In the words of the Decemberists, “And we’ll remember this when we are old and ancient, though the specifics might be vague… July, July, July! Never seemed so strange.”
An Irish street fair in Kansas City isn’t legitimate unless it has a performance from The Elders, KC’s (and, let’s face it, the world’s) favorite Celtic-rock band. Elders concerts can only be improved with the presence of the most hardcore of fans (Carl) and overpriced Guinness.
Sunday night dinners at the Manor, in which I took on the role of She-Who-Holds-Pots in assistance of everyone else who actually possesses some talent in cooking. (Special appearance from little sister Julia and practically little sister Emma during our most recent grill out.)
Our perfect Third of July party, in which we celebrated the accomplishments of ‘Merica that we love: overturning DOMA and Prop 8 (rainbow cake!), immigration reform (flags from around the world, and chips and salsa for Mexico), and Obama (because thanks Obama). Just add homemade lanterns fastened by baby food jars and twine onto trees, N’Sync jam sessions, and, of course, mandatory sparklers:
Sayonara July, and hey-o August.