From here on out, you can just refer to me as Goldilocks, because THIS BED IS TOO NOISY and THIS BED IS TOO HARD and THIS BED IS FULL OF POPCORN.
And all of that makes for just four sweet hours of sleep.
It all started last night with Hubs’ sinuses. Hubs has spent some time in a field barbecuing a pig, where he inhaled all the classic allergens… ragweed and pollen and cotton and alfalfa and fresh air. Add some pig-cookin’ smoke to that. And then take him to the lake, where he encounters more weeds, and I’d call it a Trifecta of Allergen Hell.
Which, of course, meant that Hubs would be snoring like some chainsaw-wielding cartoon character, because CLOGGED SINUSES, Y’ALL.
Bless his heart.
And that is how that bed was too noisy.
Because I’m resourceful, I simply picked up my pillows and a blanket, and I migrated like a nomad out to the sofa in the living room. What I failed to remember, though, is that Thing 2 ate a little snack of popcorn on the sofa yesterday, and listen: It was worse than being a real princess, sleeping on a pea beneath a pile of mattresses stacked forty-eleven high. I frantically swept at the sofa cushions with my hands, trying to dislodge small chunks of Orville Redenbacher, but it was like draining the ocean with a teaspoon. Every time I tried to snuggle back down on the sofa, a popcorn hull bit me somewhere, which is when I knew it would have been more comfortable to pull my eyebrows out, one hair at a time.
So I went back to the bed that was too noisy, hoping that some good kicks would convince Hubs’ sinuses that they could breathe normally, but good luck is never on Goldilocks’ side.
Which is why I ended up on Thing 2’s bedroom floor. I packed my pillows and my blankets into his room, hoping that I could find comfort on the fuzzy rug, but that was a solid strike-out, too. There’s just something about being OLD and SLEEPING ON THE HARD FLOOR which makes your left hip think it’s going to snap in half if you don’t get up and move.
At that point, I really just wanted to get into the Suburban and slap my debit card down at the Holiday Inn’s front desk. Instead, I went back to the sofa… and I went back to sweeping like an arm-flapping lunatic, with big hopes of dislodging all the hidden bits of popcorn pieces.
I think I finally fell asleep around 1:45.
And Thing 2 was up at 5:30.
It was a beautiful night.
But… before all of that happened… it really WAS a beautiful night. Because the mercury has been above the four-hundred-degrees mark for the past few days, we organized an evening at the lake with some friends.
Of course, Katie texted me early in the afternoon and said, “The weather app indicates severe thunderstorms and rain and every manner of foul weather, and what should Plan B include?”
I texted Katie back and said, “What? It’s blue skies, and it’s a tropical one hundred degrees outside.” And then I probably added a nice #LakeOrBust.
And then I called Jodi, and said, “Katie thinks it’s going to rain.”
I could hear Jodi shaking her head over the phone, as she said, “It’s all blue skies and a monster heatwave out there.” And then I think I heard her pound out a #HereWeComeLake.
Which is when Katie texted back and said, “Packing. We’ll meet you out there.”
We were so glad to see that Katie had adopted some common sense, because this is Small Town, USA, where it NEVER rains in July, because the thermometer is always exploding from THE MERCURY WENT TOO HIGH AND HAD NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, SO IT BROKE THE GLASS.
When we all arrived at the lake, the wind was blowing hard enough that your paper dinner plate couldn’t sit on the picnic table without your giant water bottle to hold it down.
And the sky was darkening.
And the children were freezing.
And that’s when Katie revealed that what she meant by her text that said PACKING was that she had, indeed, packed sweatshirts and parkas and fur-lined blankets and probably even electric heating pads for her family, because SHE is the leading candidate for Mother of the Year, ’14.
Every child in the next few snapshots who is wearing a sweatshirt belongs to Katie. They’re the warmer children, who have THE PREPARED MAMA. Jodi and I have the kids who are shivering to death, with the blue lips, because we just didn’t believe in the power of the weather app.
From now on, we have learned to trust Katie’s iPhone. MY iPhone needs an exorcism and rarely tells me the truth about anything. It freezes up… it shuts itself off automatically when I’m in the middle of something Very Important… it has a home button that gave up the ghost completely… it needs a generator to run Facebook at any speed faster than DEAD SNAIL… and sometimes it tells me that it’s 67 degrees outside when what it really meant was 93.
Apparently, not all iPhones are created equal, because Katie’s future-predicting Suri was spot-on.
It might have been cold enough and windy enough to make us think we were climbing Mt. Everest, but the kids went in the water. They were a little timid at first… and a little slow… and then BOOM! They were all soaking wet and throwing sand at one another.
Otherwise known as Navy SEALs.
Hubs and Paul both acted as our Baywatch lifeguards last night.
They were a touch cold.
Except that short one in the back row with the banana. He had no idea WHY his mother and the other three moms at the lake had INSISTED that he evacuate the water immediately, what with the rain and the lightning officially coming in.
And even then, it’s iffy. It all depends on whether the shark is hungry, and whether it’s a Great White or a Gray Nurse Shark.
But, regardless of Thing 2’s very loud, vocal protests about, “Seriously? We’re getting out of the water now because of a LITTLE LIGHTNING? Did you know that more people are killed every year by tick bites than they are lightning?”, we called it a night when the rain struck.
And we drove home in a monsoon.
Because apparently Katie’s weather app really knew what it was talking about.