We Had A Weeekend And Now It Is Over


The weekend is really over, and we’ve even managed to get through Monday without too many complaints.  That’s probably because I’ve spent the entire day smiling over the memory of Madonna’s halftime performance at the Super Bowl last night, and I’m now convinced that there is hope for EVEN ME to still be agile and flexible and full o’ the energy when I’m a ripe eighty-two years old.

On Friday, I was out of town because I was busy having lunch in Rival Town, USA.  That’s the only good thing to do in Rival Town — eat a good BLT sandwich (but mine is always just a BL, because there isn’t anything that’ll shut a sandwich down faster than a sloppy, dripping tomato that turns the bread to mush), avoid the water (because really?  Do we even know what Rival Town puts into their water storage tanks?), and hurry up and get back home.

Naturally, while I was in the middle of lunch with friends, the boy called, ALL!  THE!  WAY! from Small Town (where our water is clean and pure) and said, “Mom!  I forgot to tell you, but I need to bring soda for my class party!”

Apparently, that would have been the class party that was starting IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.  It would also have been the class party that the boy PLUM FORGOT TO MENTION TO ME.  And it would also be the class party where the boy apparently signed up to bring soda, and then immediately deleted the file off of the hard drive of his memory.

(Hubs will appreciate that little computer reference.)

(I don’t even really know what that computer reference means.)

Of course, there wasn’t much I could do to help the kid out, what with me being some one hundred odd miles away, so we simply punted.  I said, “Tell your teacher there will be no soda.  And I love you.”

So now our family looks like the responsible school family, who probably lives in a house on wheels with a sofa sitting out front in all the weather, and who cannot remember to bring a twelve-pack of A&W Root Beer to the classroom festival.

So be it.

On Saturday, the boy did some scuba diving in the local pool, because the boy is determined to become certified to dive IN THE OPEN WATERS and GIVE HIS MAMA HEART FAILURE, even though his mama is PLUM YOUNGER THAN MADONNA.  Hubs, you see, is a diver who thrives on waving good-bye to the shoreline and plunging beneath the lake to look for treasures.

(Chunks of seaweed.)

(Dead fish.)

(Broken fly rods.)

(Beer bottles.)

And I am of the opinion that if God had really wanted us to swim with the catfish, He would have given us gills.  That’s why I remain on the beach and keep the fire burning for meat-like hot dog products.

(And let’s discuss the meat products.  Or, more specifically, let me just assure you that McDonald’s is now dead to me, after my mama and Carrie both informed me that their cheeseburgers are dripping with pink slime that is toxic enough to eat through your stomach lining.)

(McDonald’s, shame on you!  There’s nothing in this world that can make my gag reflex kick in quicker than the words meat and slime used together in the same sentence.)

(Meat plus slime even trumps meat plus bones on the gag barometer.)

(I have deep-seated issues with ALL THINGS MEAT.)

(Of course, Hubs is convinced that this is a marketing strategy thought up by Wendy’s.)

(Hubs is hilarious.)

After scuba lessons, the boy and I ran enough errands that we wore ourselves out.  And y’all?  Having an eleven-year-old boy in your midst who is BORED FROM EXCESSIVE ERRANDS is a bad thing to have to deal with.

So we quit the errands, and we came home.

Which was fine, because Saturday was also my mama’s birthday, so Sister and I cooked dinner for her and my dad.

(And by cooked, I mean that Sister stopped at the local take-and-bake pizza parlor, and I turned on my oven and slid the pizzas inside.  And then I watched them carefully for precisely twelve minutes, and then I took the pizzas out.  And I used potholders.  And anytime a girl uses potholders, it qualifies as COOKING.)

The little birthday dinner was a smashing success, and Mam got some very nice gifts, because her daughters understand what it means to be EXPERIENCED SHOPPERS.

The kids had fun at the party, too.  Especially Cousin K, who was trying to console his baby sister while the bottle was being made.

Little H was not interested in K’s kind words of encouragement, in which he said, “Be quiet!!  Mom is making your bottle!  Just stop crying RIGHT NOW!”

His Y chromosome makes the words he speaks to girls flow like pure poetry.


Little H was not impressed with anyone…

…until the bottle showed up.

On Sunday, Hubs and the boy and I all went to church.

And then we went to the grocery store and spent a ridiculous sum of dollar bills on junk food, because I believe that the Small Town’s city ordinances state that it is against the law to ingest anything healthy during the Super Bowl.

And then Mika and James came over.  And so did Christy and Scott.  And we watched the football game together.

And by watched, I mean that Hubs and James and Scott sat downstairs in front of Hubs’ cherished big screen TV and cheered for the New York Giants (and I cannot say that without immediately thinking of Madagascar!).  The sad thing, though, is that the football season ended for those three grown-up boys as soon as the Broncos called it a season, hung up their helmets, and polished up their golf clubs.  Meanwhile, Christy, Mika and I sat upstairs and ate copious amounts of 7-layer bean dip and cheese dip and brownies.

It should never be said that we are shy about celebrating the last football game of the season with too much food.

And that, people, was our weekend.

And now we have exactly twenty-one Polish sausages left over, because apparently my math skills were not good enough to say YOU SEEM TO BE BUYING A PLETHORA OF HOT DOG PRODUCTS, MAMA, AND HAVE YOU FACTORED IN THE BEAN DIP AND THE CHEESE DIP AND THE ENORMOUS PAN OF BROWNIES?

Because the answer would be no.  No, I didn’t.

Guess what I cooked for dinner tonight?  Oh, yes.  Polish dogs.  And I used potholders, so hello!  It qualifies as cooking!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *