Friday, April 9, 2010

Men in Tree(house)s

Either he can’t hear the damn thing or he’s upstairs getting Blake to settle down I thought to myself. I’d just tried to call Charles at home numerous times on my way back from Marshalls. And then it hit me…he’s in the tree house! Did I mention we have a tree house?!? Thanks to talented, selfless Uncle Shayne (and plenty of Charles’ elbow grease) WE HAVE A TREE HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This evening I learned that as sure as Cinderella’s coach turns into a pumpkin at midnight, tree houses magically transform into man-caves at approximately 10pm. And that’s exactly where I found my husband, accompanied by an empty martini glass, chatting boisterously via cell phone with one Mr. Sam Edwards. There simply is no better person to converse with over vodka laced with olive juice from a tree house in your own backyard after 10pm on a Friday. There just isn’t.
I crept up the ladder and overheard, “I’m telling you man, it doesn’t get any better than this.” Glancing up at the stars through the cedar I had to admit, for the most part, he was right. But the two Goodberry’s Heath Bar Specialty sundaes I’d just carried up with me would probably change that. It was indeed about to get better.