Living the Dream

Today was just one of those days where everything seemed to work out just right, and where I pretty much got to be the star.

(Those are my favorite kinds of days.)

(Because I seem to feel pretty much right at home with the tiara as hair decor.)

I had a manicure appointment at o’-dark-thirty this morning, which is rather early, but when the girl who does your nails happens to be a RANCH WOMAN who can not only ride a horse across the prairie at breakneck speeds, but who can also rope Flash Gordon the Calf in half the time that John Wayne could have done it, you tend to get scheduled before most people have had their hashbrowns and eggs, with a side of crispy bacon.

And then I came home for a couple of hours to a house that was already clean, because I REMEMBER YOU, MONDAY!

(I spent all of Monday recovering from renaming myself Manual Labor, due to PAINTING, PAINTING, PAINTING, as I dug our house out like it had been buried in debris from the fallout of an F-5.)

(In layman’s terminology, that’s a tornado.)

(I know this, because not only does Hubs thrive on Hunting Big Foot episodes and any show featuring a monologue on possible theories on the JFK shooting, he also likes to watch shows where people chase storms.  On purpose.  And then he announces, “I could do that for a living.”)

(I always add, “And not be insured with health coverage.”)

(When you get to be elderly like myself, knowing that you have a safety net of an insurance company to argue with about what they will cover and what they won’t cover is the cream cheese icing in your life.)

(Because hips?  They can be snapped like a dry spaghetti noodle when you’re throwing down some dance moves to old Joan Jett songs.)

(Not that I speak from… how do you say it?  THE EXPERIENCE.)

So yes.  Manicure.  Back home.  Clean house.

And then I made a cup of coffee, and we were out of Coffee Mate, which I only discovered AFTER I had put the Keurig through the motions of its daily performance, but low!  We had heavy whipping cream, and we had sugar, so I started mixing in what I’d seen OTHER PEOPLE do to their cups of coffee in the past, and I thought I’d sample it.

And do you know what?  Well, I’m pretty sure when Jesus has to drink coffee, he does it exactly like that, because apparently someone has been hiding information from me, and I was never told that HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM + ENORMOUS QUANTITIES OF SUGAR = WOW!  BETTER THAN COFFEE MATE.

It was so good, in fact, I had two cups of the stuff, before I came to the realization that YES!  MY HANDS REALLY WERE SHAKING, and perhaps EVEN MY HEART WAS BEATING ERRATICALLY, so… you know… LET’S SLOW THINGS DOWN HERE, NANCY, AND KEEP OUR COFFEE TO A SINGLE CUP, M’KAY?

I worked on my Bible study homework, and I have to tell you that I’m a nerd, because I really do LOVE and BIG-PUFFY-HEART-ADORE the study we’re doing on the book of James.

Also?  James… It really is convicting, and now I can’t relax about things that I used to take as UN-serious.  Because James certainly puts on his serious expression and gets right into your face with it, and is all, DON’T JUDGE PEOPLE and SPEAK ONLY KINDLY WITH YOUR TONGUE and DON’T WITHHOLD WAGES WHEN SOMEONE WORKS FOR YOU.

(So I gave a quarter to Hubs tonight for helping paint the baseboards this weekend, and I felt some relief.)

And then it was off to PE, and listen!  Today was a little piece of manna straight from Heaven, because it was EARLY RELEASE DAY at the school where I teach, which meant that I only had one class today.  Of course, it was the first graders, who will certainly be the death of me, and who make me want to take up smoking fine Cuban cigars just to relax, but when you know that they’re the only batch of kiddos you’re going to have to play games with, you kind of cut loose and enjoy yourself thoroughly, until one little fellow zips by you and utters a four-letter word to a classmate.

Good-bye, perfect 1st grade gym class.  It was nice to have you for the twenty minutes that you lasted.

So then I dealt with a six-year-old and his BIG WORD, which is also known as OH-SO-VERY-COLORFUL VOCABULARY.  We don’t put up with that at a private Catholic school.  Oh no, sir, we do not.  If you want to speak like that, you can donate your tuition to charity and go to public schools.

And then, when my one class was finished and Bubba Boy and I had come to terms with the fact that thou shalt not utter profanity while running in gym class, I met Becki at Starbucks for some cool-down time, because it had been HOURS since my last cup of coffee.

In all honesty, though, I NEVER drink the coffee at Starbucks, because why would anyone do such a thing, when Starbucks offers you the nectar of Eden in the grande, no-water, non-fat, no-whip, please-and-thank-you chai latte?

Becki and I managed to discuss half of the world’s problems which have accumulated since Reagan left the Oval Office, and discussed the differences between eleven-year-old boys (mine) and twelve-year-old girls (hers) on Valentine’s Day.  Because let’s just say that one of those choices doesn’t take the Holiday of Love seriously.  It is officially more than twenty-four hours AFTER his classroom party, and he still hasn’t read a single Valentine card that was dropped into his made-out-of-cardboard-in-the-shape-of-a-frog box, which was revamped from last year.

(I think he fears that perhaps a card was in his box with a little too much romance to suit his tastes, so he simply chose not to read ANY of them.  But he ate all the chocolates.  And also the candy hearts.)

(I blame my baby daddy for this, who once climbed a tree at church camp to avoid having to dance with a girl when he was young.)

The boy was all about REDUCE!  REUSE!  RECYCLE! this year, when his teacher sent home a note that said, “Please make a Valentine’s Day box to hold our class’ cards with your child at home.”  I felt a full-on panic attack coming, and pretty much needed to sit down in a darkened corner of my closet to breathe into a paper sack, because the crafts and I are not  on friendly terms with one another.

The crafts, in fact, are BLOOD RELATIVES to painting trim.

And then my child, in an effort to JUST GET IT DONE ALREADY because Hunting Big Foot was debuting a premium episode on Sunday night, announced, “I’ll just glue the leg back onto my frog box from 4th grade and use that.”

I have never loved that boy more.

And that, people, is what he did.  We found the frog box, which his mama had saved because IT WAS THE BOY’S ART PROJECT, and because Mama has a difficult time parting with little art projects made by little hands.  And the boy used the hot glue gun ALONE, and surgically reattached a frog leg.

If a career in tracking the Big Foot doesn’t work out, I’m pretty sure that the boy could major in Orthopedic  Surgery for Amphibians at Harvard.

Becki and I laughed ourselves silly over chai lattes, and then we parted ways, because my boy needed picked up from school.

And then I spent a major chunk of my evening talking to Theresa on the phone, and we solved the second half of all the world’s problems since the late ’80s.

(And one of the biggest problems seems to be that Madonna is still performing at the age of 82.)

(She’s a lot like AC/DC.  She’s gonna keep on singing ’til she does it with an oxygen tank.)

(And hopefully the show’s fireworks will be kept to a minimum when THAT happens.)

So my day?

It was pretty much glorious, and now the HIGHLIGHT is that I am going to crawl into my bed in the next five minutes and push the big button on the remote control, so that I can watch a Lifetime movie from the comfort of the Sleep By Number Bed.

(Don’t even get me started on ten inches of solid memory foam like the boy has on his bed vs. the IT COST SO MUCH MONEY IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN PLATED IN GOLD, BUT IT FEELS LIKE SLEEPING ON EIGHTEEN MOLE HILLS debate.)

(You don’t want to poke that bear tonight.)

But yes.  Having a TV in our bedroom is working out fine, because who doesn’t want to sob her eyes out over a Lifetime movie right before she drifts off to sleep gets smacked with the insomnia square in the face?  It’s exactly like living at a hotel.

Where the maid’s name is Me.

Happy Wednesday, people.

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