Even Real Princesses And Charlie’s Angels Endure HO-HUM, NOTHING-MUCH-GOING-ON Days

How do I even make today sound interesting?

I got up just as God was throwing some pink on the East horizon, because at 5:10 this morning, Thing 2 yelled, “Good morning, Ma!”  I tried to convince him that 5:10 is an unholy hour, and that polite society neglects it completely, but he was having none of it.  So we got up and had coffee.  Or rather, one of us had coffee, because the other one of us is simply too short for coffee, and his fine motor skills are still shaky enough that we would have had a burn accident if he’d had his own cup.

And then I did a little bit of my Bible study homework, because Thing 2 was mesmerized by his gym toy on the living room floor, and he was determined to kick the ever-loving snot out of it with happiness and his exuberant outdoor voice.

And then we got Hubs off to work.

And the boy woke up at the healthy and dignified hour of 8:00 AM, because his morning etiquette is so much better than Thing 2’s.

And then I went to the salon, because BRING ON THE COLOR, HAIR WIZARD!  Apparently when you’ve had as many birthdays as I have had, you go blonde here and there.  The new blonde hairs always grow straight up in the air and bear the title of UNATTRACTIVE.  The hair wizard fixed me up, though, and I’m back to being one of Charlie’s top-rated angels.

Just without the feathered sides.

Because I know when a hair fad has died out.

Which makes me quite sad, because the banana clip of yesteryear was an accessory that spoke my love language.  Nothing vaulted itself to Total Hair Victory like a pumped up Rave permanent squeezed up in a neon banana clip.


And then there was some laundry folding.  And some dishes that got themselves loaded into the dishwasher.  And I made meatballs for dinner, because apparently I found myself with some extra time on my hands, and WHY NOT?  Why not spend a glorious afternoon like a kitchen slave, making meatballs?  I’d almost rather clean the bathrooms at a well-used truck stop than make meatballs.

My meatball decision completed Hubs, though, because any dead animal, whether it’s in the form of a steak or a seasoned blob of ground meat, speaks in words that are written in fancy cursive to Hubs.

And while the meatballs were cooking themselves in the crockpot (Which?  Can we speak plainly here?  God bless the crockpot!), the boy and I attempted to paint a little art project that I saw on Pinterest and thought, YES.  WE CAN RECREATE THAT, AND IT WILL BE MARVELOUS, AND IT WILL HANG IN THE BOYS’ BATHROOM, AND ALL OF OUR GUESTS WILL RISE UP AND CALL ME BLESSED AMONG WOMEN WHO ACCOMPLISH ALL THE HOUSEWORK AND RAISE THE KIDS AND STILL HAVE TIME FOR CLEVER CRAFT PROJECTS THAT LOOK LIKE A MILLION BUCKS.

Apparently I overestimated my artistic abilities, because I got my crafting on like a fevered opossum who lost both of her front arms in a steel trap.

Which is to say, “Dear Pinterest, The boy and I failed our first attempt at recreating something we saw on your website, which is probably why I still don’t have an account with you, because really?  Am I going to invest intensive labor into all the pictures I pin in a file called I CAN PROBABLY DO THIS PROJECT AT HOME?”

The answer is no.

No, times seventy-seven.

And while our wreck of a painting project was drying on the deck, and while the meatballs were simmering in the crockpot, I took the boy to the golf course, because he had some private lessons scheduled.

And I took some snapshots, because listen.  I haven’t had the camera at the golf course very much this summer, but I think that’s okay, because eventually all golf pictures look exactly the same, because if you’re using proper form, then YES.  When you smack the ever-loving snot out of the dimpled ball, you end up looking just like you did for the past twenty-six photos your mother took.

We love the boy’s golf instructor.  He and the boy have become pals.  Hubs and I feel like it’s okay to invest the equivalent of our home mortgage in private lessons, because the boy will take care of us financially when he wins the US Open for the first time.  Plus… golf is not hockey, like all the cousins play.  Hockey is played outside in the winter, and I would rather take a toothpick to the eardrum than stand outside in all the cold.  At least with golf, I can simply clap quietly (because loud claps with a WHOOP!  WHOOP! follow-up are generally frowned upon at golf tournaments), and then whisper, “Listen, honey.  Mama is feeling a touch overheated, what with it being three hundred and nine degrees outside, so Mama’s just gonna go sit for a minute in all that nice air conditioning in the clubhouse and have an iced tea with six REAL sugar packets.”

Thing 2 was just happy to be outside in the sunshine this afternoon, because outside is a far cry away from his crib.

Thing 2 already understands at the age of four months that you take naps in a crib, and Thing 2 is all about the nap-fighting.

And then we came home, people, and we ate meatballs and rice and Brussels sprouts for dinner.

And Thing 2 had a bath, and he went to bed, and I folded another load of laundry, and the boy putted REAL golf balls in my house, until I had to actually say the words:  “If you break a window with a golf ball, I will personally see to it that you never golf again until your 4oth birthday.”

And now Tuesday is jack-smack over with, but at least all of my windows are still in one piece.

I know this post was completely riveting.  And that I started pretty much EVERY sentence with the word AND.

Somewhere an English professor just suffered a stroke.

I’ll see y’all back here tomorrow night, where we’ll talk about other exciting topics, like how I cleaned a toilet and used stain remover on a size 10/12 boys’ T-shirt.

Happy Tuesday, people.

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