This is going to be a quick little post tonight, because I am thrilled that it is almost time to crawl into my bed and watch a Lifetime movie. Having a TV in our bedroom now is exactly like staying in a motel, except this isn’t a Holiday Inn. When there’s overspray from the can of Big Sexy Hair hairspray on the bathroom tile, it’s ME who gets to scrub it up instead of an underpaid maid.
And also? Well, there is no room service here, which makes the Jedi Manor not quite as friendly as Motel 6, either. When I call Hubs from the comfort of my bed and yell into my iPhone, “Hey! Can you get me a Klondike bar out of the freezer and bring on into the bedroom for me?” he’ll answer from his recliner in the family room and shout, “No! I’ve got the Avalanche beating the Red Wings to bits of trash down here, and it is making me so happy, I’m not leaving the big screen!”
(Hubs also announced that So-And-So, the recently traded player that the Avs just picked up, is now his new favorite fellow on the team. I asked, “What makes a guy your favorite?” [Because I pick favorites based on who is the cutest and who takes his wife to church on Sunday mornings and who was photographed having lunch with his first-grade daughter at her elementary school. Sadly, these are not in the top ten list of criteria for a skater to become Hubs’ favorite player.] Hubs said, “I like him because he’s a scrapper. Anyone who shoves a Red Wing down and bloodies his knuckles on his nose is my favorite Avalanche.” Clearly, Hubs’ mama is real proud.)
The brief version of our weekend is simply this: It was a good one. And by good one, I mean that on Friday night the boy laid on the sofa in our family room and watched (Brace yourselves!) six uninterrupted hours of television. His pediatrician and Democratic mothers everywhere would gasp in shame, but the honest truth is that I’m about as ANTI-TV as a mama can get, so I usually encourage the boy to do something beyond the big screen by saying, “You are not watching any TV today.” And I pretty much say that eight days out of seven. Boys should be outside getting dirty and building forts and throwing rocks at the girls who are asking them for their phone numbers instead of loafing inside, watching reruns of Spongebob.
(And yes. The boy has been asked by a member of the girl tribe to hand out his phone number this week. When Hubs questioned him on it, he said, “Dad, I didn’t WANT to give her my phone number, but I had to, because she caught me off guard. I was going to give her a fake phone number, but then I realized that I didn’t have any fake phone numbers memorized.” Yes. I smell a Nobel prize on our horizon with that one.)
But yes. Six hours of TV, which were sanctioned and approved by Hubs, because apparently, “sometimes a little guy just needs some downtime,” and “the best kind of downtime is numbing your mind with a Pawn Stars marathon.”
So be it.
And then, during the six-hour TV spree, Hubs and one of his buddies went to see Act of Valor at the theater, because Hubs would never miss a movie about Navy SEALS. Of course he came home and announced that he had INDEED and MOST DEFINITELY missed his career calling, because he’s decided that he no longer wants to hunt the fake Big Foot or chase the F-5 tornadoes; Hubs still dreams of being a SEAL and swimming in alligator-infested swamp water while wearing camouflage paint and carrying a gun that is big enough to blow a hole clean through the moon.
(I dream of a simpler career, of course, which involves sitting around with a group of friends at Starbucks, taste-testing grande, no-water, non-fat, no whip, please and thank you chai lattes. Decorating my face with green and brown paint and putting a plug in the back of a bad guy’s head simply doesn’t excite me, because I’d be more apt to pee down my leg in fright than use a steady hand and get the whiskers of my scope lined up on his bald spot. And also? Well, I usually CRY when I get nervous and scared, so I’m sure that all the sobbing would give my SEAL team’s location away and I’d be asked to just sit the next mission out, thank you very much.)
With an evening pretty much to myself, I curled up on the sofa and read a book on Friday night, with two cups of hot cocoa, and SWEET HOLY MERCY! It was a fantastic evening, because I can’t even remember the last time I stayed in and READ! And I do LOVE the reading, even if the hobby skipped a generation and was lost on my son. The house, save for outbursts from the Old Man and Chumly on Pawn Stars, was quiet, and I escaped to Nantucket through a book.
(And really? Well, I think I missed MY life’s calling, too, because I’m pretty certain that I would have thrived as a person who summered on Nantucket my whole life.)
(And I really think Nantucket would have worked out for Hubs, too, because he could have snorkeled his way to shore and stormed the beach, pretending to be a SEAL.)
On Saturday, the quietness of our house erupted into full-on NOISE, as the cute neighbor boy came over. He was joined by the boy’s good friends, Bek and Quinn, and we had four boys running in and out… in and out… in and out of our house all day. They hit golfballs in our yard. They threw footballs at one another while they were riding scooters in the cul de sac, and tried to dislodge the scooter-rider. (Dear Diary of a Wimpy Kid Movie… I blame this on you!) They ate EVERY! SINGLE! SNACK! we had in the house. They threw Lego mini figures from the deck of the boy’s playhouse. They used sticks as swords and tried to bloody each other’s faces. It was exactly how a 5th grade boy SHOULD spend his Saturday, especially after he’d just spent six hours lying in a comatose state, watching television, the day before.
While all of this was going on outside, I was busy inside…
…painting more closet doors and trim. I have become obsessed with suddenly (after three and a half years of living here!) getting closet doors painted and ACTUALLY HUNG IN PLACE so that no one sees our bottles of Clorox and our bathroom towels and our scrubbing products.
Y’all. It’s exactly like I’m nesting.
Well, we went to church this morning.
And then we went to our friends’ house, because Gabe and Jodi were throwing a NASCAR party. As it turned out, it was the VERY BEST NASCAR PARTY I have ever been to, because the entire race was cancelled, due to rain. Ultimately, this meant that I got to sit around and eat some pretty substantial junk food and talk until my throat went hoarse, and I didn’t have to watch ANY cars driving around in circles, turning left. I’m not sure that I’m cut out to be a NASCAR fan. I’m definitely cut out to be a Rodeo Queen, but the entire concept of donning my tube top and wearing a hat that holds two beers with a siphon hose that keeps a steady flow of hydration going for when I develop an extreme thirst is lost upon me. All I really know how to do at a NASCAR party is eat the artichoke dip in great abundance and talk.
And now, people, we’re going to put this boring post to bed, because I hear there’s a sappy movie showing on the Lifetime channel.
And tonight I’ll get MY OWN Klondike bar out of the freezer beforehand.
Have a great Sunday.