Another reminder that I am not blogging from the Oval Office

Why is this so darn cute when it comes to the President's kids and so freaking irritating when my own kid is crawling around near my desk when I am trying to finish up a work project?

Clearly, the Obama (and further back, the insanely adorable Kennedy) version of working from home has no translation for the Sassafam. That is, unless Sasha is squeaking out, "Please please please pleeeeeeeeeeeease can we we look at Star Wars stuff online? When can we look at Star Wars stuff on the compuuuuuuuter? Pleeeeeeeeeeease! Is it time yet? Is it time yet? Is it time to look at Star Wars stuff on the computer? Mommy! Mommy! Mommmmmmmyyyyy?!"

And then Barack gets all yelly and exasperated and says something that makes no parental sense like, "Seriously, dude! SERIOUSLY!"

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Some people write strongly worded letters: My own little way of flipping off Mother Nature

I had a thought this morning at 8:17 when the thermometer on my porch read 57-degrees: I hope that I haven't jinxed away the last drops of summer by ordering cold-weather boots.

As tempting as it is to think that my shoes have the power to bend the meteorological happenings of the planet, I really do recognize that I only react to the weather.

Even after those boots arrive on my doorstep, I will be reacting by wearing my sandals and peep toes until snow makes my little toes numb (as opposed to the normal numbness that comes with the height of the heel and squeezey point of the toe). My feet need to feel the breeze, even if it is frigid. Look at them today. My feet think it is Fourth of July and I'm out scrambling for back-to-school supplies and fleece jackets.

Taking the stance that I will be wearing my summer shoe wardrobe absolutely as long as possible also means I can procrastinate hunting around in my basement for my winter wardrobe. I adore every one of the sweaters and wool dresses and pairs of closed-toes in the big box marked "COLD WEATHER HELL GEAR" but the thought of just makes me feel whiny and stifled now.

Of course, it is only the first of September. And, who knows? It could be 90-degrees tomorrow. We could have a heat index of a gazillion after Labor Day. Sure, it's a tad too hopeful, but it has happened before. There could also be a blizzard (knock wood platforms). Either way, I won't be hunting around for my clicky-clicky summer shoes. Oh no. Regardless, they will already be on.

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A time to tend

I came home one day about a month ago, and the chrysanthemums had wilted. It was my fault. I'd placed them out in the bright sun of my porch even though I'd read the card with care instructions that said they should be kept out of direct light. They'd started out this lovely lavender streaked with white and the petals seemed to beg for sunshine. Now, faded and sinking closer to the soil, they needed cool water and shelter.

They were guilt flowers, the mums, given to me by the man I was dating after a small argument that, at least to me, represented some much bigger issues. He didn't choose roses or lilies, and I liked that. He chose a basket of flowers that could be replanted into a pot, that might be rejuvenated season after season. I put it out on the porch, where that man I was dating stood smoking cigarettes when he was at my house.

Even after explanations and apologies and a plan to make things work better between us, I never did move those chrysanthemums inside. I watered it, shifted it around, surrounded the basket with the marigolds and wild rose plants. But I left it there, soaking up the sun.

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