I’m demented.
Sometimes, while rubbing the angular, bony cheek of Bun Bun, our beloved pet rabbit, I flash back to a delicious Vietnamese restaurant where a rabbit dish was the main course. The memory still makes my mouth water—and yet, this little cutie will never find himself on a skewer. Not in this lifetime.
My left hand is wet now. Mid-typing, I noticed the familiar ripple—the water-light shimmer that can only mean one thing: motion. A thumb-sized frog was making its way across the pool, clearly unaware that it was one lap away from starring in a frog tragedy. I cupped him gently and lifted him back to the ledge, a tiny savior under the glow of lightning bug o’clock.
He’s the third frog I’ve seen tonight since settling poolside. With the next few weeks promising highs in the mid-to-upper 90s, I expect I’ll be spending many more evenings out here. Even if the bugs are finding every single inch I missed with the Off spray.
Earlier today, fully clothed, I flew down a two-story waterslide four times at Evelyn’s friend’s birthday party. Afterward, a few of us grabbed pitching wedges and tried to hit a 5-gallon bucket with golf balls. My swing wasn’t half bad—which now has me casually browsing for second-hand clubs and cheap practice balls to hit out in the field. And sucking on a mini blister.
Biggest regret of the entire house build? The pool deck color.
Out of the 10,523 decisions Dave and I made building this house, the one I most regret is picking the pale desert-sand shade for the concrete. It shows everything—rust from the chairs, red clay from shoes, wagon tire tracks, all of it. But what would I have picked instead? A darker color that holds heat like lava? On 100-degree days, I’d have been just as frustrated. Some design choices are unwinnable.
The sooner I go inside, the sooner Dave and I will start a TV show—maybe The Handmaid’s Tale or The Last of Us. But between you and me? I don’t really want to. Those shows are so intense, full of betrayal and heartbreak and complicated moral binds that make you feel like you’re the one behind the wheel. I’m not always in the mood for that kind of heaviness.
Tonight, the back wooded area is pitch black. I can’t even see the sky, which makes the fireflies stand out more than usual. Their little twinkles move slowly across the dark and feel… otherworldly. I wish you could see them.
And for all I don’t know, I really wish the U.S. hadn’t bombed Iran.
At dinner, when Tim shared the news, two of us reacted immediately—one in support, and me… not. The difference in opinion made everyone suddenly say, “Well, time to go!” in that joking, wink-wink-let’s-move-on kind of way. I was fine. I didn’t get heated, and I don’t mind that people see things differently. I just thought Israel had it handled, and we didn’t need to get involved. That’s all.
Well, I better bid you adieu. A relaxing evening on the couch next to Dave is calling my name. Au revoir.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 