This morning, dh recounted a dream he had last night. He was dressed for work and getting into his car when a miniature buffalo (that apparently was my pet) turned his rear to dh and "let loose" on him, getting all over his clothes and car. I'm no psychologist nor Joseph in the Bible, but this dream was easy to interpret. Subconsciously, dh felt shat upon when being left alone when the kids and I took a five day trip.

Now, before you feel too sorry for him, a dear friend's family did much of the work while we were away, and dh, in fact, did the work cheerfully. He accomplished much while I was away, so much so that I've threatened to leave on little trips more often. I'm sure he truly didn't mean that my little animal farm here was shooting him manure, but I suppose I should pay a little attention to his subconscious.

Blogs, I am told, are like the newspaper. You must write each day and never miss an issue in order to not lose readership. You are not, however, supposed to tell people when you are on a trip for security reasons. I fully intended to have blogs pre-written and scheduled ahead of time, but getting ready for even a small trip for me is the equivalent of preparing for a foreign invasion. So, I left you, my poor blog readers, hanging.

Before the girls were younger, it was even harder. I remember dh once asking, as we prepared for a trip "What was there to do? You just put a few clothes in the suitcase and leave." It is a sign of my control that he lives still. It has gotten easier as the girls have gotten older, and can help pack and get the homestead ready for our departure.

So, leaving our home in the care of friends and dh, we traveled to Rochester, New York for an "International Friendship Concert" in which Lauren played the second movement of the Italian Concerto. In between her practices, lessons and rehearsal, we explored that town and Pittsford, NY. Lauren played beautifully. From there we traveled to Niagara Falls for a day, and then to dh's family farm for a night. It is good to be home.

Photo taken along the Erie Canal

Death by Tostito

My dh almost killed me tonight. It probably wasn't on purpose. We were eating at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Not mine? For me, Mexican food and "favorite" are an oxymoron. It may be that I'd gotten there earlier than he and I was on my second Corona. It may be that he knew that and took advantage of the fact.

A waiter was serving an nearby table. My dh, who, as those who know him know, grows not much grass on his playground, that is, he might have had more hair at one point in time, remarked that the Mexican waiter had more hair on his forehead than he had on his whole head. At the moment I looked up, I'd just taken a large bite of a tortilla chip.

The man had a hairline centimeters from his eyebrows which, perhaps it was the Corona, struck me as funny. As I laughed suddenly, I felt that feeling we've all had before, tortilla chip in the windpipe. Alternating laughing with coughing, my eyes began to water and dh asked if I was alright. I tried drinking my water. No effect. It was in there good and I coughed and coughed. People were starting to stare. It's then you realize you'll have to cough until you make that retched retching noise like you're going to barf and ruin everyone's enjoyment of their refried beans. I was able to mask it, and somehow coughed the boulder-sized (by now) chip into my esophagus, where it merely tickled rather than choked. I continued to cough and cry until I finally got it into submission. See why I don't like Mexican food? It can kill you.