Camp Farm Suite

While she was away at camp, Madeleine learned to knit! I am so incredibly jealous. However, I suppose I should want more for my children than I ever had for myself. It's the American way or some such thing. (And. What's stopping me from learning to knit? Only my own bumbling self.)

So how have the Suite kids been spending their summer?

Chilling out on a blanket in the back yard:

Doing their best to fill out a bathing suit:

Getting good and terrified at the stories told around the fire:

Last night we attended the EGE's fastpitch softball game. A man and woman next to me in the stands went on and on about "Number 15" and his swing, and his pitching prowess, and even analyzed his major league stance. I mostly just eavesdropped, which is always fun. But then I couldn't help interjecting to say that Number 15 was indeed the EGE, the Eng-Gen-Eer, otherwise known as my husband. I didn't want them to be all embarrassed about their compliments when he came up in the stands after the game and swept me off my feet for a kiss after swinging the girls around in jubilation over the win. That's how romantic he is. Or into baseball. Whatever.

So then the nice lady pointed out her son on the team, a cuter-than-heck 21-year-old boy who plays shortstop exceedingly well. He's also single, attending the University, and working part-time. Sounds like a winner. (Not that I have any matchmaking tendencies, but if you know any nice young girls, I could arrange a casual meeting.) So then the 40-something mom went on to mention that she had wanted to play on the team but had been told by the coach that the team wouldn't take any women over 35.

!

The sexism! The age-ism! The gall!

And the "coach" is a woman! And her husband works full-time for us! Not to mention, it's our company name on the t-shirt. This morning I was combing the employee manual for a way to make this against policy.

Evidently I am not welcome to play on the company softball team. Not that I wanted to. I actually make a point to wear open-toed shoes so I don't get roped into playing. But if I wanted to, I'd be too old. And this is chapping my hide just a little.

More than a little. I bit my tongue with the nice lady in the stands, but my internal monologue is still blabbering on. And this is why blogging might not be the best use of my time this morning. Must. stuff. the. rant.

Can't all the campers just get along?