I love you guys. Really, I do.
I love this thing we have going. I write things. You write things back. It makes me happy. You make me happy. But I gotta tell ya - I'm having a hard time dragging my sorry, tanned, bikini-clad butt out of the rooftop pool and coming here in front of the computer and writing a post.
Not that I don't have a lot to tell you. Oh, I do. Lots. I think of a bunch of things I want to tell you as I'm gliding like a mermaid across the warm water letting the sun shimmer on my ever-browning skin, while the kids paddle around the shallow end naked and I am interrupted by bursts of uproarious laughter and shrieks of joy. And don't forget about those Strawberry Daquiri's ushered to me poolside by our bartender who is like my new best friend.
Oh yes, I'm thinking about you, my friends. I'm lovin' you. But love alone will not get you an inspired blog post.
I will, however, take this opportunity to make fun of my husband who as always makes for entertaining reading. Most of you who follow along regularly know that David has banned carbs and sugar and anything tasty from his diet. And you also know that this has been greeted with great consternation, hand-wringing, eye-rolling and mockery from me. Gratefully, he has lightened up a bit lately, although we are still working our way through the $70 worth of low-fat, low-carb whole wheat tortillas he had shipped across the continental US.
20 down. 80 to go.
But this trip has given me new insight into my husband. See, David's one real vice is ice cream and although he won't actually order an ice cream for himself, because he would have to ingest "the white death" (sugar) and this would violate the very tenants of his diet, he chooses instead to "help" the children.
And by help, I mean relieve the children of the burden of their ice cream.
Oh, he says he is just licking the edges, smoothing the drips with his tongue, inhibiting the melting, preventing clothes from being stained...His rationalizations know no bounds.
But I'm so onto him. Here's documented proof. Because that's the kind of wife I am.
The baby is ordered a cone as large as her head, which is convenient.
Someone please tell the baby to keep her eye on the cone. Her father is lurking nearby.
David swoops in "to help".
More swooping. Edie is concerned. As she should be.
Notice the ice cream is much smaller now. Poor thing.
Ah. Another child in peril.
As I write this, David leans over my shoulder. This is our conversation:
David: I had to eat it.
David: The ice cream. I had to eat it.
Kim: Really? Why?
David: Lucy needed help. I didn't like it though. It was pistachio. Very green. With nuts.
Kim: So you ate it, but you didn't like it.
David: That's right. My daughter needed help. I ate the pistachio for her.
His love for his daughters knows no bounds.
As the cone gets smaller...
And smaller. And he knows I'm taking pictures of him and that I'm going to blog about this and still...
PS: Thanks to Gillian and Saint Tiger Lily (who writes a hilariously funny blog and is now getting even funnier because she is freakin' out about her up-coming wedding and there's nothing like wedding panic to make for funny blog posts, so go read her.) for obviously getting very drunk and spamming me with naked porno pictures of Bourdain...with a bone. (Wait. Is that a bone? Or could it be...?)
You girls made my night. Now, go have another drink.