It really was a great weekend. As it usually is. There were walks in the rain, dashes in the rain, drives in the rain. (No rain here, however, compares to my wet yoga experience in Cancun.) There were candle flickers and friends and games. Sunday, Mr. W and I drove up to my friends Vicky and Peter’s house in Pasadena and had lunch at Big Mama’s Rib Shack for some BBQ and soul food. I had been touting that place for months, so I was really glad that Mr. W enjoyed it. Then we went back to Vicky and Peter’s, let their vizslas trample us (purebred really happy and friendly red-headed doggers), and had game night so fun and intense that we forgot to eat dinner.

I’m really glad we found a couple we can play games with. I was starting to wonder whether I’d spent all that money on games in Vegas for nothing. Ooh! Ooh! I was really proud of myself for correctly answering a question in which I had to employ the Pythagorean Theorem. Vicky was really proud of me, too, because we’ve known each other since the 3rd grade and she knows math is not my forte. I asked her and Peter, “Would you guys have gotten this question?” “Mmm-hmm!” she said in affirmation. I was crestfallen, but only for an instant, because Vicky’s a pharmacist and Peter’s an aerospace engineer for NASA, so it’s no great feat that THEY could figure out the question.

What the hell game is this? you wonder. It’s Mindtrap. The question was something to the effect of, “Sid Shady is staying at a motel and he had too much to drink. In a drunken stupor in the dark, he staggered over to the circular kiddie pool in the center of the motel, went into the pool, crawled due south in the pool 6 meters until he reached the edge. From there, he turned due east and crawled 8 meters until he reached that edge, and crawled out of the kiddie pool. What was this pool’s diameter?” I know, I know, I’m proud of myself for being able to do 8th grade math. I’m pathetic.

Monday, New Year’s Day, we did a Costco run and bought lots of ingredients and I made 1.5 lasagnes for dinner. The reason there other one’s just a half is because there was only enough ingredients for 2 layers on the 2nd pan, and I like to do 3 layers. Mr. W’s daughter called it “our lasagne”, as in, “You’re gonna make lasagne? Our lasagne? The one you made last time? That was good!”, and his son ate quickly, quietly, and had seconds. These kids are supposed to be picky, so I was almost moved to tears. Or maybe they’re not as picky as Mr. W thinks they are, or maybe they just don’t like Mr. W’s cooking. … Oh, who cares! They liked my lasagne!

(And here Wilco is thinking, “Isn’t lasagne spelled l-a-s-a-g-n-A?”)