It’s A Wear-Your-Yoga-Pants Sort Of Sunday Night

We are still weekending over here at the Jedi Manor.

(Which makes it sound like we’re people who “weekend.”  People who spend a substantial amount of time on Martha’s Vineyard.  People who drink vintage bottles of wine that they can’t even pronounce.  People who recline on the deck of the yacht and ask for caviar on crackers that aren’t Ritz.)

(None of that is true.)

(We drink our wine straight out of the box.)

(And I’m not sure that I would willingly eat caviar.  I have to draw a line on food choices somewhere, and smacking it down right in front of fish eggs sounds like the place to do it.)

(No caviar.  No Rocky Mountain Oysters.  No chicken feet.  No pickled eggs.  No calf brains.  No calf, period, because of BABY COW.  Grown-up cows?  Yes.  Baby cows?  NO!)

(I’m pretty sure I just threw up a little in my mouth after typing that list.)

Anyway, I’d love to sit here at the computer and type up a storm (Y’all know I could do it, too, and not really SAY anything after 12,000 words were complete.), but I’m going to hang out with my little family for what’s left of the weekend.  With any luck at all, I’ll see everyone back here tomorrow night for the same sentence-slaughtering you’ve come to expect.

But, before I go, I will leave you with this:

That would be me.  And every time I honk that sucker twice, Hubs looks at me and asks, “What?  It didn’t lock on the first honk?”

I don’t take the power that comes with the remote key fob lightly, people.  I mean some serious business when I lock up from the sidewalk.  It’s like ninja power.  Or superhero power.  Or mother-of-two-who-can’t-carry-her-purse-AND-the-baby-AND-the-diaper-bag-so-the-purse-is-staying-in-the-Suburban-and-locking-it-means-that-I’ll-still-have-my-credit-cards-and-chapstick-when-I-come-back power.

Y’all have a great Sunday evening.

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