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Today was gorgeous, but we spent it mostly inside, organizing and spring cleaning, and weaving into an impossibly-small-and-growing-smaller-by-the-moment house another vanload of stuff we carted down from my oldish place to the newish one. It’s not fun, it’s a process, and that’s about all you can say.

As of exactly a week ago we officially have two teenagers in the house. We celebrated a certain newly-teened girl’s birthday last Sunday, an equally gorgeous day. An afternoon of miniature golf at this familiar local landmark was an impromtu decision, although Handsome Chef Boyfriend is wont to decide things in advance and not let on this was the plan all along. Fun was had, along with liberal doses of cheating, score card altering, and fuzzy math. The Bennington Monument was my favorite hole. And I’ll also submit that the backdrop of the Green Mountains’ jaw-dropping beauty against which this miniature golf course insinuates itself is a journey from the sublime to the ridiculous. In a good way, of course: everybody needs a little kitsch now and then. (I’ll save the story of our close encounter with a pair of unfiltered miscreant boys, who also possessed exactly no respect for boundaries, for another post. Happily, HCB did not spend the night in jail, although I briefly worried he might.)

You only turn thirteen once. Oh, and by the way: the miniature golf place is for sale, should you be in the market. The obvious appeal of owning a putt-putt range is hollering at random children, Hey you little miscreants! Or just hollering at random children—mini people—in general.

But I digress. Happy Memorial Day.

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