Friday

“Cuz this is thriller! Thriller Night …” Okay, okay, I’m awake.

It’s time for the before-school dance party. Music’s playing, cereal is snap-crackle-popping, strawberries are being sliced. Crazy hats are worn. Booties are shook. I get to help Boy Jots finish his science fair project. I decide not to tell the Jotses about my unfortunate science fair experience of 1985. Let’s just say that it involved 3 white mice. One was alive at the end of it.

Project and cereal are finished and we are off to walk to Boy Jots’ school. Lovely school, lovely people. Drop him (and his science project) off, walk home, pop in the car to take Girl Jots to school and check on Mr. Jots’ car at the garage. "I am completely envious" becomes my refrain. Girl Jots gets to go to a daycare in a retirement community, where there is deliberate mingling of the two. Gorgeous grounds, too. "I love gardens, I just have no luck in gardening," I mention. Jots hoots. Apparently she had said something to Mr. Jots before I came, like, "Eww, what if she's a gardener, she's going to hate my yard!" No, my thumb isn't green. It's brown and usually covered in cake batter. I grow cupcakes.

Home to call Kismet, who knows me, in an extremely convoluted way, through my blog, and knows Jots in real life. She lives a couple of hours away and drives up to join us for lunch, and cupcake making, and a myriad of conversations. (I have to mention that she’s an incredibly generous person, evidenced not only by her willingness to drive 2 hours to see us, but also the fact that she’s doing a scrapbook for my family of our MAW trip.)

After school, Boy Jots helps me make cupcakes while Jots goes to pick up her pal, Southern Gentleman, from the airport. I believe by now she is being mistook for an airport employee, as often as she’s there.

Southern Gentleman, Jots, Girl Jots and I go to another outdoor concert – this time, with Rusted Root. Rusted Root! That’s it, I’m moving here. About 50% of the attendees at the concert have been married by Jots.

She and Southern Gentleman go for beer while Girl Jots and I plan our takeover of mankind. They come back – sorry, LE, you have to go get your own, so you can show your id. I wander around, find a beer, pay a ticket, get my lager. After I return, Jots says, “You don’t have a bracelet.” Ehhh? “They gave you a beer without getting an “over 21” bracelet?”

Auspicious Jots has ministerial authority.
Lizard Eater has beer authority.

Great lead up to the concert – an Asian guy with dreads, singing reggae. Then, Rusted Root. Auspicious Jots learns an interesting lesson about sound waves. I'll let her explain that one.

Girl Jots and I brave the port-a-potties. Did you know they put hand sanitizer in portapotties now?

Girl Jots and I make our way back from the potties, stopping to look at a swimming dog, skip, and rumpus around.

We enjoy the concert, and watching the hula hoop girls, and the encore. Come home, put kids to bed, eat cupcakes, talk with Jots and the Mister til bedtime.