27 Club

Hey.

Last night my husband told me I hadn't written in a long time.  I guess he's relatively correct.

That very same husband (my only husband, to be clear) joined the ranks of twenty-seven-year-olds last week.  (Not the famous 27 Club.)  As he's been calling me granny for about a month, it seems only fitting that he now be dubbed gramps.

For your viewing pleasure:

This is pretty much a favorite photo of the Flinkman family.  

Apparently this was at a parade after Jered had been hit in the head with a ladder.  

From what I've heard, all the little old ladies waved to him and 

exclaimed at how adorable he was, and this scowl remained glued on his face the whole time.

My apologies for the terrible quality, but you are most welcome for this gem.  Hot stuff, right?

Finally, let it be known that Jered Flinkman has never been without great style.  

  

Jered and I went on a belated birthday/fishing date on Saturday night.  Just the two of us.  It was roasting out, but still lovely.  To catch his live bait, Jered bought the most enormous worms I've ever seen in my life.  (While he caught bait, I was having my mind blown by my Dan Brown book because we were running late and he preferred to train me in the art of bait catching some other time.)

  

(Not to mention the fact that I'm not all about trudging out into the lake.

I'm just not that committed to the fishing.  Sorry.)

After getting our bait, we headed to the river.  Jered rushed me and rushed me, walking inhumanly fast down the railroad tracks.  Apparently we weren't in so much of a hurry, however, that we couldn't stop for five minutes while Jered stalked a rabbit that crossed our path.

  

Anyway, we made it to the secluded, albeit mosquito infested, clearing and got all set up just before the sun went down.  Just as we were settling into our peaceful evening together, we heard voices.

The voices seemed to be heading our way, so Jered flashed his headlamp, so they could see the space was occupado.  But they don't stop.  Two barely-twenty-year-old boys tromp right into our clearing and sit down right across from us.  

Apparently we were in their nightly "let's get trashed" place.  I thought maybe once they saw us there they would leave and go somewhere else, but nooooo.  They made themselves comfortable, started the fire, and continued to tell us their life stories and main ambition: getting wasted.  I've never felt so old and mature in my life.

We sat with them and chatted for about an hour or so, and Jered was very friendly.  He's good like that.  I mainly sat there and texted Katie to tell her how our quiet evening was going.  There we were, thinking we'd have some peace and quiet, and in come two kids who just wanted to get crunk.  Country crunk.

It wasn't so bad, mainly because Jered and I had a hearty laugh on our way home after getting ice cream cones.  Jered asked me to look back on that night any time I felt that he was being immature.  "I'm twenty-seven.  I don't have time for that," he said as we cracked up all the way into our parking lot.

He's an alright guy.  I think I'll keep him... even though he brings scary movies home for us to watch together at 11:30 p.m. on work nights, and he actually makes me wish it would get cold so that fishing season would be over.  (I am not a winter fan.)

I'll keep him because he's promised me three solid nights of no fishing this week, he did the grocery shopping for me today, DID HIS OWN LAUNDRY today, and he even offered to help me clean the apartment tomorrow.  (Sorry for the bragging, but he sometimes thinks I don't appreciate what he does, but boy, do I?!)  

More importantly, I'll keep him because I love seeing how God works in Him.  I love seeing him grow and how he helps me grow.  While that whole "iron sharpening iron" thing is not always comfortable, it sure is important, and he's good at it.

Jered, welcome to the old fogies' club.  It's not so bad, although now you can be included in the "three more years" chant.  

Enjoy your week, friends.  Talk to you later.

Aim