So I know that with that dancing video last night, I didn’t touch on anything else we did over the weekend. That’s probably just fine, because listen: We didn’t do that much. How can you make WE CLEANED THE HOUSE AS A FAMILY, WHILE HUBS AND THE BOY SIGHED IN HELPLESS SURRENDER TO THE VACUUM CLEANER sound interesting?
The answer is, you just can’t.
Housework is not interesting. It’s dirty, necessary work, but it isn’t interesting.
We also watched the Bronco game. The honest truth to that is that SOME PEOPLE in our family watched the football game, while OTHERS in our family sat on the sofa in front of the game, with a good book in her lap. At one point, I looked up and said, “He intercepted that ball in the end zone. The Chargers get it at the twenty.” That was the exact moment that Hubs looked at me with open shock, like he’d just realized the earth was NOT FLAT, and listen! You can sail right up to the edge of it and SURVIVE. I think he mentally applauded me, because MAMA JUST CAUGHT ONTO A PLAY AND MADE THE RIGHT CALL BEFORE THE REFS EVEN GOT TO IT.
And… I did it while I was in the middle of a book.
Clearly, my talent knows no bounds.
Hubs bought hot wings for the game, and, IN HONOR OF ME, he bought the boneless hot wings, which he insists aren’t really wings at all, but pieces of pressed chicken meat that have been dyed orange and sprayed with cayenne pepper. Hubs has even gone so far as to say that THESE WINGS may not have actually even been part of a chicken before… that perhaps they’re ground-up hooves from donkeys or even squirrel tails. He also bought honey-coated wings (also boneless), so I was able to snack away with him. I even tried one of the ORANGE-COLORED wings, and let me assure you: My mouth burst into flames like they were a distress flare from a sinking ship, and my tongue turned to gray ash.
I honestly don’t know how a person can eat those things and live.
The Denver Broncos were polite enough to win the game for Hubs yesterday, which has given his position as THE SOFA COACH some job security in this time of uncertainty with NFL play directors. Hubs likes to call plays before The Fox does. Sometimes he approves of what John Fox does on the sidelines, and other times he just mumbles, “What did The Fox say? THAT’S ridiculous!” It’s times like those that Hubs just relies on Peyton’s throwing arm and Eric Decker’s catching abilities.
But… whew. The Broncos are in the next round of the playoffs, and that makes Hubs happy, happy, happy, even when our friends text us pictures of themselves sitting in a suite at Sports Authority Stadium, while Hubs is stuck at home, watching the televised version of the big game.
And that was pretty much our weekend, people. Housework. Hot wings. Hustling football players.
The boy did jump ship on Saturday afternoon, so that he could go to a Wilderness Survival Birthday Party for a friend. Basically, this meant that they all hiked out into the middle of a giant field, miles and miles away from home, where they split into two teams. Each team competed to build the best shelter in that snowy field by the river, shoot a .22 rifle the best, build the fastest fire, locate hidden items with a compass and directions involving longitude and latitude and GIVE ME A HEADACHE, ALREADY, and make the best trap for catching wild animals for dinner. This sounds like a torture party, if you ask me, because THAT’S A LOT OF NATURE, and I hope that I’m never in a situation where I’ll have to build a shelter out of weeping willow branches and the picnic blanket I had in my backpack. The boys all ate MREs for lunch, and our son came home saying that those were the very best meatballs he’d ever had, and could we start ordering MREs online for our dinners?
(I won’t lie… I was all for it; MREs don’t involve a lot of cooking, apparently.)
The boy also declared Saturday’s party to be THE BEST! JUST THE BEST! birthday party that he’s ever been to in his entire thirteen years, and WHY HAVE HUBS AND I NEVER TOLD HIM ABOUT MREs OR LET HIM HAVE A PARTY WHERE EVERYONE SHOT .22s?
Obviously, our son has been incredibly deprived in the way of his own birthday celebrations, because I’ve always opted for hot dogs over Meals, Ready-to-Eat and their scrumptious, dehydrated meatballs.
We asked the boy how his team had done in all the competition. He assured us that his team had built something similar to the Taj Mahal, as far as shelters went, and that it only lacked marble countertops in the kitchen and a jacuzzi tub. He also showed us the targets, with several holes through the bull’s eye, and he said, “Those shots were mine.” Hubs and I didn’t doubt him; our boy could be a sniper with his shooting abilities. Apparently both teams built raging fires in seconds, because 7th grade boys specialize in Pyromania, so that event was listed as a tie. And then the boy admitted that their wild animal trap couldn’t have caught a rabbit with four broken legs who just sat there, because something went wrong in the engineering department.
He blamed the housework he’d done earlier that morning, claiming the radiation and sparks that the vacuum cleaner gave off fried his brain and caused him to make poor decisions in the trap’s design work.
But? Do you know what? Who needs a trap when you have MREs and boneless hot wings at your disposal?
Y’all have a happy Monday evening.