Oh yeah. The secret life of the Suburban Sattin family is beyond thrilling. Seriously. I should have started this blog back when I lived in Brooklyn and did moderately entertaining things. Because now, there’s this:

I’ve discovered a love of yard work, specifically mowing our postage stamp lawn with a reel mower. Aside from the blisters I got on both thumbs the first time I used it I now really love to mow the lawn. You’re welcome, Neil. One more yard task you don’t have to do. I love you, too.
But seriously, it takes about an hour to mow our lawn. Back and forth, back and forth, rinse and repeat. It’s the perfect form of meditation for me. The kind where I don’t have to sit around doing nothing, because anyone who knows me knows that is something I’m incapable of. So, meditation that enables me to get things done around the house? Perfect.

And then there was this.

Dear weed: I know you’re feeling pretty good about yourself. Ha ha, you say. I’ve won this round.
Well, you obviously don’t know me very well, weed. I don’t like to lose and I am notoriously cold-hearted. In fact, I was once granted the indian name Hurts Feelings. And rightly so. Let’s just say, weed, this is not over.

Anyway, this weekend was pretty full of activity for the Sattin clan. I mowed the lawn (what? sick of hearing about that? bah.), we went to Maple’s TWICE and almost three times but thank god we have some restraint. Seriously, that is some good ice cream.

Sunday saw us heading off to Massachusetts to visit Aunt Ethel, but not before a quick breakfast at the Good Egg Cafe which I have a hard time not calling the Pepperclub which is what it’s called when you go there for dinner. No matter the name, it’s always delish and we love everyone who works there. Not only do we get a good meal, but we get free babysitting by the waitresses! Score! Actually, we’ve also gotten a regular babysitter and a pet sitter from that place. Not on the menu, but every bit as welcome as my multi-grain pancake with blueberries.
I had one of those experiences while we were there that everyone who is approaching thirty (or who may have turned thirty in the past year but we don’t have to talk about that) has at one point or another. Two sort of dirty hipsters dragged themselves in and sat at the booth next to us. Neil knew them so our tables had an ongoing open conversation. Nothing makes you feel like you’re getting older like hearing about how these two were out all night at a club, then a party after, and still they had not gone to bed. I haven’t had a night like that since, um, see! I don’t even remember when. It’s kind of sad. And yet, here I am at 30 with an amazing husband and quite possibly the world’s cutest baby.

Not such a bad trade off at all.

Ugh. I’ve been feeling kind of ill for the past few days so haven’t really felt like writing. Every bite of food seemed out to get me, and what did I ever do to you, food? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Nothing.
Anyway, I had a massage scheduled on Monday and I decided nothing, not even relentless stomach cramps, was going to keep me from it. Made dinner, picked at it, left Dash in capable Daddy hands, and hit the road. And as I walk in the door anticipating how wonderful it’s going to be, it dawns on me that it’s 6:30 at night. It’s 6:30 at night and I’m wearing sandals. It’s 6:30 at night and I’m wearing sandals that I’ve been wearing ALL day. For like twelve hours. In the heat.

People. I know I’m not alone in this. All day in last year’s sandals in the heat in the sweat, etc, etc, equals gross, yes? Yes.
A light dread fell over me as I considered my feet being touched by this poor woman. I would have been mortified. Why the hell didn’t I think of this at home?

Thank God she wasn’t ready for me right away. I had a minute to duck in the bathroom, where I proceeded to put my feet one-by-one in her sink and scrub them with her (what smelled like) Softsoap, dry them off with paper towels, and stick them back in my grody sandals. Two minutes later, I was on her table and on my way to a massage-induced state of bliss. I only hope than when she got to my feet, she wasn’t thinking, “Is that Softsoap?”

Morals of this story for me are quite simple. Number one, massages are great and I need them on a regular basis. Number two, get some new sandals forthesakeofjesus it’s a new season!

Oh, oh! The Whippits, right. So I walked down to Granny’s house for lunch yesterday. The walk was great. Beautiful weather, Dash being his cute self in the MobyWrap, me being my cute self in a skirt. You know, the usual. The only mistake was walking down Brighton Ave. instead of heading into the neighborhood to avoid the heavy traffic. I got what I asked for.
Ok, but focus. The Whippits. Right.
After lunch, Granny says, “You want a Whippit?”
Immediately my head is racing. She didn’t just say what I think she said. She doesn’t mean what I think she means. Does she know what a whippit is? Did they do that in high school too?

And I decide to land on the relatively safe notion of playing dumb. “What’s a whippit?”

She reaches into the cabinet and pulls out this.

Ah yes, the WhippEt. A Whippet cookie. That’s different. For the uninitiated, and I imagine there are many of you, the Whippet hails from Canada. It is a cookie base topped with marshmallow and covered with dark chocolate. It looked, and still looks, pretty nasty but was surprisingly ok. Not that I’ll be rushing out to buy them any time soon.

And you know, it was fun to imagine, but I suppose it’s good to know senior citizens aren’t all wrapped up in the relatively juvenile highs of nitrous oxide, eh?