I think I feel a sinus infection coming on. I woke up at 2:00 this morning with an ache in my left cheek that was THE ache destined for infected mucus.
People, there’s no pretty way to say it. Infected mucus. That phrase just throws it out there without a coating of sugar. I suppose that I could doll it up a bit, and tone down the parental rating on this blog. I could say that I had an ache in my cheek at 2:00 this morning that seemed to indicate that all might not be well in the arena of my nose.
But then, when I actually got out of bed this morning, I had plum forgotten about my 2 AM ailments, because, apparently, I was completely recharged and healthy.
Now, though, I can feel it coming back on. That pressure behind the eyes and the nose.
The infected mucus, I’m afraid, is not far off.
Hubs, in some attempt to be helpful tonight, offered me the use of his Neti Pot. As much as I love him, I think that I’m going to play my Pass Card on that one. Hubs and I share a lot of things, but I do draw the line at toothbrushes and Neti Pots.
Our weekend was a good one this time around.
On Friday, the weather was completely non-optimal, and Small Town High School was playing some football at home. After checking the dew point and the humidity and the temperature and the wind speed and the percentage of received precipitation, I made the announcement to Hubs that I would not be sitting on metal bleachers in the wet mist and the cold breeze. Thankfully, the girls from Small Town High School were playing volleyball indoors, so that is where we opted to spend our Friday evening.
Apparently, half of Small Town’s population decided the same thing, as the gymnasium was packed to the gills with people who were entirely too wimpy to go sit outside for the football game. The poor outdoor stadium held nothing but parents. Parents of football players, who really had no choice but to sit in the non-optimal weather and cheer their sons to victory.
Hubs and the boy decided that concession stand hot dogs and nachos were their dinner items of choice on Friday, so we scrounged up some backed-with-gold, American dollars, and we hit the local high school, where it took us all of six seconds to be told, “I’m sorry. We don’t have the hot dogs tonight. Or the nachos. Or anything else that’s hot, except for popcorn.”
Our choices were candy, popcorn and sugared beverages. Hubs was powerfully disappointed, but we supported the Booster Club and bought two bags of popcorn.
And let me tell you this one thing, people: It was all I could do not to march my little paper sack back to the concession stand and announce, “Excuse me, but I have a few chunks of popcorn stuck in my salt lick.” Because really? The saltiness was thick. It was like eating straight out of a blue paper can of Morton’s Iodized Fine Grain. And then, to top that off, we decided to be thrifty and simply buy one giant Gatorade for the three of us to share. (Gatorade? Yes. Neti Pots? No way.) The only thing that Hubs and I completely forgot is this: When the boy is shoving salty popcorn into his face at record speeds and bits of the corn product are falling all around him like a snowstorm, and he needs to take a drink, you’re going to have some floaties.
Many floaties. The jug of Gatorade, in fact, will be well-stocked with bits of partially-chewed popcorn pieces, and then BEHOLD! Suddenly allowing your tongue to completely dehydrate and shrivel up from all the salt is actually preferable to having the next drink of purple Gatorade.
Hubs and I had to buy a bottled water after that.
Which we hid from the boy, so that it would remain chunk-free.
Hubs and the boy and I cheered the girls on to a solid victory in their volleyball matches. I honestly believe that those little ladies just play better when I am there in the stands, clapping and cheering my heart out for them.
And also? What with half of Small Town’s population being snuggled up in the gym and hiding from the cold mist that was happening at the football game on the other side of the parking lot, there were plenty of people for me to chat with.
Plenty. Of. People.
At one point, Hubs leaned over and pointed to a complete random stranger sitting a couple of rows down from us and said, “What about that fellow?”
I said, “What about him?”
And Hubs said, “You haven’t talked to him yet. I think he’s honestly the very last person in here that you haven’t been deep in conversation with yet tonight. He may feel left out.”
Hubs goes to games to watch games. I go to games to sometimes watch games, but mostly to talk. Hubs knew this about me before he proposed that we get married. I feel no sympathy for him.
Even the boy was caught up in the fun of the evening, as he was lured beneath the bleachers by a small group of boys who were tossing a football back and forth. And also? There were girls beneath the bleachers. Whenever the boy would race back up to the stands with his newly-made friends to guzzle popcorn-infested Gatorade, Hubs and I would ask him, “You’re not smooching anyone under the bleachers, are you?”
He was horrified. And shocked. And utterly embarrassed. And then he emphatically declared, “I’m never going to kiss a girl, because that’s just gross.”
Mmm-hmm. I’m going to remind him of this conversation in eight years.
When the girls stomped themselves to victory, Hubs and the boy and I headed home, because none of us were overly keen on sitting in that icy mist outside. I have some issues with weather. I am happiest when I am cozy. I don’t like being too hot or too cold, and I do tend to get grouchy when I find myself falling into either of those categories, so I do try to avoid them.
We came home, and crawled into bed, where I settled down with a good book, and Hubs set up a command station that would have caused NASA to hang their heads in shame and say, “We simply do not have the capabilities that Hubs has.”
He had his laptop plugged into the wall, with the headphones in. He had managed to find Small Town’s football game being televised. Then he had the the iPad propped up against the bed’s headboard, where he was randomly surfing the Internet and making announcements in a voice that was entirely too loud (thanks to the headphones being in his ears), “The Avalanche are heading to training camp this weekend, Honey! Hockey is on the horizon!” And then Hubs had his phone with him in bed, too, where he was busy texting a couple of his homies about important things.
Like Colorado’s hockey camp.
Our bed was a thriving hub of technology on Friday night.
On Saturday morning, I headed off to the church to attend Beth Moore’s simulcast and get a Word! It was just as exciting as Christmas morning!
Sister and I sat with a pack of our closest girlfriends, and we listened to Beth speak and Travis sing all. Day. Long. Sweet mercy, but it was a perfect day.
Amy bought a ticket to attend the simulcast, too, which was live out of Chicago, but then she realized that the event was on the exact same day that she had to travel to Bigger Town, USA for a birthday party for PH’s dad. She texted me that morning and said, “It breaks my heart that I cannot sit with you during Beth’s simulcast. Please text me to tell me what she’s wearing today. And send a text describing her hair. And her shoes. And let me know what Travis is wearing. And what songs Travis sings.”
And then, about ten minutes later, Amy sent another text that read, “Oh! And tell me what Beth’s message is on!”
People, I’d appreciate it if y’all prayed for Amy to get her priorities organized properly!
Travis took the stage (blue sweater vest; gray shirt; navy blue tie), and he belted out some praise songs that gave me goosebumps, and then! Then, Beth took the stage, live in Chicago and broadcast over the Internet to Small Town, USA! I smacked out a quick text to Amy: “Long black shirt, looks like a mini skirt, actually; red, frilly sweater; incredibly wonderful black jeans; black pumps. Hair poofed a bit and pulled back in a clip.” Then I tossed my phone aside and scribbled notes faster than I have since Microbiology in college.
Oh, how I loathed Microbiology. People, I know WHERE to put commas. I know WHEN to use capital letters. The semicolon is not even a challenge to me. I can distinguish adverbs from adjectives, and I know the differences between articles, possessives, and prepositional phrases. But theories on germs? And microorganisms? And itty bitty things that you can only see with a giant microscope the size of the Hubble Telescope? I cannot even begin to put into words the depths of the headaches they give me.
Beth spent the entire day speaking on Proverbs 31:26 from the New King James Version: “She opens her mouth with wisdom and on her tongue is the law of kindness.”
Sister and I and our enormous pack of girlfriends, and bajillions of other girls scattered across the US in different simulcast locations, all got a word on Kindness on Saturday. Beth made the bold announcement that we live in a mean world, filled with mean people, and told us that we must make a deliberate choice to keep our hearts warm in a world filled with cold-hearted individuals. We must choose to be kind, because women are natural born talkers (Just ask Hubs about the volleyball game on Friday night!), and we must have our mouths filled with kindness.
People, I filled page after page after page with notes, until my hand ached with writer’s cramp.
And then! THEN!!
Beth was so worked up on the stage, and she flipped a hand backward, behind her hair, and it happened!
Her hair came loose from her clip, and it started to fall forward. We all gasped in horror, because if there’s one thing Beth Moore will pray for, it’s for a good hair day. We’ve all been there. As she spoke, her hair kept coming more and more out of the clip, and it was parallel (Parallel, people!) to the floor. It stuck out of the side of her head like an enormous hairsprayed appendage, and we all gasped! I thought to myself, “NO! Cut to commercial!” Only there are no commercials in live simulcasts, so we watched in horror as her mane of blonde curls unraveled fully, until the clip must’ve given way completely, and blam! It just all fell out.
I fired off a text to Amy in horror and said, “Beth’s hair is a holy wreck! It just fell out of her clip!”
Amy shot one back that said, “Sister, are you joking? Please be joking! Beth’s hair can’t be ruined for a live simulcast! Please say it isn’t so! What can we do to help her???”
But it was so. Beth Moore was every bit as normal as you and I. She has horrible hair experience when she’s live, exactly like I face daily.
But did she stop sharing her message? Not at all! She just did some tucking behind her ear, but the hairsprayed chunk refused to be tamed, so she just let it bob up and down beside her.
I wanted to rush on stage with a brush and take her under my arm and say, “Honey, let me help you!” I adore her that much.
Even though she and I have never, ever met. (I’m pretty sure, though, that she and I are going to be next door neighbors in Heaven.)
Eventually, Beth did say that we would take a little break, and she called Travis Cottrell back up onto the stage to sing his heart out for Jesus, and when she came back, it was sweet hair perfection, once again.
And darling little Beth declared, “You might notice that I have an entirely new hair style now. Well, all I have to say is that you have to be willing to be a wreck for Jesus! We can’t worry about our hair — we’re trying to have a Bible study here!”
Bless that woman!
While I spent the entire day at the simulcast, Hubs and the boy shared a Man Day together. They had errands to run. They had projects to work on.
And then the boy went to a birthday party for most of the afternoon.
I know that I’ve posted about the new little girl in the boy’s class this year, who apparently does not get dirty. At all. The boy is most impressed with her ability to eat her lunch without spilling a single crumb of food onto herself. He is also impressed with the fact that her hair is never, ever messy. The boy has, in fact, commented on little K’s appearance several times at our dinner table since school started.
On Saturday, K turned ten. And she invited the boy to help her celebrate. And he was plum thrilled to go, because they were going to be doing craft projects and making mythological creatures. Dragons. And beasts. And fairies. (The boy skipped out altogether on the fairy-making. Although he loves the dragons, our boy is a fairy-hater.)
I have not yet met K. I have no idea what she looks like, but I have talked to her mama on the phone extensively in regards to dropping my son off at the birthday party, and I’ve been assured that they are, in fact, wonderful people. Hubs took the boy to the party on Saturday afternoon, and I gave him strict orders: “If anything looks suspicious, do not leave our one and only child there alone!”
Hubs assured me that this family did not look like axe murders or bank robbers, and that they were, in fact, very sweet people. And then he added, “And K is very cute.”
I questioned the boy extensively on Saturday night about the party, and he told me, “Mom, when Dad picked me up, K asked if she could give me a good-bye hug to thank me for coming to her party.”
I asked him, “What did you say?”
“Well, I know how I’m supposed to use my very best manners at birthday parties, so I thought it might be rude to tell her no. So I let her hug me. And, Mom, I think that K wants to be my girlfriend, but I’m not sure. But I don’t think I want a girlfriend right now. Is it just okay if I don’t have one now? But maybe I will have a girlfriend someday. I just don’t want one today.”
I exhaled all the breath that I hadn’t known I was holding. Relief, people. That’s what I felt. Pure, unadulterated relief. I assured the boy that it was probably best not to have a girlfriend in the 4th grade.
And then I made plans to homeschool him for the rest of his life.
In a shack on the top of the mountain, where there are no girls around us.
Later that night, Hubs and I watched some of College Town’s football game on TV. I went to College Town, and, people, I am proud of it. Microbiology and all, I am a College Town fan. But listen. College Town didn’t bring their A Game to the football field on Saturday evening, and they lost.
They lost by forty-five points. It was a sad, sad evening. Hubs, who did not go to College Town, but instead went to Thriving Major Metropolis for college, has always loved and adored College Town’s football team, regardless of the fact that he is not an alumni. However, on Saturday he leaned over to me and whispered, “You must be so embarrassed over the outcome of this game! I didn’t go to College Town! Nope! I went to Thriving Major Metropolis for my higher education. I don’t have to claim that forty-five-point loss like you do!”
Today, our little family of three went to church, and then we drove out to Small Mountain Town, USA, because Hubs’ grandmother was turning 90.
And Hubs’ mama threw a bit of a surprise party for her, which definitely caught her off guard, but we had the best time.
The Bronco game was on, and, since Hubs’ family has been Bronco fans since their first pioneer ancestors came out West, it was only natural that everyone would find a comfortable spot to hang out in the living room.
Hubs’ family members are such die-hard Bronco fans, I heard Brother’s Wife say to five-year-old Miss A at one point, “You must never stand in front of someone when the Bronco game is on. Stand to their side, so that they can still see the game.”
That’s a family quote which will go down in the history books as a classic, I’m sure.
And, since the Broncos beat those nasty Seahawks by a landslide, there was much cheering and rejoicing, and the 90th birthday party was called a success.
Now I’m going to go find whatever over-the-counter drugs we currently have in stock in our bathroom, so that I can crawl into bed tonight and fight off this potential sinus infection, people.
Happy Sunday night, y’all.