I can't read

I've blogged before about my inability to read for pleasure after all these years as paid-for copy editor.

So my friend Laura, when I asked for advice for a salacious, easy read for this year's beach week, recommended "The Other Boleyn Sister." "I can't read modern fiction, much less boring, historical fiction," I replied. "Trust me," she said, "It's dirty and a page-turner."

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Steve left the fabulous beach house, with its pool, hot tub, putting green, pool table, ice machine, elevator and four refrigerators on Monday evening to finish up our business getting his green card with the Department of Homeland Security.



I played with our friends that night, then retired to our room and the jacuzzi tub to start reading my book. And I stayed up way later than I normally would because I couldn't put it down. Oh, those lusty Tudors.

The next morning, I joined the kids for breakfast, then left them to their own ways: Some were playing Wii bowling, some played Scrabble and some retreated for their rooms for naps. I put my bathing suit on, wrapped my midsection with a beach towel and settled into a chair under the umbrella by the pool to continue reading.

Mr. Sweetypants drove up in Judy Jetta not long afterward. He pulled around Dee Are's parked, year-old Prius and jumped out of the car, beaming at me and saying "Hello, baby!" He went to get his stuff out of the back seat without realizing Judy was rolling backward.

Imagine the following in sloooooow motion: I yelled, "parrrrrrrrkkkinnnng brrrrraaake," then leapt from my chaise longue and ran toward the gate, shedding my towel as I ran. I looked over at Mr. Sweetypants as he jumped behind Judy, trying to stop her on her way down the driveway.

That stupid gate was magnetic, with no clasp for opening, and I kept screaming "parking brake" as I fumbled to open it. Just as I figured it out, I heard the thud behind me. I rushed out the gate, the thought of discovering my husband squished between two cars making my heart nearly explode.

Mr. Sweetypants was safe and sound. Judy and the Prius, unfortunately, had experienced a violent kiss. Judy was only scraped, but the Prius's bumper was completely caved in.

As Mr. Sweetypants stood in the driveway calling Geico, I had to go knock on the napping Dee Are's door. "There's been an accident," I told her. And she was totally cool. She even offered to settle the cost between friends so our premium wouldn't increase, but we'd already reported it. And, bless her, for all our apologies, she kept assuring us, "Nobody got hurt, it was an accident."

It was only after we'd spoken to the insurance agents and been granted our friend's forgiveness that we were able to celebrate Mr. Sweetypants' wonderful news:

His green card was approved!