It’s Sunday night, and y’all know what that means.
There’s a new episode of Hunting The Ever-Elusive Big Foot on TV, and my people are thinking that they need to watch this one. For some reason, they think that THIS EPISODE is going to be the one where the cast bags themselves an extra-hairy gorilla, but I’m a skeptic. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, “Um, I doubt it. I think they’re going to HEAR a lot of banging on trees and they’ll run around in the dark like little boys at a slumber party with expensive night vision goggles, but there will be no monkey at the end of the show who took a tranquilizer dart in the butt.”
I offered to watch the show with Hubs and the boy; they both shot me down and insisted that WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO TO BED, MAMA, WITH A GOOD BOOK AND SOME HOT COCOA AND REST YOURSELF, BECAUSE YOU WORK TOO HARD AROUND HERE?
I have no idea why they don’t want me downstairs with them to be an eye-witness to all of the very serious monkey hunting.
We’ve had a very busy weekend around these parts, because we like to fill our weekends with a lot of adventures and coffee that’s been heavily laced with four inches of sugar in the bottom of the mug and enough half-and-half to turn it into a beverage called COFFEE FLAVORED MILK. And I’d tell you all about our weekend, but here’s the thing: It’s Sunday night (I know; I already told you that part), and I don’t know why I even bother to blog on Sunday nights anymore, because my mood plummets on Sunday evenings. I know we’re going to go to bed and wake back up in a reality full of alarm clocks and deadlines and school and jobs and WHO IS GOING TO WASH THE TOWELS AND JEANS TODAY? I told Hubs that I think I would find a deep satisfaction if he’d win the lottery and retire from his job. Then we’d stay at home with our boys all week long, week after week, and I’d homeschool the boy. I’d read him stories about Sacajawea, and we’d make leather vests out of crinkled-up paper grocery sacks. And we’d even mix baking soda and vinegar together, just to see what happens.
Except the boy is now into dividing fractions and plugging x into equations and listing ways that his family can cut down on the amount of trash that we throw out of this house.
So maybe I won’t homeschool him after all.
I was lost at DIVIDING FRACTIONS.
So yes. What we seem to have here is another very boring Sunday night post, because Mama is going to throw her hands into the air, say good-bye to the weekend, and read a book in bed.
It’s what my people have suggested I do.
Y’all have a happy night, and we’ll see you back here tomorrow evening, unless we hear that we’ve won the Power Ball. And then you won’t see me here, because Hubs and I will probably be at Starbucks, sitting on the leather sofa, with eight empty chai tea cups in front of us, celebrating.
Oh, I jest, people. Hubs doesn’t drink chai lattes. He won’t even order one for me in the drive-thru, if I’m not with him, unless he’s ordering a more manly drink at the same time. He’s afraid the baristas will say, “There goes a fellow who’s secure with himself; he just ordered a grande, no-water chai.” If Hubs is alone, and he’s bringing home the chai tea, he also shouts into the drive-up speaker, “And I’ll have a venti mocha, with fourteen shots of espresso and enough chocolate syrup to bake a birthday cake for a Big Foot.”
Do our boys even stand a chance of growing up normal?