There has been the teensiest bit of complaint (Rebecca) that SOBO was not getting its due here in blog-land.

So in the evenings after work we gather in someone's yard. Bug spray is propped on the porch. The kids rush through their homework to eek out the last few minutes of sunlight in a quick game of football. Grown-ups complain about the company they had over the weekend or tell a funny story about something that happened at work that day. I sit in the middle of this watching Neel throw the football and commiserating with Jean, soaking it up and stalling dinner for as long as I can. Who wants to go inside?

Finally I capitulate. Slopply lasagne and early bedtimes urge me toward the house. As I'm crossing the street, back to the little gray house, here comes Rebecca, like a fairy-tale image of herself. She's beskirted and aproned and has a tray of crab dip (homemade, of course) from leftover crabs, leftover beer and crackers for us. "Come on! I thought it was happy hour!" she calls to me.


There's nothing to do but an immediate about-face and linger a little longer. (The crab dip was excellent, by the way, maybe she'll leave the recipe in the comments for us.) Later on, as evening was drawing in, I'd been back across the street for a third time. Dinner was finished, the dishes were done and jammies were on. I ran into Tyler on the way home from rowing from his dad.

"You know Lauren, I was thinking, we haven't had that first gin and tonic of the summer yet."

"My god Tyler. You're right."

"Well, let's pick up some Number Ten and get on that."

That's what it's like in SOBO. That's how things are around here.