After a brief, late, bath-temperature swim in suddenly balmy Lake Champlain, Rose, Calvin, and I are slowly gathering things and drying off, as one does.
Me: Hey, look at those birds in the middle of the lake.
Me: Way out there, see them? Flying in a long, low circle right above the surface of the water?
Calvin: Oh yeah, I see them!
Me: I wonder what could be hatching way out there that isn't hatching near the shore?
Calvin: They must have found a psychological nuclear monster.
Me: A what? They're birds, Calvin. It's probably food.
Calvin: No, a psychological nuclear monster! Getting into their brains and making them radioactive!
Me: You mean…Brainioactive?
Calvin: Yeah! I'm going to come down in the morning and take a picture of them! [He has a new birthday camera]
Rose: It's been nice knowing you.
Me: I hope you get a good picture because that's all that will be left.
Calvin: I'm not going to get into a boat! I'm going to take the picture from shore!
Rose: They're going to eat you.
Me: Mutants hate cameras.
[Later, recounting these events over dinner]
Me: …so that's why we're all done for. Mutant birds will be after us first thing in the morning.
Calvin: I think we should panic.
So I was down in Saratoga for some concerts this past weekend, and thanks to the vigorous dancing, late nights, and lack of anything else to do, I slept right through the morning coffee hour. Woke up in time for a super late lunch, then made my way to the venue to meet up with friends and find a spot. I didn't have any alcohol before or during the shows, mostly because I hate missing songs to pee and I drink so seldom that it runs right through me. So: thoroughly exercised and super-hydrated all weekend long. Sore joints and bones but no headaches.
Home again and: absolutely no need for caffeine.
I haven't yelled at the kids all week.
In my dream, tiny little Holmes Creek that runs around our property and under the covered bridge has been infiltrated by a Russian nuclear submarine. The real life creek is so low it is almost cut off from the lake; the dream creek is substantially larger and deeper.
There is a smaller US sub that has just moved into position downstream. In the yard and on the embankment, Army brass– not sure why not Navy but the green uniforms tell the tale– are sitting in large claw-footed bathtubs, stage-whispering strategy back and forth. Because obviously, if the Russkies can get a sub into Holmes creek, they must have bugged the trees. Right? Right.