I don’t know why we didn’t get the memo. But 75 degrees in Santa Cruz means men don’t wear shirts to the supermarket. …. Hang on, please. *barfs in bucket* Tasty. Yeah, so I’d say it was a nice day. A really nice day. The great thing about this place is that it’s only “hot” in direct sunlight. Which is all the more reason the nudity confounded me. That and the girls who wear those itty-bitty “sports” shorts… I see the knee-pads. I see you’re pretending to be athletic and such. But the fact that there’s a whole pack of you. And you’re giggling. And your cheeks are coming out of the bottom. Makes me think you’ve cleverly created a parent-approved way to show your buttocks. And, while diversity is great, I’m at least partially a product of my socialization. Equating to my disgust at seeing the … full-figured girl of the bunch wear the same size “sports” shorts. … Stop it.
Secondly (’cause these are totally related), most universities don’t allow you to defer acceptance. Let alone… for ever. In 2005, I was accepted to the U of York in England – this is when we were living in Wales – and we made the family decision to come back Stateside for Josh’s degree. How’s about the fact that I got an email from them today, letting me know that we’re still wanted. Hah! Lovely. Because I would love to do the taught coursework – back to Forensic Psych – I’m not at all interested in doing the dissertation work and intend instead to “finish” my academic career in Sociology – the mothership – after squaring a few other things away. I just can’t believe an acceptance in 2005 still stands in 2008. God save the queen.
Lastly, Ezra is going through a – thankfully transparent – transition between three and four. He’s very verbally capable (read: he corrects other children who drop their “g”s and such…come on, he’s Bethany’s son) and he’s learning what is appropriate to say and what he’s not allowed to say (in spite of other children’s horrible attitudes and the substandard parenting of others). It’s a very exhausting process, apparently, and he’s usually tearing up when learning a new thing he shouldn’t say to us or a tone he can’t use. But when he says, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m just very sorry.” …. I’ll admit: I break.