Spring Break ’11 has been put to bed. The boy returned to school this morning with only minimal groaning and complaining. The days of an 8 PM dinnertime are over. The days of thinking about putting the boy to bed at 10:30 PM are over. The days of lounging around the house in flannel pajamas are over.
And the days of throwing the alarm clock across the bedroom at o’dark-thirty are fully back in progress.
Our weekend panned out fantastically, although I’m not sure that I can find any words to doll it up and make it entertaining, because really? How do you write the words, “I did five loads of laundry and vacuumed all the floors right before the boy traipsed through the house with very muddy Keen sandals” and make it fun to read?
On Friday night, the boy hightailed it over to Enzo’s house, clutching an overnight bag. Those two boys had great plans to stay up all night long and boycott the act of brushing their teeth. They wanted to be survivors, who lived off the land and grew beards, so they built a fort out of twenty-seven blankets in Enzo’s basement, and they moved into it. They foraged for food, and were thankful that they found hot dogs! And organic apples! And yogurt! Sadly, the beards never fully developed.
With no child in our possession on Friday evening, Hubs and I decided that we’d have a date. It involved some dressier clothes, some hot rollers, a couple of squirts of perfume, and the debit card. We wound up at a swanky little hotspot downtown, where the hostess seated us smack next to some old friends we haven’t seen in eons, so we leaned across our tables and talked nonstop. And then Hubs and I both ordered steaks, which were GOOD steaks, but honestly? Is it bragging if I say that Hubs has perfected the steak on his Traeger grill so sweetly that expensive steaks downtown no longer thrill us? So yes. That was us who laid down $55 for just a GOOD dinner. But, oh my! It was so fun to catch up with our friends, and we watched some extreme snowboarding championships on the big screen TV by our table.
I would like to go on record as saying that if I had to whoosh up the halfpipe on a snowboard and perform three intricate aerials before landing again, I would blow barf all over the snow and land, face first.
I’m sorry. There just isn’t a pretty way to state that, is there?
By the time our JUST GOOD steaks were finished and we were $55 poorer, the theater across the street had already started all the movies, so Hubs and I came home, because we lead Very Boring Lives.
Happy. But boring.
Thankfully, we discovered a Netflix DVD in our mailbox, so we kicked back in front of still more episodes of The Big Bang Theory, and we howled with laughter like a couple of hillbillies rocking a Ferris wheel.
On Saturday, Hubs and I ran errands and bopped around Small Town, and then yes! I did some laundry. And some vacuuming. And I also scrubbed a couple of bathrooms down.
It’s because Hubs won’t take a second job so that I can afford to pay for a maid.
Eventually we collected the small boy from Enzo’s house, and realized that his dance card was filling up, because he has a social life at the age of ten. His buddy, Patrick, had invited him to go swimming, so Hubs and I dumped him off at the local pool.
By 6:00 Saturday night, all of my peeps were back under the same roof, and we sat down to a late supper of corn chowder.
And then we cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher.
Because we are predictable.
And also boring.
Which is exactly what this blog post is.
On Sunday morning, we went to church, and then we stayed for an authentic Green Chili luncheon, which our youth group put on so that they can raise money for their upcoming missions trip to Nicaragua.
And then I went home and ate four Tums tablets.
And then Hubs changed the oil in our Suburban, right there in our driveway, because he is handy like that. He headed off to Wal-Mart to buy oil, and he came home with oil AND a Magic Bullet, AS SEEN ON TV. He insisted that owning a Magic Bullet would insure that he became a fantastic salsa maker. And a fantastic whipper-upper of frozen coffee drinks.
We were another $50 poorer, but when a man buys himself a Magic Bullet, he is one happy fellow who cannot quit smiling and saying, “The salsa, honey, is going to be FANTASTIC!”
And then, late Sunday afternoon, I began thinking out loud to myself, because boring, old people do that sort of thing. And I said, out loud to myself, “I wish we had a Target in Small Town. I so want to go to a Target and buy some lamps.” And do you know what I did? Well, I called Jodi, and Jodi and I got to talking, and then I heard myself say, “Hey. Do you want to go to Target tomorrow in Bigger Town?” And listen, people. She plum did. So Jodi and I dropped our punks off at school at 8:00 this morning. We kissed them goodbye. We squeezed them with great big love-hugs. And then we hit the open road, with two-year-old Leah in tow. We drove to Bigger Town, USA (which is two full hours away!), and we shopped at Target.
We wandered the Target aisles. We filled our carts with lamps and summer T-shirts for small children and table runners and picture frames and boxes of Starbucks Via Coffee. And there was NO ONE who whined and said, “How much longer do we have to be in Target?” And there was NO ONE who moaned and cried out, “I’m starving! I need to eat! I hate this store!” And there was NO ONE who said, “So? What’s the plan here? Because I just want to treat this store like it’s a Navy SEAL mission. I want to get in and get out, and I want to do it for a speed time. Wandering the aisles makes me edgy; I keep thinking someone’s going to come around a corner and shoot me in the face. In fact, I actually wish someone would come around a corner and shoot me in the face, because it would end the pain of wandering the aisles with no game plan, and because fighting someone off would be more interesting than looking at throw pillows. You KNOW that I hate to wander aisles without a game plan. You did, in fact, know this before you married me.”
And that, people, is why I enjoyed my day so thoroughly and completely! Jodi and I drove two hours to shop at Target. We had a little lunch, and then we drove two hours home, and we picked our kids up from school just as they were walking out of the building.
And I scored some really sweet lamps!
AND…we had fun trying hats on Leah, because the boy always refuses to let me try pink Easter hats on him.
You aren’t Target. And I don’t love you like I love Target. I wish you’d pack up and leave Small Town, so that a Target could take over your building. Hubs, however, is glad that we don’t have a Target here. It’s because he refuses to take a second job to fund my Target addiction.