From the Rosenberg Family Farm *small raised bed

When your privacy hedge threatens the lives of your tomatoes and peppers. (It's a bold one, that hedge.)

Everyone

Everyone loves Mr. Rosenberg.

A Porch and a Puzzle

I couldn't find Mr. Rosenberg this morning. I finally discovered him on the back porch with the dogs, starting a puzzle he bought for himself at the Vatican gift shop. I challenge you to find a better way to spend a warm Monday morning in April.

You Guys

How is this even real? I can't take it.

Naptime

These guys, you guys.

Breaking it Down

When Mr. Rosenberg returns home from the outside world, it's never good when he starts a sentence with:

"Hey, you remember that song--?"

"No."

"'Valerie' by Steve Winwood?"

"Did you hear it at Trader Joe's?"

"Rite Aid. Remember it?"

"Not really."

"It's all synth-y? It goes like this--"

"Please, honey. We're all still recovering from the Home Depot 'Hollaback Girl' situation."

"No wait listen. Valerieeeeeee..."

A Room With a View (My View)

The people and animals in the house know that the big chair in the living room is my chair. It's my base of operations. It's where I'm sitting now. From the big chair I can see easily see two-thirds of the house at a glance, living room, kitchen, dining room, front door and front window. The view out the front window is our yard, the sidewalk, the street and the neighborhood beyond. Lovely. Bucolic, in a severely suburban way. I am the monarch of all I survey. Obviously.

And, then the sign happened.

I sat down in the big chair with my coffee, early Sunday morning. I looked outside the front window and my gaze was instantly met with a hideous, yellow sign advertising "We Buy Houses" with an 800 number. The sign was on the telephone pole across the street, hung high to discourage removal. Destroying the view, my lovely view. No. This would not stand.

CUT TO: Mr. Rosenberg (tall - 6'4" Mr. Rosenberg) on a step stool attempting to pull down the sign but cant't quite reach it.

CUT TO: Mr. Rosenberg on a ladder he's dragged across the street, attempting to rip the (extremely sturdy) sign down with his bare hands.

CUT TO: An increasingly irritated Mr. Rosenberg attempting to pry the (awful, dreaded) sign off of the pole with a hammer. My coffee and I watched from the front window but pretended we didn't.

CUT TO: A now incensed Mr. Rosenberg (quietly incensed, it is Mr. Rosenberg after all) attempting to destroy the sign with a wrench and hammer combination.

The wrench/hammer/curse words combo did the trick. The sign was wrestled successfully into one of our garbage bins.  Victory was ours.

And forty minutes later, peace is restored to the kingdom. (The suburban kingdom.)

Best Part of the Night

You know them, you love them, it's another Business Trip Weirdo FaceTime Call with Mr. Rosenberg. You're very welcome.

Smiles Everybody, Smiles

These two seem all right.

13

Thirteen years ago today, Mr. Rosenberg and I drove to Vegas and got hitched. It was a good idea, followed by a bunch of other good ideas, and a couple of weird ones, and I'm all for all of it.

The Romantic and The Realist

"It's a heart, for our anniversary," I said, and took a picture.

"Where? Are you sure? I just see dirt," said Mr. Rosenberg. Opposites attracting and all that.

Today is Mr. Rosenberg's Birthday

It's this guy's birthday. We are celebrating around here because we like him tons. Just tons.

It Went Like This

On Sunday, Mr. Rosenberg received a catcher's glove and mask from Bob for Father's Day.

On Monday, Bob practiced pitching to Mr. Rosenberg. Mr. Rosenberg used the new glove but did not wear the mask. Mr. Rosenberg took a hard curve ball to the left cheek bone. They whole family spent the evening at the ER while Mr. Rosenberg received a CT-scan, ruling out a concussion.

On Tuesday, Mr. Rosenberg had a non-cancel-able DMV appointment to have his photo taken for his new Driver's License/ID. His swollen and bruised face will appear on this new card until 2028.

On Wednesday, Mr. Rosenberg had to answer the question, "What happened to your face?" approximately 47 times as he walked through his office. As he reports it, this story always ends with, "...because I'm dumb."

Guilty, Party of One

Me: Hey! Did someone eat part of the red throw blanket?!

Mr. Rosenberg: Sorry, yeah. I did.

Bedroom Floor Still Life

8/15

Mr. Rosenberg and I, Keeping the Romance Alive

We make a point to share all of the important things. 

Sometimes (Always) FaceTime With Mr. Rosenberg is (Really) Freaky

"Are you calling from The Death Star?"

"Just my weird hotel room."

"Looks so cheerful. And like you're just a bod-less floating head."

"I'm just tired."

"Too tired to have a body?"

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Spoons

These two.

Winter is Coming

"Baby? Sorry to wake you up so early but how do I get that plastic thing to stick on my face?"

"Spirit gum."

"Spirit what?"

"Gum. Spirit gum. It's what they use to stick special effect prosthetics to your face."

"Do you have that?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I'll get up."

"I'll make you some coffee."

This is how Thursday began.

The company where Mr. Rosenberg works make a gigantic deal out of Halloween. The different teams pick themes and then characters are assigned. There are group performances and themed workspace decor. This year Mr. Rosenberg's team picked Game of Thrones and he was assigned the giant, scarred, assassin, Sandor Clegane - a man known as The Hound. The celebration was today.

The Hound

Some weeks back, Mr. R purchased and $8 "Hound" facial-burn-scar rubber prosthetic. I ordered a Party City knight costume and plastic sword for him online. We hauled out the crappy witch wig left over from Bob's Black Sabbath themed 7th birthday party. The components were assembled.

The knight shirt was too small. Mr. Rosenberg walked out of the bedroom trapped in the knight shirt with his head stuck inside and his arms sticking straight up over head. We yanked him out of it and cut the back of the shirt to fit. I snipped handfuls of weird plastic hair off of the wig and slimed it up with cheap styling paste that Bob keeps for when he wants to smooth his hair down. We used mascara to turn Mr. R's grey whiskers brown. With no way to adhere the plastic scar to his face, I stapled the scar to the skull cap of the wig.

"You've never looked more Jewish."

"Perfect."

"Kind of like Harry Shearer in Spinal Tap."

"Totally what I was going for."

"I recommend you take your sword out of your belt before you try to get in the car."

"'It gives me joy to kill people.'"

"Have a good day!"

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Nap Guys

Saturday afternoon naps.