On Friday night, Hubs and I sent the boy to Enzo’s house for the night, and then we dashed off to the local bar and grill to sit on their deck with Tyler and Heather and celebrate the fact that we have now been married for sixteen years.
Hubs said that it doesn’t feel like sixteen years at all. He decided that it feels like the two of us have been married for sixteen minutes.
Sixteen minutes, under water.
We had such a fantastic evening, and we ran into several other friends, who all congregated around our table, and we laughed until my smile ached.
Which, for the record, is a lot of laughing.
I had a key lime pie martini, which is exactly like having dessert in a fancy glass, and then I came home and took a Zyrtec, because the cotton is flying off of the trees like crazy around these parts, and — whether you have seasonal allergies or not — flying tree cotton is no friend of man’s.
And then, the martini and the Zyrtec combined themselves into a full-blown anesthetic, and all I remember is counting backwards from ten.
I got to eight, and the next thing I knew, it was Saturday morning.
While Hubs and I were off having dinner on Friday night, the boy was doing a whole lot of this:
Which is a lot.
He also loves to drive golf carts, and he has asked us to buy him his own cart for his birthday next month, because we have a tree that blooms hundred dollar bills growing in the backyard apparently.
On Saturday, there was a car show in Small Town, USA. Our entire Main Street was blocked off, so that fancy (and some UN-fancy) cars could be put on display. Putting a car on display means that you pop the hood and roll the windows down, and then all the male residents of Small Town walk around your car, examine your engine, shrug, and say, “I’ve seen bigger.”
While Hubs was examining a Camaro and poking fun of a panel wagon that was, in his words, not even close to being cherry, I dashed into a clothing store in the city to buy sunglasses. My old ones had scratches, dead-center, in the lenses, and I needed something new and sassy and fun.
My new pair makes me look exactly like Ponch and Jon.
And if you’re too young to catch the CHiPs reference, then you have no business being on this blog. There was a time in 1980 when I professed my unfailing love for Jon and announced that I would one day marry him. (Never mind that he was more than twenty years older than I was, and that he probably wouldn’t have looked twice at a tall, skinny-legged ten-year-old and told her that indeed! He WOULD wait for her to grow up and learn to drive and then marry her.)
After securing my California Highway Patrol sunglasses, circa 1980, I proceeded to use Hubs’ little plastic card and buy three new shirts. Happy anniversary to me.
I can say that, because Hubs and I actually have TWO anniversaries. We were really married on July 1st, but because our crazy maid-of-honor and best man (And we’re looking at you guys, Sister and Brother!) didn’t notice the WRONG DATE that our pastor wrote on our marriage license before they signed it as witnesses, the Social Security Office AND the Department of Transportation both said, “For all legal purposes, you were married on July 2nd, because that’s what the license says. You can file legal proceedings to see about changing the date.”
That just sounded like a lot of work and a lot of legalized jargon to pretend to read through and figure out where I needed to sign, so Hubs and I simply threw in the towel and gave up. We celebrate our REAL anniversary on July 1st, and we celebrate our GOVERNMENT RECOGNIZED ANNIVERSARY on July 2nd.
So sometimes I buy myself great sunglasses AND three shirts on July 2nd to celebrate Phase II of the anniversary weekend.
After the car show and my small shopping spree, Hubs and I bopped around in the city (which simply means: Main Street in Small Town), and we even took a drive over to Gymnastics Land.
And really? Since the boy has professed his love for golf and removed himself from three years’ worth of gymnastics tuition, I guess we can now just call Gymnastics Land SMALLER TOWN, USA.
Since we no longer DO gymnastics, and all.
Even though we CAN STILL DO super sweet backflips on the trampoline at home, which proves that three years’ worth of pricey tuition wasn’t entirely wasted.
Eventually we collected the boy from Enzo’s house, where they had spent the ENTIRE DAY making a movie, because THAT, my friends, is the hot hobby for ten-year-old boys at the moment. They use small video cameras, and they write scripts, and they say, “Lights! Camera! Action!” Enzo’s mama keeps saying, “Between film school in New York and the US Open, I think our boys will be financially set for life.”
To which I simply respond: Yay!
We spent Saturday evening loafing around our house, sprawled on the sofa like slugs, watching Hoarders on TV.
And then we went upstairs and cleaned the kitchen, because we cannot watch Hoarders without CLEANING SOMETHING.
And then, it was suddenly 9:00, so we all went to bed. Hubs and I took our teeth out and threw back our Centrum Silver, and we called it a day.
This morning we woke up, and it was my dad’s birthday! No matter how old the man gets, he’s still every bit as cool as Ponch and Jon.
Just without the motorcycle.
We went to church, where Mika and I proceeded to giggle like school girls through the entire Sunday School class, and where we heard another fantastic sermon.
Afterward, we sent the boy to his buddy Louden’s birthday party, because Louden and my dad share July 3rd. They got to make their own ice cream, and I have it on good authority that all the boys discussed intricate plans to snag themselves a Big Foot someday.
Or at least make a Big Foot movie.
While the boy was off partying, Hubs and I decided to do some yard work, which is only natural, because it was 97 degrees outside, and Hubs and I always wait until THE! VERY! HOTTEST! day of the year to get after the digging and the transplanting.
And then we scrubbed all the cotton off of our deck, which was a job that the Marines should have tackled, because of wow! THAT was a difficult job and required MUCH elbow grease.
And then Hubs and I came inside and collapsed from heat stroke.
Later, we collected the boy (again, because he is ten and has a wild social life that involves a lot of parties). Everyone showered, and we drove out to Small Mountain Town, where we had dinner at a swanky little hotspot for my dad’s birthday.
I had a cedar plank salmon that made me weep with happiness.
The boy had a steak, and afterward he announced, “I guess I’m a man now, Mom, because I’m giving up on the kids’ menu at ALL restaurants. No one ever puts a good ribeye on the kids’ menu!”
And guess what else we did while we were in Small Mountain Town tonight?
We replenished the boy’s stockpile.
His stockpile of THINGS THAT EXPLODE.
Happy 4th of July, everyone. We’ll see y’all around this blog again when the holiday wraps itself up. Be safe with your fireworks, and leave the act of lighting pop bottle rockets with hand-held propane torches to the professionals. Hubs and Brother are the Ponch and Jon of hand-held propane torches.
On a closed course, naturally.
And if anything goes wrong, I’m sure the boy will catch it on high-definition video.