Lessons from Queen Charley.

So, it turns out that claiming you’re too tired and creaky to go for a walk doesn’t mean you’re too tired and creaky to climb up on the picnic table and lick up chocolate ice cream. Lesson learned.

 

Living up to Big Data.

Last July, my sons were jolted into mild uproar by the rumor that I had packed — simply packed, mind you — a swimsuit for our vacation at the beach.  Since baby number three, me in a bathing suit’s been much like the ivory-billed woodpecker:  someone’s always claiming to have seen it, but the reports remain unconfirmed and uncorroborated. Or they unravel as mere exaggerated speculation. Did my cheerful mom-worthy tunic in fact hide a demure black full-coverage tank suit, with strategic waist-level shirring?  That’s just a hypothesis, boys.

But out there on the internet, a tireless algorithm nurtures a parallel vision of me and my swimsuit mojo.  It wants me to know I belong in a different league.  A braver, prouder, more ambitious league.  And it’s finally sent me a sign.

Inspired?  You bet I am. I’d hate to let Big Data down.

Mornings at the jockey club.

Three sons. One van. One race to school.  How hard could it be?

Yet we just barely make it out of the gate.