GRR 2012

It's peaking right now.  I'm not sure who decides when it's peak foliage around here.  I'm not sure how he decides when it's peak foliage around here and where he sits to look at his watch to decide or how he doesn't know that maybe tomorrow might be the real peak, but I'm deciding right now that it's peak.  I wish you were sitting where I'm sitting and could see the blood orange color of the mini-mountain I call my own.  I wish you could.  I can't even capture it on film.  It doesn't do the blood orange justice.  I tried.  I wish I could photoshop the picture for you.  Brighten it up to match the real deal.  I wish I could.  I have stories stacking up- funny ones that I wanted to use a few photoshopping elements to enhance them.  But I can't cuz'  I'm in desperate need of Photoshop help.  Can you do it?  I'll organize your junk drawer for you.  I will.

Well, here are some SOC shots that could use a lot of editing help but then again so do I.  Two weekends ago my wombats and I forged the persistent rain and camped at this amazing spot for one short 19 hour period.  It takes a canoe, or two, or three to get there.  It's a short canoe ride, but a canoe ride none-the-less, with lots of ice-filled coolers and leaky blow up mattresses and Lafuma chairs:

for very important reclining and relaxing.  Being with my wombats is like going for a run in the rain, taking a hot shower, and reclining in bed to read a good book- with no kids around to interrupt.

 

Being with my wombats is like having a husband who knows you'll want hard boiled eggs for breakfast and cooks them for you ahead of time.  

Hanging with my wombats is like having all the laundry in the house washed and folded and put away.  It's like sun drying your sheets on the line and having your husband (same as the one above) make the bed for you to climb into at your leisure.

Hanging with my wombats is like having someone cook and clean up for you.  Often.

Being with my wombats is like sitting down at a table with my closest friends and fresh margaritas, salt on the rim, and a bowl of fresh made guacamole and home-made chips.  

 Chillaxin' with my wombats is like eating a whole bowl of this for breakfast, lunch, or dinner:

In a pot

     1/2 cup veg oil

     1/2 cup apple cider vinegar

     1/3 cup sugar

     1/2 tsp salt

     1/4 tsp pepper

bring to a quick boil to blend and dissolve sugar.  Take off heat to start to cool

In a bowl

   1 can black beans (predrained and rinsed)

   1 can pinto beans (predrained and rinsed)

   1 cup frozen corn

   pour marinade on top mix gently

add to bowl

  1 can diced green clilies

  1 medium chopped onion

  2 stalks celery chopped

  1 each red yellow green pepper chopped

Mix gently and put in fridge overnight

devour the next day and don't regret it for one bit.

Circling up around a fire with my wombats is like laughing so hard you piss your pants or at least have stomach muscle pain the next day.

 

 Being with the wombats is like hunkering down in front of the fire on a snowy day.

We've come a long way since 2005.  And yet in some ways we haven't.   We still love floating around the still dark waters of the reservoir shooting the shit, commiserating about our husbands, children, situation; celebrating our husbands, children, situation.  Maybe we drink too much.

We often eat too much.  We wonder if Cath will make it across the pond.  We read smutty magazines.  We privately celebrate our literal and figurative nakedness.  We sit around the fire; we retell stories and play the same old games.  We soak up and toast each other's ways.  We sometimes skinny dip in the cold morning fog and giggle at our sagging breasts.  And then we paddle that short way back to the parking lot and go our separate ways.

It never seems long enough.  Ever.