Bohemian Rhapsody.

So we have reached the time of year where I refer to myself as a “Phish widow,” for my husband has once again given in to the siren song – and flying glow sticks – of Phish.  Some people find it hard to believe, but it’s true: my beard-sporting, indie-rock-listening lover man has a secret jam-band hippie streak.  This time he’s gone for a week, so I decided to get out of town myself, hopping a bus up to Vermont to see our friends Jen and Mike this weekend.  They’ve just bought a house, a lovely old colonial full of creaky hardwood floors and hidden staircases.  I hadn’t seen their two-year-old daughter, Ella, since last August, and with baby #2 set to make an appearance next month, I figured it would be a good opportunity for some quality time with much-missed friends.

And quality it was.  I always forget just how much I love Vermont until I’m in it.  I tend to consider myself a city girl at heart, but there is something about being up there that quiets a part of me that I sometimes forget needs quieting.  It was a weekend of good company, good food, good conversations and even better photo ops.

Ella in the morning.

She’s got her dad’s curls and her mom’s dimples.

She took me on a “nature walk.”


Mike owns a pottery studio where we hung out during the day on Saturday, playing with clay and listening to the Grateful Dead.  After becoming thoroughly covered in clay dust and teaching Ella to say “you’re harshing my mellow,” there was a little thrifting,  some chocolate malts, and backyard swing-pushing/grass-sitting/bug-biting-my-booty (and also teaching her the word “booty” – oops).

So many curls.

Jen + belly.

Jen and I then spent the evening toddler-free, puttering around Montpelier.  There were burgers, obscenely posed Star Wars action figures, and plenty of girl-talking.

We are grown-ups.

Father’s Day morning was French toast and rambunctious toddler dancing, after which I hopped back on the bus and headed to my little city.  Now I’m kind of still longing a bit for mountains and farm markets and moccasins and barefoot toddlers…

Sometimes I have this fantasy where we all pack up and start our own crunchy little quasi-commune up in the mountains of Vermont somewhere.  I’d probably have to be in charge of photography or sewing or something since my agricultural and culinary skills are severely lacking, but I suppose that’s where everyone else will come in.

Funny how, once upon a time, communal living was kind of a vague threat my mom would talk about from time to time, and now it’s my own fantasy.  I guess we really do all become our parents eventually.