I’m stooping to a new low of trying to fill up a blog post tonight, because OH MY WORD! Total lack of anything intelligent or newsworthy or even remotely witty to say. And you’d think, what with me being all well-rested tonight, after two solid nights of being in the front row seats of Yoda Joe’s obnoxious concert and not catching more than a dozen decent winks (Think, Tylenol PM! Think, Tipped over cold for seven hours! Think, Rip Van Winkle! Think, Bliss!), the gray matter would be firing a little stronger tonight, and I’d be able to pound the potatoes out of the keyboard and give y’all something worthy to read, but it just isn’t happening.
The biggest news that I have to report is that I have completely managed to lose my favorite brown T-shirt, people. It just isn’t anywhere, and I’m not really the type who disrobes in very many different places (although I did contemplate shedding layers at the boy’s football game last night, what with the heat resting on my skin like live fireballs), so the actual hot spots as to where my shirt could be are really rather limited, and I’ve checked them all. Twice. And the brown T-shirt seems like maybe it was swallowed whole by the washing machine, which frightens me, because if it eats my favorite brown T-shirt, what on earth will it eat next?
Plus, I’m still trying to recover, emotionally, from a question that the boy asked me two full weeks ago. He said, “Mom, how old were you when Walt Disney was born?” The gray hairs are popping out in a frenzy these days, people, but goodness! That one was a little tough to recover from, and it made me want to hide in a corner somewhere with a brick of dark chocolate, as I chanted over and over to myself, “I will miss this boy when he’s at Harvard; I will miss this boy when he’s at Harvard.”
And then I’ve been to Cody’s Scentsy party tonight. People, if y’all haven’t gotten on the Scentsy train and slapped a wax-melting pot down on your kitchen counter, then run! Run like the wind, Google the name, read all about it, and find your nearest dealer. The little bars of wax are worse than crack for me, and I am finding that I am powerless to stop buying them. I love the options. The options in which I can yank open the drawer in my kitchen where I hide my stash and ask myself, “Do I want to melt the Thunderstorm wax today? Or the Mochadoodle wax? Or what about Pineapple Paradise? Beach? Coconut Lemongrass? Clean Breeze? Hazelnut Latte? Vanilla Walnut? Cherry Limeade? WHICH ONE WILL IT BE??!!” I think that I may be just a day away from a twelve-step program to wean myself off of the Scentsy wax, before I knock down some little old lady on the street corner and swipe her pocket book as I shout out, “But they’re discontinuing Green Tea Smoothie this month, and I’ve got to have some more of that wax!” The only good thing about entering Scentsy Rehab is that I actually know a few friends who may be right there with me, as we learn that, for the duration of our stay, we will be completely unable to melt any wonderful-smelling waxes over our little light bulbs to give our rooms a fabulous smell, and that our husbands will strip us of all spending power at Scentsy parties.
Really. I’m going to quit buying great-smelling wax after tonight’s purchase. I can stop any time. I don’t have a problem.
And another thing. We got a piano today. A real live, genuine, bona fide, upright piano. The boy has been in piano lessons for a solid year now, and Hubs and I told him, when he first started, that we would look into buying a piano for him, if he stayed with his lessons for a year. He upheld his end of the bargain, and so we had to uphold ours, and listen, people. Pianos? Yeah, they’re not cheap! Hubs and I had not established a piano fund, so we began whispering at night to one another, “What are we going to do? Young Beethoven wants a piano, and we did promise.” But, sweet blessings! A woman from our church actually called while I was working last Friday, and this is what she said: “Yeah, I have a piano, and I just want to give it away. Could you put a little note about that on the bulletin board at the church, so that anyone who is interested could come and look at it? And I don’t want any money for it; I just want to get it out of my house.” I told this woman, “Um, can I come look at it first?” And there you go. That is the story of how we came to have our piano. The piano which arrived today. The piano which Hubs said, “Free is free, and I don’t care what the moving company charges to move it. I don’t want to lift that thing, so bleed out the American dollars, Honey, and give the movers whatever they want to transport it. Me not participating in the Great Piano Moving Event is worth every penny that it costs me.”
I made the arrangements. The moving company was coming at 1:00 today. I mentioned this to our worship arts pastor at work today, and he gasped and said, “You can’t spend money to move a piano! We’ll move it!” And more sweet blessings! Ray (our worship arts pastor) made a couple of phone calls, and we suddenly had grown-up men with grown-up biceps, who were ready and willing to haul a piano across town, and Hubs even said, “Okay, then. I’ll help move it, too.” So the movers were cancelled, and the receptionist at the moving company asked me, “You just had men volunteer to move your piano for you? That, like, never happens! What a wonderful thing.” Mmm-hmm. And the money that Hubs told me to spend with the movers? Well, I spent it on Scentsy wax tonight instead! Win-win.
So we have a piano, and listen, people. Cat 2 has decided that walking across the keys is now her favorite pastime. She won’t knock it off, and I am convinced that she genuinely likes the sound that she makes when she stomps across the black and white keys. Between the singing fire-bellied toad and the piano-playing cat, we may never sleep again in this house. I can only imagine the sleepless nights that Noah had with his herd.
And there you have it. It’s not much, but that was my day, and it would have been almost perfect, if the brown T-shirt had shown up. How does a girl lose a brown T-shirt between the dirty clothes hamper in her closet and the washing machine downstairs in the laundry room?
Happy Thursday night, y’all.