Fly On the Wall

Have you ever wanted to be a fly on the wall in someone's house? I have.
I'm not being so presumptuous as to assume that you actually wanted to be a fly on the wall in my house, but just in case you were thinking about it -- think again! We have too many flies. We've been rudely invaded by a "buzzzzzzz-ing" army of the poly-eyed flyers and the swatter has become an extension of Nate's right arm. So unless you fancy yourself a stealthy winger, you would likely have suffered an unexpected, life-shortening SMACK! while feasting your beady eyes on the competitive pleasure of our Sunday evening Bohnanza game. But, if you were lucky enough to be the fly who Nate swears was resurrected on the spot, you might have been so fortunate, in your second life, to see a few frenzied rounds of Sudoku challenge! (We have identical books, thanks to Nate's very kind mother, and we race each other to see who can complete the puzzles faster -- Nate whipped me three out of the three times we played tonight, but I'm getting faster and one of these days I'm going to give him a run for his money.)If you were a fly on the dining room wall on Thursday morning, you'd have seen me, treading water in the pool of my own creative juices, trying to think of something cute and creative to do with the eight inch stack of cool paper my dear friend bequeathed to me after cleaning out her covet-worthy scrapbook quarters. After a very fruitless bit of brainstorming, I ended up with several piles of paper, sorted by color...and not a drop of creative inspiration. That's ok. I'm sure the vellum-winged muse of paper crafts will flit about my faculties soon enough.

If you were a fly on any one of the walls in any one of our rooms between Wednesday and Friday, you probably, err...definitely would have heard a snarky remark out of me. I was bundled up good n' snug in the Sweater-o-Snark for a few days until Nate wrapped me up in a big bear hug on Friday afternoon and said, "Someone in this family's been a sour puss all week and it's time for her to say she's sorry and act nice again so we can have some fun."

It was (time). And I did (apologize and act nice.) So we could (have some fun.)

If you were a fly on the living room wall you would have witnessed said fun. It looked like our fun always looks on the weekends we're too stingy to spring for a sitter: The big silver bowl, heaping full of stove-popped corn, a bag of gummy bears on the side, and two chilled glasses of bubbly lemonade propped up between two pajama-clad bodies, cozied up on the hide-a-bed, in tense-muscled suspense for the duration of The Prestige. We have mastered the art of the "At Home, Nearly Free, and Totally Fun Date Night. Hint: the secret's in the company. When the company's good, there's pretty much a good time guarantee.
I'd be lying if I said it's perpetual starry-eyed bliss and yeehooin' and hawin' good times around here; I already told you I spend half the week in a snarky funk. But I could pass a polygraph free and clear when I say that there's not a good time to be had that feels better than laying in the arms of your favorite man in the entire galaxy and having the last waking words on his lips be, "I am so lucky to have you. So lucky." And just thinking a hearty, ditto, in response, but not actually being able to say anything.
Partially because there are no words...
But more so for the fact that he wouldn't have heard me even if there were, because he is the Super-Slumber Wonder of this world, and falls asleep 2.4 seconds after his head hits the pillow. That's ok, I love him for that, too 'cause it makes it easier to sneakily roll out of those manly arms to my side of the bed. Because any fly that's spent a night on our bedroom walls knows that even in the depths of my utter devotion to Nate, I have yet to be able to fall asleep with any portion of my flesh touching his.

*Someone asked where I got the art for last week's Chronicle post; I got it from one of my favorite Etsy shops. I also got today's art from there; if you click on the picture, it should link you right to the artist's shop.