The Cattle Drive at 3 AM Went Well. Thank You For Asking.

First of all, I have to tell you that Hubs and I (Long ago!  Oh, so very long ago!) wrapped up our marathon-viewing of Arrested Development. We watched every episode in existence, back-to-back, and nearly sobbed in devastated grief when the final episode had finished playing itself out on the laptop in our bedroom, because OH MY!  We laughed ourselves plum silly over that series.

Which is another issue altogether.   Hubs — he is a die-hard TV-watcher.  Me?  Not so much.  Or rather, I didn’t use to be.  I think y’all know where Hubs stands with his Avalanche boys (Family, people!   Hubs calls those boys all by name and wants to know if I can just send out a card whenever one of them has a birthday!), so missing a hockey game just isn’t an option in Hubs’ grand Book of Options.  And the Broncos, you know, are a passion of his, although they only suck up our time on Sunday afternoons, with an occasional Monday night game when the planets are all lined up perfectly and the networks decide that YES!  YES, THE DENVER BRONCOS WOULD MAKE A GOOD MONDAY NIGHT GAME THIS YEAR!  And then Hubs will watch any show on UFOs that happens to cross his radar screen, and he’ll watch the History Channel, ad nauseam, and he doesn’t even really care WHAT he watches on the History Channel.  The history of the American railroad, as it progressed West?  Yes!  He’ll watch it!  The slow-motion videos and theories on the Kennedy Assassination?  Hubs has seen every documentary in existence on this.  The history and subsequent evidence of Big Foot in the Seattle region?  He can quote the shows.  As for me, when Beverly Hills, 90210 and Friends bid farewell to the television screen, I gave up TV-watching completely.  Oh, yes I did, because with Brandon Walsh and Phoebe Buffay and Joey Tribianni gone, there was simply nothing worth my time ON the TV.

Hubs kept pushing to get a TV in our bedroom, while I pushed in the opposite direction on that argument, because I knew the blasted thing would blare all night, showing blurry footage of a nine-foot-tall, ape-like creature caught on a home video camera by an RV-er wearing black knee-high socks with his golf shorts in Washington while I was trying to sleep.

Cue The Office.

Every friend Hubs and I possessed kept insisting that our lives simply weren’t complete without the antics of Jim Halpert and Dwight Schrute, so we caved to their suggestions.  We watched a couple of old episodes, via the wonderments which are the PlayStation 3 and Netflix, and we clapped enthusiastically over THOSE modern conveniences, because we clearly remember a time when you either watched LaVerne and Shirley when it was on the first time, or you simply didn’t watch it at all, until the summer reruns aired.

Eventually, we were so hooked on the series, Hubs began carting his laptop into bed with us at night, and we would laugh until we wept at Michael Scott’s craziness and Andy Bernard, in general.

And then, one night, we had accomplished the feat.  We had watched every single old episode of The Office that we could possibly watch, and we had to resort to (gasp!) waiting for Thursday nights, so that we could watch the new ones.

But therein was the dilemma.  We had become so accustomed to donning our flannel pajamas and gathering around the laptop in bed, that we had to come up with a second series to watch.

By a sweet accident, we discovered Arrested Development, and now, sadly, that one is over for us as well, and I have just gone on record as being the wife who told the husband, “You know, we should really put a TV in our bedroom!”

Since TVs cost more than $15, we probably won’t be doing this anytime soon, because we are dedicated to being resourceful (Exactly like LILY CASE SMITH, MY NEW HEROINE!), and the laptop is working out just fine.

But there we were, in the midst of a panic, as we had no other TV series to watch in the evenings.  In the bedroom.  Where I secretly now wish we had a television set.

Hubs and I have scrolled through all the options of old shows.  We’ve found nothing that makes us laugh and keeps us yelling out, “It’s only 11:00!  We can watch JUST ONE MORE and still get up when the alarm goes off tomorrow!”

Until…

…our friend Bryan commented that he watches The Big Bang Theory, and that it makes him howl with delighted laughter.  Hubs and I pursued this as a possible option, although we were a bit hesitant, because really?  Does Bryan laugh at the same shows we laugh at?  We wanted to interview him extensively on how he felt about The Office and Arrested Development, to determine whether we could trust his viewing suggestions.

In the end, Hubs and I decided to try JUST ONE!  ONLY ONE! episode of The Big Bang Theory, and people!

Hook.  Line.  Sinker.  SUNK!

As Hubs was laughing so hard last night that he couldn’t breathe, and I kept beating on the side of his shoulder yelling, “Hush!  You’ll wake the boy up,” we realized that The Big Bang Theory and its cast of science nerds may be the best show of all time.

Oh yes, people.  I just went there and said OF ALL TIME.

On account of HYSTERICAL.

Good-bye, Little House on the Prairie.  You have to move aside for something else.

SO!

Where was I?

I was going to tell you about our weekend until THE BIG TV TANGENT STRUCK, and my mind began to wander, which it does rather easily these days.

Remember the episode of The Big Bang Theory, where Sheldon is sick, and everyone sneaks away from him, because no one wants to take care of him and cover him up with blankets, and make him split pea soup with chunks of bacon every ten minutes, and rub Vicks onto his chest in a counterclockwise motion, so as not to mat his chest hair, and sing the Soft Kitty song to him?

(“Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur; happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr, purr, purr.”)

Well.

Hubs.  Is.  Sick.

I know he was just sick last week with the stomach flu, but now all signs of that are merely a distant memory that kicked his rump once and caused him to lose ten pounds in two days, which is obviously even better than Romy’s new diet in the old flick, Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion.

(“Actually, I’ve been trying this new fat-free diet I invented.  All I’ve had to eat for the past six days are gummy bears, jelly beans and candy corn.”)

Hubs has the Man Cold.

And the Man Cold put him in bed at 6:45 on Friday night.  The miracle of that is simply this:  We convinced the boy that OH MY WORD!  HE WAS TIRED!  AND EXHAUSTED! FROM THE WEEK!  And the boy went to bed at 6:30, and listen, people!  I might have felt some guilt over the fact that Hubs and I, in our elderliness, persuaded a ten year old boy to hit the hay at 6:30 on a Friday night, but blam! The boy was out. Like a light switch.  Sawing the logs.  On account of genuine tiredness and utter exhaustion from a long, long week of activities.

Hubs and his Man Cold put on his flannel jammies, and they were in bed at 6:45, with the laptop and a couple more episodes of The Big Bang Theory, so I joined him.  At one point, I asked Hubs, “Would your twenty-year-old self have ever envisioned your old-man self going to bed at dinnertime on a Friday night?”

People!  Who does that?!  Even great-grandmothers can stay awake until 8:30 on the weekends!

No matter.  We watched a couple of shows on the laptop, and we went to sleep before 8:00.  We were simply pretending that we lived on a ranch, and that we had a massive cattle drive to get started at 3 AM.

Naturally, Hubs coughed all night, until I sang him the Soft Kitty song.

All of that to say, “People, we went to bed EXTREMELY EARLY on Friday night.”

(When I write the Cliff Notes for this blog, I’ll cut out all the preceding paragraphs, and start this post by saying just that.  Friday night.  Early bedtime. Because who really cares that Hubs is captivated by Sasquatch shows anyway?!)

On Saturday, being extremely well-rested, the boy popped out of bed at the crack of ugly and announced, “I feel great!  I’m going to take a hot bath and have some oatmeal!”  After looking at the clock, I was half-tempted to shout out in my gravelly morning voice,  “It’s 6:15 on a Saturday morning; get back to bed,” but then I remembered the cattle drive that we were three hours late for, so I simply got up, too, ready to saddle the horses and herd the cows.

And I felt fantastic as well, so Hubs and I are tossing around the idea of just calling it a night at 6:45 on Friday evenings more often.

It’s called Ranching, people.  And ranchers go to bed early.

The four of us (Hubs, his Man Cold, me and the boy) met Hubs’ parents at a hot-spot for lunch on Saturday afternoon, and it was so much fun, and I had a fajita salad that changed my life for the better.

Eventually, I hauled the boy down to the local roller rink for a birthday party, where he got to debut his brand-new Rollerblades.  He insisted that they made him skate faster, but what he likes the very best about them is simply that they also make him taller.  And then he asked me, “Mom, can you bring your camera and take some pictures of me on these new skates?”

You know that I was game, because the boy NEVER wants his picture taken.

Really!  Hubs and I are going to have to do something about the boy’s shyness in front of the camera!

The boys skated and skated, until their faces were brilliantly red, and then they resorted to creating long skating trains, so someone else could do all the skating work, and they could just coast.

Aren’t they cute?  This next one is of the boy and his buddies, Quinn and Bek.

I somehow managed to endure an entire fifteen minutes of the strobe light flashing without having a seizure, and the boys had a fantastic time, so we are chalking Saturday’s skate time at Small Town’s REALLY DIRTY SKATE PALACE up as a winner.

After the birthday party was over, the boy disappeared to Quinn’s house for the rest of the afternoon, and then he went bowling with Quinn’s family, and then he went out for pizza with them, too, because, regardless of the fact that he is merely ten years old, he has a SOCIAL  LIFE.

While the boy was gone all day, Hubs and I stayed home and listened to Hubs cough up his left lung with the Man Cold.  Hubs crawled into his recliner in the family room at 1:30 on Saturday afternoon, and he finally left the recliner at 8:00 that night.

The wild parties just never cease at our house on the weekends.

This morning, we went to church, and then, because Great Cold Spell With Frigid Temperatures and Some Snow has blown our way, we hit the grocery store for some food necessities in case we’re housebound and snowed in.

Ginger ale.  Lays chips.  Raspberry vinaigrette dressing.  Mustard.

And we managed to run into our friends, Cody and Jeff.  We are now four-for-four at seeing them at the grocery store.  Indeed!  The last four times that I have been at this particular grocery store, Cody and Jeff have been there, too, pushing around a cart, loading it with Hostess Ding Dongs.  Hubs and I know that they’re secretly stalking us.

And then, while the boy and I spent the afternoon reading books on the sofa, Hubs went back to bed.

With the exception of the Man Cold’s presence, he declared it his best weekend ever, on account of TONS OF SLEEP! And TONS OF TV!

Stay tuned on this channel, people, as next weekend we drag out the Yahtzee game and show you what a party is really like.

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