"It feels like one of those mattresses where you can bounce a bowling ball but the glass of wine doesn't spill." - Shawn, Psych

The Boy, rising from the bottom of the pool like some Leviathan of the deep. Don’t worry, he’s really small and doesn’t eat people, or anything

I woke up yesterday, late. It was my job to take The Boy and Pugsley off to a birthday party. Birthday parties are nice, in that what parent doesn’t want to spend a Saturday morning around crowds of yelling, crying, keening, careening kids instead of sleeping in doing work around the house.

As I went outside, I had the most curious discovery: it wasn’t a million degrees outside, in fact I didn’t think the outside ambient temperature could sustain nuclear fusion, unlike most other days.

I could leave the tinfoil radiation shield inside.

I know, I know: I prattle on endlessly about the unceasing, scorching heat of Houston. But, really, it is hot here. I have run the air conditioning in our house in EVERY MONTH of the year. So, I thought I would tell of one of the few days I go outside and don’t feel like my skin is melting off.

I promised The Mrs. that she could sleep in and relax while I took The Boy and Pugsley off to the birthday party.

My alarm went off. I began to calculate in my head when I would need to get up so I could make the party on time. “Okay,” I thought, “a half-hour to drive there, fifteen minutes to pick up the present, fifteen minutesssssss toooooooo gettttttttt zzzzz square root, snort zzzz.” This was all followed by a dream that I had to go back to high school because I’d left my pants there and they can’t award an official diploma if your pants are still in your locker. That’s where I left my brown corduroys!

Snooze alarm goes off, and again I repeat my rudimentary attempt at mathematics. Then, on some snooze attempt, I actually look at the clock, and realize that I was going to be late, unless the Wildermobile was retrofitted in the airport parking lot with some sort of hyper-velocity warp drive.

I jumped out of bed, ran and got The Boy and Pugsley moving. The Mrs. got up and assisted me as I Google®-mapped the party location, and we were off. (I must admit that the whole Google©-mapping of the location was built upon numerous forays off into the void of Houston, where you just can’t guess your way there, like you could in Fairbanks – there are no moose to follow here.)

Since this was a third-birthday party, and Pugsley is three, I let him pick the present. I even think, at some sort of rudimentary level he realized he was picking out a toy for another boy, since he hasn’t been pining to get in my trunk to get the toy back out. (He’s had enough of the trunk. And enough of duct tape.)

We got to the party and I talked to some friends while The Boy and Pugsley scampered dutifully amongst the blow-up bouncy-houses that was the primary feature of the party palace. After ingesting soda, cake, and ice cream (Pugsley turned down the pizza as too “healthful”) it was time to go. In total, I think Pugsley had eaten the equivalent of sixteen cups of sugar. I ate my weight in pizza. Just helping the hosts not to have to take it home, right?