On Friday afternoon, the boy had made plans to ride the bus from school to his Grammy’s office, where there is an endless supply of snacks which fall under the category of Junk Food. Grammy has the snacks hidden in cupboards in the back of their office, and they are meant to be found by small children who share her last name.
Thankfully, the boy falls under this category.
He went to visit Grammy, because he had great intentions of (1) eating her snacks, and (2) discussing some important chemistry experiments that involved Bunsen burners and flammable substances with Papa.
Papa, the Chemist, who has never been afraid to light something on fire.
With no small boy at home when I was done working on Friday afternoon, I sort of kicked my heels together and put my flannel pajamas on at 5:10 PM. Hubs mocked the early-donning-of-the-jammies, but he was really just jealous that I’d taken it upon myself to shut the evening down to outside activities and wear something comfortable, while he was still wearing his dress shirt from work.
By 6:30, with the boy home for the evening and thoroughly entertained with a series of electrical circuits which he was connecting in order to make a light bulb glow, I took my flannel pajamas and a book, and I got into bed.
Hubs, upon noticing the (ahem!) earliness of the hour on Friday night, made some comments in regards to my apparent elderly status, and asked if he could turn the TV to The Lawrence Welk show for me. His words bounced off of me like water on a duck’s back, because I couldn’t have been happier with my decision to be at home, in head-to-toe flannel, and in bed.
At a time when most people are either (1) just getting off work for the day, or (2) just sitting down to dinner.
Really? My Friday night was nothing short of perfection, and all I could think was, “Well played, Mama.”
My Saturday morning required an outfit a little more glamorous than flannel pajamas, as Hubs and the boy and I had some ambitions and some errands, with an early-morning trip to The Land of Good Beverages topping the list.
After the Starbucks cups were empty, we hit Home Depot, on a mission to buy a can of gray paint for the credenza, because I was really concerned that if I didn’t start the project of repainting the thing immediately, I never would.
I had the color gray in mind for it.
Gray. Which is somewhere between white and black in the color wheel of life. Gray. A color which is only given ONE Crayon in the big box of sixty-four.
Home Depot, though, sees an infinite amount of shades of gray. There are grays with a hint of purple, and grays with a hint of yellow, and grays with a hint of green, and grays with a hint of blue. There are light grays, medium grays, and dark grays. There are medium-light grays and medium-dark grays, as well as really-dark-dark grays. After yanking out twenty different gray options (which all bore an exotic name, like Trail Print and Cliff’s Edge and Patio), I was nearly ready to throw in the towel, suck in a hit off the boy’s inhaler, and take the credenza to the Salvation Army by myself.
Because Hubs knew that he simply loves Gray With a Hint of Black, he eventually took over the color selection and handed me the final choice, which is called Squirrel.
And, incredibly enough, I love it.
With the weight of the paint selection removed from my shoulders, Hubs and I made a quick stop on the way home to collect the boy’s buddy, Patrick.
I made them macaroni and cheese for lunch as soon as we got home, and they ate TWO! ENTIRE! BOXES! of the stuff. Then, with their bellies swollen and distended from noodles covered in artificially-orange cheese powder, they high-tailed it off to our basement, where they manipulated video characters on the PlayStation 3 and howled with hysterical laughter for the rest of the day.
Although I am not a fan of marathon sessions with the video games, Hubs and I gave thanks that the PS3 was thoroughly entertaining the boys, because the weather outside was ugly, and because we were busy doing a whole lot of this:
People, we sanded and sanded and sanded the credenza, until I told Hubs that sanding furniture is a job best suited for elves and trolls. After that comment, we continued to sand and sand and sand, until Hubs had a full-on allergy attack from all the dust.
Oh, people! His eyes swelled up, his nose swelled shut, and he coughed like he’d been secretly smoking twelve packs a day for the last decade. We had to take a break from all the sanding to rinse his sinuses out with the Netti Pot. We had to pump him full of Zyrtec. And then, with a wet towel wrapped around his face, Hubs mumbled that he was apparently at death’s door, and he began to sing “My Heart Will Go On” to me, while I begged him to tell me if he had any cash hidden anywhere in the house before he expired.
So, you know, no drama whatsoever.
And then, yes! Yes, I was left to finish the sanding alone, because of Death By Allergies Induced By Dust. On account of I do not have the allergies. At all.
And then, with the Zyrtec kicking in and the final refrain of “My Heart Will Go On” blowing on the wind, Hubs and I began THE PAINTING OF THE CREDENZA.
I would really rather clean public restrooms at a truck stop on a busy interstate than paint, so imagine my delight when we realized that the credenza! It was going to take three coats!
I wanted to write to Behr immediately and say, “For the small fortune you charged me for the primer that’s already IN the bucket of paint, I am sadly disappointed that the credenza STILL took three coats.” I had every intention of stuffing the letter into an envelope with a copy of “My Heart Will Go On” on a CD and mailing it directly to them, when Hubs stepped in and said, “Just settle the drama down! Every furniture-making elf and troll on the planet knows that something like this requires some extensive coating.”
And so it was that we put three coats of Squirrel on the credenza yesterday.
While the boy and Patrick rotted their gray matter out with video games.
(Does using the PlayStation 3 as a babysitter for many consecutive hours in the same day disqualify me for Mother of the Year ’11? I’d hate to be kicked out of the contest at THIS early stage, what with us barely being an entire week into January and all.)
Eventually, the third coat of paint was in place, no one was humming any Celine Dion songs, Patrick had been returned home, the boy was asleep in bed, and Hubs and I sat down to watch the movie Sherlock Holmes.
(Yes, I was dressed in my flannel pajamas for the viewing of the show. How on earth did you know?)
This morning, we woke up to snow piled everywhere outside, and the boy and I raised our eyebrows at Hubs, because we had tried to talk him into purchasing a snowblower for our driveway yesterday.
Our driveway, which is on a hill and is as long as Route 66.
While we were at Home Depot yesterday waiting for the Squirrel to be mixed, the boy and I showed Hubs the $800 snowblower, which looked like it was on a caliber best suited for plowing Wal-Mart’s parking lot. The boy and I were thoroughly impressed with it, and we pushed Hubs toward it. He shook his head and announced that he was still young enough to shovel.
We then walked Hubs over to the $225 snowblower. Hubs took one look at it and announced that it was barely big enough for Ken and Barbie’s Dream Home, and that there was no way it could handle the downhill version of Route 66 without collapsing.
With the snow on the imminent horizon yesterday, I knew that if Hubs and I purchased a snowblower, Small Town, USA would never see another snowflake again. As it was, Hubs denied us our winter power tool dreams, declaring that we could just SHOVEL! SHOVEL! SHOVEL!, and we woke up to six solid inches of new snow this morning.
And then we went to church, where we heard a fantastic sermon on pride.
And then, people, after having stopped at the grocery store, we came home. We ate a little lunch. And Hubs fell asleep on the bed, with Cats 1 and 2 dozing right beside him, for four hours. Mothers, when they actually DO get a nap (which is twice a year, for the record), get to doze for 30 minutes on the sofa. Hubs, when he gets a nap (which is every Sunday afternoon, when the Broncos are playing football, because he cannot stand to see them lose), he goes all Rip Van Winkle on us, rolls himself into a little ball, and acts like a hamster in the daylight hours.
The boy and I have wandered aimlessly around the house this afternoon, reading books and doing little else.
Clearly, we’re all recovering from the Saturday we spent with the Squirrel.