One of the best things abut camping is the food…definitely worth rolling out of the sleeping bag for! {Okay, who am I kidding. My parent’s camper is like sleeping in a hotel…but this breakfast dish is something that would get me out of a sleeping bag for sure}.
This kid loves the beach and was nice enough to sit for a few {hundred} pictures. It helped that he found the video function on my camera, so as long as we made an adequate amount of videos at the beach, he was happy to stand still a moment and pose.
Rachel Pastan’s first novel is pure pleasure-a crisp and witty page-turner for smart women everywhere. The Rubin daughters are three eligible sisters from an affluent suburban Philadelphia family whose well-meaning but domineering mother is single-mindedly determined to see them all happily married.
The book opens at a Sunday brunch where Dr. Rubin, mother and obstetrician, is scheming to introduce her eldest daughter, Alice, to a doctor who is almost too good to be true. But why hasn’t Alice been able to find a husband on her own? Is her sister Isabel, the real heroine of the story, genuinely happy in her marriage? And is Tina, the youngest of the sisters, as shallow as she seems, or is she something worse than shallow?
Reminiscent of the work of Laurie Colwin, This Side of Married is a brilliant, ironic domestic comedy of manners. Full of surprises, yet filled with feeling, This Side of Married is witty, intelligent, and utterly delicious.
A fresh and hilarious debut novel about commitment, competition, and the occasional joys of unencumbered sex, for readers of Pride and Prejudice to The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing. Sometimes being left in the lurch is the best thing that can happen to you. Alison Hopkins’s live-in boyfriend, Tom, goes out in the middle of a dinner party to buy a jar of mustard, then calls her from a pay phone to tell her he won’t be coming home. He’s left her for his beautiful ex-girlfriend Kate Pearce, the kind of woman about whom men say rhapsodically, “She’s like a drug.” Alison had always feared that Tom’s looks would land her in trouble–having a handsome boyfriend is like having a white couch, an invitation to disaster. But if Tom isn’t her Big Love, who is? Alison embraces her freedom, buys “hiking boots and lacy underwear,” and sets out on a stroll down the midway of love. From an eye-opening fling with her new boss to an unexpected proposal from an old friend, Alison samples love’s many varieties–all the while talking obsessively with her girlfriends, comparing stories, and working through a lifetime of conflicting beliefs about trust, faith, and commitment. In spite of (or perhaps because of) her neuroses, Alison finds a surprising kind of triumph–and an irrational faith that the Big Love may be nearer than it appears. Sarah Dunn wrote on the staff of Murphy Brown, Veronica’s Closet, and Spin City before leaving TV to write this novel. She lives in New York City.
Images and Descriptions courtesy of PaperbackSwap.com.
Use to be that this number of books would be my weekly reading list back in the days before work and other committments. This year I’ll be lucky to finish them by the end of summer. That’s part of the beauty of the swapping site….read at my leisure, re-post, and re-order new books.
After what could possibly be the longest return trip in my short history of Arkansas homecomings, I have made it home in one piece. A bit tired and grumpy, but home none-the-less.
I had an awesome time in Michigan…despite not crossing off some of the most important t0-do items on a long, long list {To Melly and family and Heather, I’ll catch you guys next time!!}.
The return hasn’t been so pleasant thus far, however. I returned to a dead car. Dead. Dead. DEAD. I couldn’t even get to work. I think my poor little blue car has started the long, spiraling journey to {breaking news…Thom just called and the alternator is shot}. What was I saying? Oh yea. I think my car is in declining health. Or in other words: My car is old and it sucks and its only a matter of time before I’ll have to send it to the ole junkyard in the sky.
And. It’s hot. 92 and humid as heck.
There are a ton of photos and stories I want to share from my trip home. I’ll try to pop in here and get them posted when I can. I’m back to work in the morning and Thom’s kids are visiting so I’m sure I’ll be pretty busy for the next couple of weeks.
Hope y’all are well and feeling fine!
I can’t even begin to describe what a good time I had camping with the fam. I love the beach at Meinert Park and the Pines Campground. We’ve been going there only a short while…5 years or so….but it has made me fall in love with the shoreline and the big lake.
My childhood camping experiences took place mostly at Rose Lake Park in Leroy, Michigan. We would head up soon after school let out and spend quite a bit of the summer with Grandma & Grandpa K.
I loved that we always camped at the same site. Loved that we saw the same faces {young & old} from year to year. Loved that the park seemed to never change.
That is, until I became a teenager. I started cheerleading and spending summers close to home instead of with my grandparents. As my trips north to Rose Lake became fewer and further between, the park seemed to change more and more each time I did get a chance to visit.
Our “usual” campsite was no longer convenient for my grandparents and they moved further away from the lake. Once familiar faces could no longer be found amongst the campers {a lot of my summer friends were probably like me-too busy to make it up for the summer}, and the park underwent major cosmetic upgrades {paved roads} that, for me, totally changed the look and feel of my childhood campground.
I haven’t been back quite a while. 10 years, maybe? I miss it. I miss spending warm summer nights sitting at the campfire with my grandparents. I miss fireflies and stargazing. I miss giggly girlfriends and cute boys and the innocence of youth. I miss the anticipation of possibilities.
And I miss
the ability to tan so easily.
And long legs.
And short shorts.
Oh, and ice cream cones without the guilt.
I don’t miss the awful bowl cut.