Summer of Awesome: Weaver Edition

Hello, readers, friends, and whiny bitches (*cough*Mom*cough*) who hound me to blog!  I am back from a little vacation, followed by a little staycation (my current favorite portmanteau), followed by some heat-induced malaise, followed by this post.  But all of this, friends, has followed a miraculous visit from our wonderful midwestern-via-east coast friends, the Weavers.

No, not those Weavers

The Weavers are the white buffalo of friendship, couple friends 1) whom both SLB and I love immensely and equally, 2) who love SLB and me immensely and equally, 3) who are fantastic as the individual sums of their parts, and 4) who are even more formidably rad as a team.  They're like the Wonder Twins of friendship, if the Wonder Twins were lawyers and spouses rather than extraterrestrials and twins.

No, not those Weavers, either.

The Weavers bookended their trip to a luxury yurt (a concept so northwesty, it's Canadian) on Vancouver Island with visits to we three kings of awesomeness here in Seattle.  We visited the zoo with Livy and took in a Mariners game (which Mr. Weaver, being from Ohio, quaintly called "The Reds Game" to our delight and derision) on Father's Day, and we exorbitantly paid our mouthy babysitter so that we could enjoy The Metropolitan Grill and The Barking Dog with our friends.  Olivia loved playing peek-a-boo with Mr. Weaver, and she enjoyed the fear in Mrs. Weaver's and my eyes whenever a right-handed batter came up to the plate threatening to wound us with foul balls.  She's a smart kid, and she knows a good Weaver when she sees one.

But those aren't them.

The best night, for me anyway and who the Hell else's opinion matters on this blog?, was their last night with us in Seattle after their return from the great white north.  After all the initial thrill and thrumming excitement of our reunion, it was comforting to find that on night three after a weeklong intermission we fell comfortably and casually into our warm old habits.  Our table at Volterra was like so many other tables in New York, Columbus, and Seattle over the years.  We fondly teased Mr. Weaver about his embarrassingly rightward political leanings, marveled at how Mrs. Weaver is the fastest talker and most creative cusser known to man, and enjoyed SLB's wry one-liners at everyone's expense while I enthusiastically spoke too loudly, clapped too much, and made too many awful jokes.  It wasn't a night out; it was a homecoming regardless of geographic location.  For others, home may be where the heart is.  But for me, home is where the Weavers are.

But not those weavers.