Dear Boy,

I wonder if Wegmans caught the demise of our woodchuck on their security cameras. I wonder if they could decipher our license plate and contact us to come pick up our mess. As I sit here contemplating last night's parking lot adventure, the boys are swimming-suit-clad, dueling with the hose. We're out in the mosquitos and near-sunshine. The clouds seem to be winning and there's a nice breeze. Maybe a storm is brewing. Definitely, it is not warm enough for any type of contact with the water straight from the well, but try telling that to young, energetic boys --especially the dueling type. My visiting teachers came this morning. Just 45 minutes after I finally detached myself from the bed. I got more than ten hours of sleep last night. It was enough. I was embarrassed to invite them in; me in my dripping wet hair, boys in pajamas, Nolan asking for breakfast like he hadn't eaten yet this month, a mountain of soiled dishes, compost on the table, and the couch in the living room completely torn apart, complete with pillows on the floor. In addition, Rose Mayo came with Emmie to see our new digs and mostly to scope out where we'd be installing her cabinets. I opened the door to the back room before I remembere the state of it. Yikes. I'm sure she was thinking the same thing. But the reality is I cannot keep the tight kind of ship I dream of because I either hate housework, would prefer being outside even if it only hopes to be sunny, or I'm just plain exhausted physically, mentally, or both. Cleaning a house is less satisfying than mowing. The house re-entropies faster than grass grows. And it should be considered a miracle that anything can happen faster than grass grows out here. I think I just caught on that if I write too much here, the iPhone decides it won't allow me to observe the product of my wiggling thumbs. And that's what has happened again. Grumble. So I must sign off and leave you with this (look closely at the background for a special pookerly surprise):

Love, this lady