We've experienced some especially nasty humidity this summer. One of the effects of this type of weather (besides unintentional helmet-head and swass) is wet windows. This was taken at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. The a/c was set at 74° , so it's not like we were bein' all crazy with our Cheese Whiz. (points for the lyrical reference!)
Given that it's too hot and nasty to heat up the kitchen, I resurrected old people lunch.
In case you're not familiar with the concept, it's something I started doing with Mike and his posse (Yup, my kid has a posse. They carry Winchesters, have badges and wear chaps. ASS-LESS CHAPS. It's okay, though. They're all adults now.)
OK, I'm sorry about the ass-less chaps. It's just where I go any time the word "chaps" enters my space. It's probably a self-defense mechanism put into place because of a high school boyfriend who insisted on wearing a certain cologne by the same name. I shudder.
Back on track:
Old people lunch is a concept I was introduced to when moving to this region.
The older generation will get up in the morning and have breakfast. Then around 10am or so, they'll have a snack. They refer to this as lunch.
At noon (and rarely a moment later), they will have a meal and refer to it as dinner.
Around 3:30 or so, another "lunch" is rolled out.
Supper, a large meal consumed at 6pm, is immediately followed by dessert.
One final snack, ALSO referred to as lunch, is enjoyed about an hour before bed.
It's like living with Hobbits.
When Mike was a high school junior, I figured out that having the kids all come to the house immediately after school every Wednesday meant I could throw the contents of the fridge and pantry on the table and a) wouldn't throw away leftovers (and don't tell him); b) I would know what was going on in his life and who he was hanging out with. It's still one of my favorite things about his high school years.
Today, we had old people's lunch, family-style.
I announced it, and everybody came running.
And by "everybody," I mean EVERYBODY.
Lee, Mike and I emptied the left-overs from the fridge and contents of the pantry onto the table, set out our paper plates and sat down.
And so did Amos.
He hopped up on an empty chair and looked so expectant that we gave him a plate.
He minded his manners.
When he was finished with his turkey and cheese, he sat politely waiting for Mike to finish HIS sandwich.
I wish I had a photo of what I'm about to describe, but it only happened twice, and only briefly.
When Amos' plate was empty and he was ready for more, he would gently place his paw on Mike's arm and give him the sweetest eyes you've ever seen on a feline.
It was pretty easy to believe he was a little fur-covered human, having Sunday dinner ... er, lunch, with the family.
And wouldn't you know it? Just as we were all singing his praises, he gave me this look.
His, "I am planning something. Something only an evil genius the likes of myself could pull off. And YOU should be afraid."
And then he hopped down and left the room.
You know where I found him?
In the family room.
Sitting like a bear on the ledge in front of a window.
With his paws on the lock, trying to open it.
I've never been so glad someone didn't have thumbs.
Even someone with impeccable table manners.