The Post Where I Take “WORDY” to a Whole ‘Nother Level

So yes.

Apparently the general consensus is that the Sleep-By-Number bed is a thing of the past, which needs to be put into the same GOOD-BYE CATEGORY as the sound-activated Clapper, which can turn your lamps on and off with a good smacking of the hands, as well as the George Foreman Grill, which is the messiest kitchen gadget to clean, ever.

As in, EV-AH!  Because listen.  Even though George promised that all the grease off your fat-free chicken breasts would drain into the little pan, he forgot to tell you that this was  SIMPLY IN THEORY, and that QUITE POSSIBLY all the grease COULD IN RETROSPECT remain on the grill, and that the chicken breasts would perhaps, YOU KNOW, STICK, and the whole thing would be cemented together like a good brick-layer had been there.

Plus, Hubs and his Traeger have caused our George Foreman Grill to be pushed to the YARD SALE PILE.

If we,  you know, actually DID yard sales.  Which we don’t. Because seriously?  I barely have enough time to accomplish the chores that MUST get done around the Jedi Manor; sorting everything from my closets and cabinets, and then trying to determine if someone should be asked to pay $2 for them, or whether that would cause severe friction and strife at the cashier’s table, so maybe just $1 would be good to start with, simply isn’t going to happen.

Plus, I don’t actually GO to yard sales, because I determined in my heart long ago that I have enough junk of my own and don’t need to pay $1 to bring more junk home from someone else’s garage.  Add to that the simple fact that Hubs believes there are no other drivers WORSE than those heading out early on a Saturday morning for a good deal on a Clapper, because they tend to stop their cars in the middle of the street and execute illegal U-turns in the name of PARKING IN FRONT OF THE SALE, and you have a pretty solid answer as to whether or not the Jedi Family is enthusiastic about yard sales.

But I’m pretty sure Jesus continues to love us, regardless.

So our weekend was good.

We have had a carpenter in and out of the house all this last week, doing some trim work for us, because we have lived in this house for three entire years now, and it’s time to start finishing some projects.  And, since Hubs always says, “Hey!  I build the things that go beneath the Sheetrock; I don’t build the things that are supposed to look fancy,” we decided that hiring a carpenter was really in our best interests, because Hubs already has the Broncos to ruin his life, and he doesn’t need another blood-pressure-raising stresser.

And on Friday night, our carpenter was working away and entertaining us with stories about a Golden Retriever that he was familiar with who had been trained to do his business IN AN INDOOR TOILET, people, and suddenly we all realized that it was quickly approaching 7 PM, and no one had experienced dinner.

And that led the boy to beg for Jimmy John’s, because, next to sugar, a turkey sandwich from Jimmy John’s is the boy’s favorite food item.  And hearing THAT led our carpenter to admit that he’d never even HAD a Jimmy John’s sandwich before, which caused Hubs and I to look at him with pity, so we immediately set about correcting the situation, because Hubs is a definite problem-solver, and because no man should ever be allowed to say, “I have never eaten at Jimmy John’s.”

And that is how we ALL ended up sitting around our dining room table late Friday evening, listening to our carpenter proclaim, “Good night, but this is THE BEST SANDWICH OF ALL TIME!”  And now Hubs and I feel a little remorse, because we’re pretty sure we have created an addiction in someone.

At least we’ll be passing him on OUR way in and out of the sandwich shop.

On Saturday, we got up early, and Hubs hauled his new snowblower out of the garage, because God had seen fit to throw more than six inches of sloppy, wet snow down upon us.  I should note at this point that Hubs wasn’t all that excited about getting a snowblower for his birthday, and he even made the comment, “Well, it would be like ME getting YOU a new vacuum cleaner for a present.”  And to this I said, “Bring THAT ONE on!  Amen and hallelujah!”  Because in all honesty, I would like one of those ultra fancy Sharks that DETACH FOR VACUUMING STAIRS AND SUCH.  And that’s when Hubs realized that his comparative argument was lost upon me, and he just went about his business of NOT really liking his birthday gift.

Until Saturday morning, that is, when he hauled it out of the garage and plowed our driveway out in a very masculine manner, with snow blowing all over the place and the sound of gasoline being burned up reverberating off the cold houses like a manly echo.

And throughout all of that, I shoveled our patio the old fashioned way.

Which involved a snow shovel.

The same shovel I wanted to sell at the garage sale with my George Foreman Grill.

And then Hubs couldn’t stop all the smiling, because he owned a genuine snowblower that worked fantastically well, and his life was now complete.  Complete in a way that he hadn’t imagined he could achieve.  And then he parked his snowblower back in the garage, with a SPACE HEATER in front of it, people, so that his precious new, gas-burning machine would be thawed out and ready for the next snowstorm.

And then we sent the boy to his very first Destination Imagination meeting, because listen, y’all.  The boy needs to be involved in ONE MORE ACTIVITY like he needs a big hole in his head.  After a summer of driving him to this golf course, and that golf course, and to this driving range, and to that putting green, and to these group lessons, and to those private lessons, and back to the original golf course yet again, I was convinced that it was time to tell the boy, “No more.   We are becoming hermits, and we will stay at home for life now, and you may not sign up for a single activity from here on out.”

And that is why we have discouraged the Destination Imagination stuff for the past two years, until Enzo’s pleas of SEND THE BOY!  PLEASE!  SEND THE BOY!  IT IS MORE FUN THAN CHRISTMAS! broke through our subconscious, and Hubs and I sent him out the door with Enzo on Saturday.

And ninety minutes later, the boy burst through our front door and screamed, “I AM IN LOVE WITH D.I.!!”  And by in love, he means that the project their brainy little group has to work on involves them creating a motorized vehicle which will be both large enough AND strong enough to support one team member’s weight, and that it MUST have a mechanical, robotic-like arm, which can be programmed to pick up an object that weighs more than a full soda can.  Apparently, the boy and Enzo and Kellen and Patrick and a couple other children who I am not overly familiar with all pooled their gray matter and discussed options and horse power for an hour and a half.  And then the boy came home, and he bounced ideas off of Hubs, and he called Kellen to discuss possible things they might try for the robotic arm, and then, EXACTLY LIKE MY BABY DADDY WOULD HAVE DONE, the boy drew up BLUEPRINTS.

Because Hubs?  Oh, that precious man can manufacture a set of computer-drafted blueprints faster than the human eye can blink.  And, listen.  Hubs will whip out blueprints for EVERYTHING, from possible flower beds that I am pondering outside to a layout of Walmart at Christmastime, with detailed diagrams of what sections we will hit first, second and third, so we can maximize our shopping time and GET OUT BEFORE HUBS’ BLOOD PRESSURE MAKES HIM EXPLODE!

And then the boy told me, “Mom, I just want to golf and build robots for Destination Imagination.  You can pull me out of everything else.  Oh!  Everything else EXCEPT dodge ball over Christmas break that you signed me up for.”

On Saturday night, I cooked dinner at 3:45 in the afternoon.

I know.

It sounds weird, but my people had eaten a late breakfast, because after we plowed our driveway out, we dashed into Walmart for the BIG HAUL at an unholy hour (without blueprints, because I didn’t allow Hubs any extra time to draw some up), so that we could beat the rush of frantic holiday shoppers who were starting things early, because it’s simply not the yard sale season, and their only other alternative on Saturday was Walmart.  And then we came home and unloaded 1,206 plastic bags of groceries, seeing as how our family was out of everything, from toothpaste and deodorant to Ranch salad dressing and Ritz Crackers, and THEN I made scrambled eggs, while Hubs grilled bacon on his Traeger and drove the neighbors crazy with the delicious smells.

Because honestly?  The smell of bacon grilling out of doors?  You know it’s good!

So THAT is why there was no lunch for the Jedi Family on Saturday, which explains why everyone wanted DINNER at 3:45 Saturday afternoon.

And then Hubs and I did a little Christmas shopping online, because Hubs has the Broncos to yell at.  He didn’t need to go back into Walmart at the FULL HOUR to Christmas shop, because he can’t be trusted not to yell at the people driving the motorized carts around the aisles when they stop in front of him.

And then, when I thought it MUST be time for bed, Hubs and I realized that lo!  It was 5:20 in the PM.  So, we snuggled onto the sofa in the family room, and we introduced the boy to National Lampoon’s  Christmas Vacation.  Suffice it to say that he enjoyed the movie thoroughly, and that he howled with laughter until his sides ached and he couldn’t breathe when Chevy Chase lubricated the bottom of his saucer sled and shot down the hill like he’d been launched by NASA.  The boy laughed so hard, he was gasping for breath, and he had to replay the scene four times until he was satisfied and ready to watch the rest of the show.

Good times, people.  Very good times.

On Sunday morning, we went to church, and Pastor Ray told us to take some time to think about some things we are thankful for, and there I was:  Behind Mika and her family, beside Tiffany and her family, and in front of Christy and her family, with my parents tucked in at the end of the row and Hubs and the boy on my right side, and I thought THIS!  THIS IS WHAT I AM SO VERY, VERY THANKFUL FOR — great friends, great family and a great church.  Our children were all whispering back and forth and trying VERY HARD to sit still, and I’d just thrown my arms around every one of those girls in big hugs as we all took our seats.  My heart felt deliciously warm on Sunday morning.

And then, after church this weekend, we scrambled around the house, grabbing boots and snowpants and gloves and sleds, and we went sledding with Christy’s family.

And by we went sledding, I mean the BOYS went sledding, while Christy and I parked her car at the bottom of the hill and drank piping hot chai lattes from Starbucks and talked ourselves silly for nearly four entire hours, as we sat in Christy’s HEATED LEATHER SEATS.  While we did that, the boys whizzed down the hill like Chevy Chase on their own saucer sleds, had a snowball fight, built a snow fort, and took rides on the new Can-Am Side-by-Side.

I made Gage, the boy and Deedan pose for a group snapshot before all the sledding began, because that is what I do.  I am all about THE GROUP PHOTO that screams out PRICELESS KODAK MOMENT.

Of course, the highlight for the boys yesterday was riding around in the Side-by-Side with Christy’s husband, Scott.  I think it’s because Scott throws caution to the wind and ACTUALLY LISTENS to the boys, when you hear things like this yelled out:

“Go faster, Dad!”

“Jump the snowdrift, Dad!”

“Spin cookies, Scott!”

Oh, yes.  Scott listened.  And he honored the boys’ requests, and he spun enough cookies that I would have had to walk away with a plastic sack to puke in, and he blew threw enough snowdrifts to cover the boys’ faces with snow and make them gasp and scream for STILL MORE!

Here, Gage is telling his dad, “Just go ahead and open the throttle up all the way.  Don’t stop for anything, and see how much air you can catch when we hit that massive snowdrift on the East Slope at full speed.”

Of course, the boy is adding his two cents’ worth of opinion to the conversation, too.  I’m sure he said, “And let’s hit full speed PLUS TEN, Scott.  Ten miles per hour OVER full speed.  Don’t be a wimp with us, Scott!”

Eventually, we were enticed out of the car, so we set our chai teas in the cup holders and decided to see what FULL SPEED PLUS TEN could do.

It should also be noted that one of the characteristics of Christy that I love the best is her sweet, tender spirit of humility and humbleness.  When I snapped this picture of her beside Scott, I yelled out, “Try to look hot!”  And Christy yelled back, “I’m always HOT!  I’m not even CAPABLE of taking a picture where I DON’T look hot!”

If y’all want to add her to your prayer lists, I’m sure she could use it.

And THAT, people, is a full wrap on our weekend, in less than two-million-point-six words.

And now it’s time for me to go push the boy aside and say, “Listen.  I am pretty sure that I like YOUR mattress better than mine, and so I’ll give you $5 to go sleep in my room with your daddy tonight, while I take your mattress over.”

Wish me luck, y’all.  Wish me luck.  That boy of ours seems pretty attached to his mattress, which is probably why he woke up at 6:20 on Saturday morning and poked me awake by whispering loudly, “Mom!  That is the BEST NIGHT’S SLEEP I’ve ever had, and that is THE VERY BEST MATTRESS of all time!”

Of course, at 6:20 on a Saturday morning, I had kind of hoped he’d stay IN the mattress a bit longer, but y’all.  We had snow to plow and Walmart shopping to do, so the early morning wake-up call was in our favor.

Happy Monday night.

And I do apologize for ALL THE WORDY, because sweet mercy!  That was indeed a bushel of words.

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