yelled, "What is wrong with you? Now I need a cigarette" at the kid. As she passed by us, I saw a tattoo of a gazelle sprinting across her shoulder blades. I love irony.