The Weekend Of Poor Food Choices

So here’s some news.

I had the absolute grandest of intentions of doing some laundry around here, because let’s face it.  If I was Caroline Ingalls’ neighbor out on the prairie, she would take me aside in some form of an intervention, with Miss Beadle and Harriet Oleson gathered ’round for support, and let me know that I was failing in the area of Domesticity, because WHAT ON EARTH?  THE FLOOR OF YOUR WALK-IN CLOSET IS LITTERED WITH MORE CLOTHES THAN YOU ACTUALLY HAVE HANGING UP NOW.  I’m sure that there would be some accompanying, overly-dramatic viola music playing in the background, too, while Harriet tsk-tsked her way into showing me what a Town Failure I had become, which would effectively take the spotlight off of her daughter Nellie’s latest shenanigans.

My grand intentions of doing laundry quickly turned into me enacting every avoidance tactic known to the free world, as I read a book for most of the afternoon and even faked a nap.  I’d like to say that the nap was REAL and also QUITE GENUINE, but the honest truth is that when I flopped onto the bed and pulled the extra blanket up beneath my chin, my eyes sort of popped wide open, as they are prone to do when what I really need most in the world is some sleep.

So I played Word Chums on my phone, and bawled over the small fact that the two-letter combination of UL is not actually a real word that is recognized by the Word Chums dictionary.  My hopes of smacking down a 700-point word, as I hit THREE double-word tiles, ended in heartache and misery.  Apparently XU and ZA and QI can all be legitimate words with honest definitions, but UL is merely smoke and mirrors, as it amounts to absolutely nothing.

And then, when I had faked my nap long enough, I got up and read a real book, with real pages, because I’ve never been able to wrap my head around high-tech reading on Kindles and Nooks and microscopic iPhone screens.  No, ma’am.  The old-school person living inside of me is still in love with paper pages and bookmarks, which probably means that I shouldn’t really snicker about folks who still enjoy a little Barbara Streisand on a giant, vinyl record on the turntable with their nightly glass of wine.

So… our weekend was one that flew by.

Hubs and I attended a rather-lengthy conference on parenting this weekend, because the nerd inside of me thought it would be fun.  I had my notebook and my gel pens, and I was thoroughly prepared to sit at the table inside the lecture hall and take every manner of notes, exactly like it was 1990 again, and I was preparing for a final exam.  The conference ran all day Friday and all day Saturday, and, although we both thought that it was extremely interesting and full of great advice on becoming the parents that Jesus has always wanted us to be, I’m sad to report that Hubs shared none of my nerdy love for note-taking.  He didn’t even bring a pen with him.  He also checked sports highlights on his phone no fewer than 182 times, which made me realize that the poor fellow would have completely flunked out of college, had he gone when smart phones were something other than what the Jetsons used.

The conference hosts also set out enormous bowls of Bugles for late-afternoon snacking pleasures this weekend, and HOW HAVE I MISSED NOT KNOWING ABOUT THE BUGLE?  The crunch… the bit of salt… the hollow, triangular shape?  I’m going to go right out onto the furthest limb and say that it’s a bit of Snack Perfection.  Of course, Hubs chased his afternoon Bugles with a Mountain Dew each day, and I can’t even go there.

I’m not even sure that Mountain Dew counts as a real beverage product, rather than something that should go in a little cap-covered bladder inside a riding lawn mower to keep the engine working.  Of course, Hubs is the same fellow who ENJOYS a hot dog or nine from the local gas station, so we can’t expect him to have gourmet tastes like I do.

(If your church feels led to add Hubs to its prayer chain for his food choices, I won’t stop you.  Pray for him however the Spirit leads.)

The boy spent all of this afternoon entombed downstairs in our family room with two friends, creating some sort of video project for their advanced history class that involved capturing images online and manipulating them and blah, blah, blah, and creating a small video on some kind of historical war.  He tried to explain all the technical stuff to me, but all I heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher talking, so a lot of his conversation was lost on me.  But, I maintained my Mother of the Year status by baking two entire bags of miniature Pizza Rolls and ripping the top off a bag of already-made Chex Mix.  I put both of these food items, in enormous quantities, into two adorable bowls that I own, exactly like June Cleaver would have done, had her boys been very busy slaving away over a homework project that involved two laptops, three cell phones and three iPads tethered to the flat-screen TV with forty-six miles of black and white cables.  We notified the local fire department that we were, perhaps, overloading some circuits, so they shouldn’t get too comfortable at the fire house this afternoon.  The boys’ eyes lit up like fireworks when they saw my culinary presentation of junk food, and I heard whispers about how the snacks are always the greatest at our house.

I think it’s because we have no conscience when it comes to carbs and processed sugars, which is probably why we needed two entire days’ worth of a conference on great parenting skills.

Now, if I could just find a simulcast that covers the joys of MANAGING YOUR LAUNDRY EXACTLY LIKE YOUR GRANDMOTHER WOULD HAVE WANTED YOU TO DO, I’d be golden.

Happy Sunday, y’all.  If you need us, we’ll be in the bathroom, searching through the medicine cabinet for a jar of Tums.

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