And I didn’t put a blog post up last night, but probably no one other than my parents even noticed!
Parents make great blog followers!
I had good intentions of writing a rather lengthy post last night. I dashed off to yet another movie with a pack of my girlfriends last night, and I brought the camera, and we took crazy pictures, and only Katie and Cody yelled out, in unison, “My hair looks awful! No pictures!” But I pressed on, and Katie and Cody were documented with my Canon, bad hair night and all.
Only…hello! Cody’s hair looked great, because she is a slave to the products, and she knows how to use the products to achieve Hair Glory, and Katie had on the cutest ball cap ever, which made her look like a professional golfer, so you know…
…they both totally lied about their hair issues.
At any rate, eight of us (yes, eight girls!) took up an entire row at the theater last night, as we saw The Blind Side, and I am not even embarrassed to tell you that…hello! I cried! But I guess that’s nothing new, because I’m the one who cries in Hallmark commercials. The only one who can actually out-cry me is my neighbor, Amy. Amy and I can generate enough tears together in a sappy movie to use a full box of Kleenex and a roll of Bounty paper towels. It is, in fact, best that Amy and I see Nicholas Sparks’ movies WITHOUT one another, because we turn into a soggy mess.
But I digress.
Which is, you know, what usually happens.
I had grand plans of writing a Thanksgiving post last night, in which I confess all the reasons that I am thankful for my girlfriends, and I was going to post pictures and everything, but then, somewhere in the middle of a long string of football plays in the movie last night, I started to get a headache.
A headache at the back of my neck, which is never a good thing.
By the time we walked out of the theater, I knew that I was destined for a migraine. By the time that I got home, I had ten minutes before it blew up on me with a blinding force, and I had to get into bed. I crawled under the covers, squeezed my lips together to fight off the puke that was knocking at the door, and closed my eyes, hoping to sleep it off, which is the only way I can ever get rid of a migraine.
And then Hubs and the boy were downstairs in the family room, watching Wild Hogs, and the boy was laughing hysterically. And when I say “laughing hysterically,” I mean the big belly laughs that can only erupt out of a nine-year-old. The kind of laughter that usually leaves the laughee with wet drawers. The kind of laughter that is absolutely contagious, where everyone else around the boy starts laughing, not because they SAW something funny, but because the boy is laughing so blasted hard. Rest assured, I was worried. I know that Wild Hogs is rated PG-13, and the boy isn’t usually allowed to watch shows with that rating (there were, of course, exceptions for one of the Star Wars flicks, and Spiderman, and a Harry Potter episode). So there, with my migraine pounding my skull into dust, I just crossed my fingers that Hubs would know when to shut the TV off.
Only the laughter was going on and on and on. The boy was laughing so hard, I began to worry that he wasn’t taking enough oxygen in to his brain. And I found myself laughing, migraine and all. And the giggling that I was doing, which was induced by the boy’s hysterical giggles, was rocking my head to levels of pain that I didn’t want to feel.
And then, bless his heart, I heard Hubs say, “Oops! That’s enough!” And the TV went silent. And the boy asked, “Why’d you shut it off?” And Hubs replied, “Um, because…because it’s bedtime, and because some parts in some shows aren’t meant for little boys.”
Good call, Ref. I don’t care what the crowds are shouting at you. Good call.
Hubs put the boy to bed, and I was out like a light.
And then, as happens every time I have a migraine in the evenings, I woke up last night at 11:30, and I was wide awake, people, until 3:30 this morning. Wide-stinking-awake. So honestly, although the pain is gone, I do feel like I’ve been plowed over by a farmer’s tractor in high gear.
And I didn’t get my post written last night, in which I tell the world (or the 3 people who read this blog) how genuinely thankful I am for my girlfriends. But I am. They lift me up; they laugh with me; they cry with me; they know when a cup of Starbucks is needed.
Yes, I am thankful for my girlfriends. And I am thankful for the laughter that my little boy can generate. And I am thankful for my family — even my sister, who once threw my Chicago 17 cassette tape against the bedroom wall and smashed it into nothingness. She’s a good egg, my sister. I’m thankful for Hubs and his family — even his youngest brother, who brings new meanings to the word goofy.
In fact, this story begs to be told. Hubs’ brother lives a ways out of town. And Hubs’ brother was in town, with MOST of his hockey equipment two nights ago, and was ready to head to his game. Only Brother realized that he was missing a vital piece of hockey equipment. It’s a rather crucial piece to have, too, in a hockey game. This piece of equipment rhymes with “up.”
What rhymes with “up?”
Pup? Sup? Cup?
CUP rhymes with UP!
So Brother called Hubs and told him about the piece of hockey equipment that wasn’t in his bag, and how he didn’t want to drive back home to retrieve said piece of hockey equipment, and could he…well…just stop over and borrow HUBS’ piece of hockey equipment? And Hubs said sure; no problem.
And this made ME laugh like the little boy did last night at Wild Hogs. I laughed until my sides hurt, and said, “Wow! Can you share THAT?” And Hubs said, “He’s my BROTHER!”
And, as much as I love my girlfriends, I’m not sure, Ladies, that I’d share things like that with you. So clearly, Hubs loves Brother far more than I love any of y’all.
A wee bit early.