I’ll be at the lake for the next couple of days, spending quality time with my sister, her husband, and hopefully a pair of skis. Oh, and the Marine.

For those of you who don’t remember, a brief history: Smoking hot Marine recently out of service also happens to be good friends with my sister’s husband. We spent time together. We flirted. We went on one fabulous date. I was dying for him to kiss me, but NO. Which is fine, because I would’ve been breaking my first-date rule anyway. He was sweet, funny, HOT, and interested. And then he blew me off after I bought a new sweater for our second date (in retrospect, it was probably best, as that sweater wasn’t quite as flattering as I initially believed). Then he blew me off again. Then, there was a THIRD blowing off. So I said to my sister, “Screw the Marine.” Sadly, the statement was metaphorical.

And now he and his equally foxy brother are planning to go camping with us. With them, really, but I’ll be there too. So US. All of us, together. With fewer clothes on than usual.

WORSE, much worse, is that my body is not as bikini-ready as I’ve been hoping, largely (a key word, that) due to my consumption of, oh, every edible thing to cross my path. So maybe the Marine will think he isn’t missing much, which HE IS.

The important thing is confidence, yes? (And appropriate grooming). So I’ll just make sure to be happy and stick my butt out a lot.

I got to plant my clumps of raspberries today, and all the digging and arranging and covering put me in a VERY summery frame of mind. The sun was beaming down, tempered by a nice breeze. My spirits soared. (On the other hand, I could have just been riding high on fatty goodness from the cheeseburger I ate for breakfast. Yes, BREAKFAST. Today I wanted a bad cholesterol fix more than a flat stomach).

My time outdoors in the complete lack of snow put me in the mood to wear a dress. So I did. A pretty, airy blue sun dress that stops at my knees. It’s flattering and cute. Unless, of course, there’s a couple of stray officers nearby when you stand up to put paperwork away, and one of the aforementioned officers politely points out that the static from the STUPID office chair has caused the dress to hike up so far that your lacy pink panties are clearly visible.

In which case I think it’s safe to say that the dress is less flattering and more humiliating. I turned various shades of red and yanked it down as far as I could while making a rapid escape to the ladies room, where I hid for about ten minutes muttering under my breath about the indignities of goddamn dresses, and WHY did I wear a dress anyway? I’m not a dress person, or a skirt person. I’m a tomboy – and clearly there’s a great reason why.

It’s true that I talked about wanting to show off my new & improved tush, but I had a specific time and place picked out and was also planning on helping myself to some liquor beforehand. I cannot BELIEVE my co-workers saw my UNDERPANTS.

At least I didn’t wear a thong.

What nonsense. What complete, unbelievable nonsense.

You would think after living in Montana for most of my life, mornings like this wouldn’t be quite so surprising, but they are.

I took my niece, Lara, to the park. It’s directly across the street from where I used to live when I was a kid (how lucky was I, growing up right next to a park?), and I still love going there. Besides, it was a completely gorgeous day.

We played on the slide several times, squealing in delight as we raced to the bottom. We took turns watching each other go, and once I hooked my hands over the top and launched myself through as fast as I could. She was very impressed, and asked how I did it. When I explained, a serious look came over her face. In a very adult-sounding voice she said, “I’m just Lara. I can’t do that.” To which I replied, “You’re just Lara, and you can do anything.” And gave her a kiss.

We played on the swings and I gave her an underdog. It was well worth it, since I wiped out in the mud and she giggled hysterically. Evidently the swings can’t hold a candle to Auntie Amber making an ass of herself.

Later I took her to the monkey bars, where I abandoned all dignity and showed her how to hang upside down “like a monkey.” She immediately wanted to try it, and I held her carefully while she dangled. When she wanted to try climbing up the other side, I helped her up, steadying her from behind.

And then she slipped. She lost her footing, and I didn’t catch her in time. She fell, with her little legs spread, onto the bar. Hard. For a second she looked stunned, and then she screamed.

I scooped her up and tried to comfort her, but she was pissed. Between hiccuping screams I heard, “I WANT…TO GO…HOME!”

So off we went, with my explanations about how I’d once done the same thing doing very little to console her.When I set her down in front of her mother her first words were, “I hurt my privates.”

That’s not exactly what I wanted her to take away from the experience, you know? I felt terrible. She has so few good memories, despite being so small (she’ll be three years old in June) and I was really hoping to leave her with happy thoughts.

Instead she hobbled around pouting and giving me suspicious glances, like perhaps it was my fault the monkey bars attacked her. I still feel guilty. I hope she remembers swinging, sailing back and forth through the air, instead of falling.

What I spent time making with Tayla and my munchable niece Lara the other morning:

Yeah, the image kind of sucks. I don’t photoshop well.

We also made snow angels. Lara was skeptical that lying on her back and flailing about was something she would be interested in doing (I can’t imagine why – perhaps because her mother & I looked like a bunch of mental patients, laughing and rolling in the snow?) but eventually we talked her into it. She was way more excited about the snowball-throwing portion of the morning. She squealed and tried like hell to make her own ball while Te & I had a quick war – which I won, of course, having superior aim and speed. (Okay, so I got hit in the face one time, BIG DEAL).

NO, we didn’t throw snowballs at the kid – or if we did, it was just enough to make her feel included, and not hard. And despite the photograph evidence proving otherwise, she was wearing mittens for the duration.

PS: If snowmen – er, women – could come to life, that one would kick our butts for giving her a huge, lopsided carrot nose.

I love October. It’s my absolute favorite month of the year. For starters, it’s nestled right at the heart of autumn. There are colors everywhere, sweeps of red and gold that pop like jewels in the sun. The sky continues to be a burning blue, a sweet reminder of summer. The scent of wood smoke lingers on air that’s crisp, and just cool enough that I need to put on a light jacket before going outside, which cheers me up considerably as my windbreaker nicely conceals the extra pounds I gained toward the end of last season (STUPID CAKE).

Best of all? HALLOWEEN. It blows my mind to think that there are people in the world who don’t celebrate this lovely, spooky holiday. There’s candy! And costumes! Pumpkins to carve, apples to bob. WHERE, I ask, is the badness? I’ve long suspected it’s NOWHERE to be found. I’ve already ordered my skanky pirate costume – complete with vision-impairing eye patch (just add liquor to ensure disaster) – and am positively giddy at the prospect of stumbling around all night with one hand braced in front of me to fend off impending collisions. Given that I also ordered thigh high boots (hey, I SAID skanky), I’m thinking alcohol consumption will be at a bare minimum. Or maybe I’ll just find a tall, sexy companion who’ll keep me on my feet and away from walls.

If I were ever to get married (which I won’t), I’d want an October wedding, at the very beginning of the month, so that it could still be outside (near sunset) without people freezing their bits off. Naturally it would be in a park or by a lake, with trees everywhere, and paper lanterns so that we could all dance under the stars. In our parkas. Because who am I kidding, October at night is a time for mittens. I could be the first bride (or not?) to shake it in her wedding dress with Uggs on her feet.

Anyway. October is the best month of the year, so expect lots of gushing about it’s perfection and teeth-gnashing over Halloween plans! I’d like to know what everyone is doing as far as costumes, too.

Last night was one of those lovely summer evenings, the kind where the air was warm and the sky was smeared with clouds. I have a willow tree in my yard that sheds branches whenever the wind blows, so I invited my nieces over to make s’mores around the fire pit.

I handed out branches for marshmallows and we crowded around the fire. I kept close tabs on Lara, who’s only two and was fascinated enough to keep scooting closer and pointing and shouting, ‘Owange! Owange!’

Brianna and Acadia are fourteen & eleven, and therefore spent the better portion of the evening bickering the way sisters are prone to do. Acadia was wearing a red and blue U.S.A. shirt, which Brianna kept insisting translated to ‘Ugly Sisters of America’. I meant to discourage the teasing but to be honest I was trying not to laugh. It reminded me so much of when Heidi and I were younger, and all we did was argue and shove and create new and unique ways to get each other in trouble with our mother.

Eve, the other toddler, was content to sit and cram chocolate in her face – she refused to add graham crackers or marshmallows, perhaps not wanting to ruin the purity of a Hershey bar? Some children can’t be taught the value of a good snack food.

When it was time to distribute the children back to their various parents, we all had sticky marshmallow fingers and chocolate crumbs around our mouths and collectively smelled like a forest fire. It was one of those memories I’ll savor, a quiet night disrupted by noisy, well-loved brats on a sugar high.

Acadia: “Get out! That’s MY chair!”
Brianna, giggling: “No. Go get your own.”
Acadia, shoving her: “That IS mine. Get off.”
Me: “For god’s sake, there’s THREE OTHER IDENTICAL EMPTY CHAIRS!”
Acadia: “But that one is mine!”
Brianna: “Not anymore.”

And then I started thinking to myself how twenty-seven is really too young to have kids of my own, it’s probably best to wait until I’m forty. Or dead.

Yesterday was a great day to go the lake – so I did. I took a cooler, some sunblock, & my iPod and went to relax and get away from people for a while.

I picked a great spot with a little campfire and a tree for some shade – there was even a dirt road so I could park my car closer to the water & not have to haul the cooler (my cooler has no handle or wheels) quite so far. EXCEPT.

The ‘road’ was narrow and sort of steep, and there wasn’t any great place to park at the bottom. I considered this – and the fact that my 1997 Mercury Sable has no four-wheel drive and probably isn’t designed for anything that isn’t paved – while I manuvered my way to the bottom.

Fast forward three hours after I lazed and swam and tanned to my heart’s content. I tried to leave and discovered that the ‘rocks’ I was parked on were actually a thin layer of pebbles covering a whole LOT of sand. Driving forward got my tires stuck. So did going in reverse. I remained calm. I got out of the car and managed to dig myself out a little, then tried to leave again. Doing this only put my car closer to last little hill before the lake, and so I quit.

Now then: most of you know I don’t own a cell phone. I’m anti-technology for the most part, and some people have such rude mobile phone manners that I don’t even like looking at the damn things. In this instance, having a phone would have been good. Because instead of dialing up the sheriff’s office and begging one of my very generous co-workers to come to my rescue with four-wheel drive & a tow rope, I had to walk almost two miles through snake-infested territory (NOT an exaggeration, prairie rattlers are prominent in the area) to the Marina to use their phone.

UGH. The whole time (it actually didn’t take that long since I was really pissed at myself and therefore walking like a mad-woman) I was alternatively berating myself for being stupid & scanning frantically for sun-bathing snakes.

I waited at the Marina for the sheriff to arrive (he brought his wife, whom I love but I felt terrible because I’d obviously interrupted their dinner), and then we drove back to the site of what I’m referring to as the ‘unfortunate incident’. He looked at the location of my car (and probably all the ruts I made trying to get out) and then at me, and his expression was one of utter disbelief.

His wife asked if there was anything she could do to help, and his response was: “Yeah. Pray.”

It seems funny now, but at the time I was thinking, good idea. The short version: He got stuck trying to unstick me. And then had to call for back-up (from the same officer who had to help me break into my house a few nights ago after I lost my keys, and when HE got there he looked at the car and then at me and said, ‘If it isn’t one thing it’s another, huh?’ YES. IT IS).

Basically, it took TWO HOURS and TWO vehicles to get my car back on the road where it belonged. I was so tried and dirty by the time I got home that I showered and collapsed into bed. Ask me if I’ll ever try something that stupid again – on second thought, don’t, because the answer is probably YES.

Guess what?

I am an amazing human being. (Pause for applause, applause). Know why? Because I can water ski! I was like a pro, up on the first try without any effort – and I managed to stay up, despite drifting back & forth over the wake and the curving of the boat. I’m sure I looked spectacular, wet and strong and invincible!

And, as Heidi pointed out, I obviously do not need accolades of any sort; I’m my own best cheerleader.

Our brother Joel was there, and he did a great job too, considering he’d never been skiing before. He had the best wipe-out; we watched him fall forward and face-plant in the water while his back leg kicked up. It looked like he knocked himself in the back of the head with the ski. Luckily, he didn’t actually, and no one was injured. (Except, of course, me. Being the always graceful person I am, I fell forward into the boat after climbing up the ladder and bruised my left ankle. It’s a pretty, royal purple color.)

We also went cliff diving jumping & had chicken wars – that game where you climb onto someone’s shoulders in the water and try to knock the other team down before they drown you? I admit to feeling awkward about being on my younger brother’s shoulders, but mostly because I was afraid I would break his neck or something since he’s about twenty pounds lighter than I am. Damn teenagers and their non-stop metabolisms (oh, FINE, the truth is I’m overweight. And you can bite my fat ass).

Another bonus: my tan! It’s actually becoming a tan, finally! Instead of a darker shade of white, I appear to have turned a light, toasty brown color. Not even close to almondish, but still brown! Maybe sort of like muddy water? ANYWAY. The point is, I’m golden. Golden and blissfully happy and exhausted.

Here’s to many more days like this one before the summer ends.

My brother-in-law is a pretty great guy. For starters, he’s crazy about my sister. He’s also funny, charming, & thoughtful. But in my opinion, and bowing to my materialistic nature, I believe the BEST reason to love him is because he has a boat, skiis, and a willingness to share with others.

Such as me.

I had such a great time yesterday afternoon/evening. I met my family out at the lake and we took advantage of the sunny, perfect weather. We all went water skiing (or at least they did, because I couldn’t get my lopsided, toe-crossed ass out of the water for more than five measly seconds – the driver of the boat kept shouting that I should pull my knees into my chest and relax and I kept doing the splits and swallowing lake water – not that any of this kept me from stubbornly trying to do better multiple times).

I’m proud (and more than a little jealous) to admit that Heidi is awesome. Or at least she stayed upright and mobile until she chose not to, thus cementing her continued status as the better athlete. The jerk.

When the sun went down we lit a fire and made s’mores. Unlike my sister, I have no patience, and so I always burn the marshmallow to a crisp rather than make it golden on all sides. We drank a few beers (Bud Light Lime, to you I say: EWW) and told some bad jokes.

It was one of those great summer days, the kind that linger in your memory and make you smile when you’re stuck at work, organizing files. I hope everyone gets at least one day like it before the summer ends.