I’ve been reading a book this week 7, An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess, and she writes like I would want to write . . . if I were a writer. Some self deprecating humor (lots of it, in fact), a first person narrative style as she describes her challenges and successes at simplifying her life in an attempt to draw closer to God’s will for her life, overuse of ellipses
(. . . these guys . . . love them), and a reader who learns something in the middle of their laughter. All elements that I adore in a writer/book and would emulate them . . . if I were a writer.
As I was describing a favorite part to Josh over dinner (about her adventures in organic gardening during month 5 in an attempt to create less waste) and lamented that she had a gift — he stopped me and said, “You are a writer.”
Um, no I’m not. Or did I miss the published books floating around the house with my name on the cover?
He said, “Being published doesn’t make you a writer. You are one because you write. You edit. You revise. You’re good at it. I write stuff for work all the time, but I’m not a writer. You are. In three weeks it will be December 1st, three years to the day that we left the United States for Egypt. You’ve been writing for three years. That makes you a writer.” I just about leaped across the table and hugged him. Wow. Three years. If that makes me a writer, I better not stop now.
So, stories from Motherboy XICXV last night (I can’t be bothered to figure out the Roman numerals, especially since it’s an Arrested Development reference and you’ll either get it or you won’t and the fake numbers don’t matter anyway). Josh was/is out of the country (visiting Oman, weep for me) so I took Calvin to the Marine Corps ball as my very handsome date.
I am not photogenic (I had the man at the base retake my ID card photo 3 times and it still looks like a chipmunk with crossed eyes) and Calvin is hoping to overtake me in height in the near future, so we took 1001 photos of me trying not to smile too hard and him trying to stand on his tiptoes without me noticing. It was fantastic.
We mingled, we ate, we didn’t dance (more on that later) and had fun people watching. It turns out that after 16 years in, most of the special uniform pieces are still foreign to me and I don’t know why one guy wears a gold cord around his shoulder (lie: I actually do know that one — it’s because he’s an aid to a VIP), or what all the different ribbons mean and if it’s an Army or Navy uniform? Forget it. I don’t know why one guys has blue lapels and another has gold (though if I had to guess it’s probably dependent on their job/unit). I missed having my military guide Josh there, to answer all my questions, but Calvin and I texted him a few times and that was almost as good.
He wanted to be able to say that he ate a piece of the birthday cake
Then he realized he was trying to cut it with the back side of the knife.
One of the official candids from the night.
We were about to leave and we hadn’t danced yet (I couldn’t convince Calvin to go out with me to do the Electric Slide) when the first slow song came on and I seized my opportunity: “Do you want to dance one song before we head out?” He was a good sport and agreed. I was looking for a place to stash my purse when I recognized the song as “I’ll Make Love to You” and decided that was a bit too skeevy for a Mother/Son dance. A little “Afternoon Delight,” anyone?
Then we came home to these monkeys who were fast asleep and the girl monkey who was wide awake. (Josie was babysitting. No need to worry about child neglect.)
