(Because clearly, I always like to state the obvious.)
And, as far as Mondays go, this one has been fairly fine. I mean, it wasn’t like last Thursday, when I picked Thing 2 up from preschool to learn that YES, and also INDEED, he had scribbled all over a friend’s face with a green marker. The recipient of the scribbling, although freshly scrubbed up by the teacher, still showed signs of faint green streaks on his face, because sometimes the words WASHABLE MARKER are nothing but a fat lie.
I grilled Thing 2 about this, and he said, “Well… he had the blue marker and I had the green one. And I wanted the blue one, so I asked him nicely… just like you’re supposed to do, Mom! I tapped his shoulder and I ASKED NICELY. And then he told me NO WAY, and he hid the blue marker under his leg, so that I couldn’t have it. So… I wrote on his face, Mom, because I’m not a coward!”
I let Thing 2 know that scribbling on your friend’s face isn’t FIGHTING WITH HONOR. He gasped. “It’s not, Mom?”
“No. Scribbling on your friend’s face is just being a stinker.”
Which probably explains why, in Walmart yesterday, he leaned over the side of our shopping cart and announced to a completely random stranger, “If you write on your friend’s face with a marker, it’s not fighting with honor.”
She stood up from examining her choices of Campbell’s Soup cans on the bottom shelf and gave us the look that you give to all the weird people in Walmart.
But that was Thursday, and we’ve put the incident behind us. By Friday, Thing 2’s little friend from preschool showed no visible marks of vandalism any more, after his own sweet mama rescrubbed him in a bubble bath.
We assume he’ll also be much better about sharing blue markers these days, because Thing 2 is not to be messed with.
When Friday night rolled around, we had some options on our calendar. Our high school girls were playing volleyball at home, and we always love to go cheer them on, clapping like lunatics as we balance bags of popcorn in our laps. We also had some friends who were going out for hot wings and adult beverages, and hollered, “Join us!” I took a look at the rest of our weekend on the big family kitchen wall calendar (because I am horribly old-fashioned and refuse to use my iPhone for planning my life out on) and that’s when my friendly, extroverted-introvert self decided that there were going to be very limited hours to just be at home, in our pajama bottoms.
Which is why I told Hubs that I was throwing all social events under the bus and staying home. We put Thing 2 to bed early, and then I fired up Friday Night Lights on the Netflix.
Listen, y’all. I know that Friday Night Lights is an old HAS BEEN show, and everyone and their sister’s cousin’s mother-in-law’s neighbor has already seen every episode, but we had seen exactly ZERO-POINT-ZERO episodes. We were in need of a new show to watch, so boom. FNL it was.
It panned out wonderfully… for me.
Hubs declared it something that he just couldn’t get into, and “GOOD GRIEF! THIS IS ALMOST AS BAD AS DALLAS AND DYNASTY, and I’m going to go listen to the Small Town High boys play some football on the radio.” I feel that this just indicates that Hubs seldom has good taste in TV drama, although he and I get along like peanut butter and good jelly when it comes to sitcoms. We always agree on decent comedies, but apparently if Hubs is going to watch a drama, he needs explosions, rocket launchers, car chases and someone successfully escaping the clutches of the FBI when they’re in full pursuit.
Now. I have never binge-watched a show before. Never. I know, I know. The invention of Netflix has made me the minority here. Hubs and I will watch a couple episodes of a comedy together one night, and watch two more episodes the next night, but I’ve never just flopped on the sofa and let Netflix keep playing a show, over and over and over, in one evening, but I have now joined ranks with those who have.
Friday Night Lights is now my guilty pleasure. How have I lived this long without Coach and Tami Taylor in my life?
On Saturday, Beth Moore, my favorite Bible teacher of all time, was putting on a simulcast. One of the church’s in town was using its access to the internet and satellites and mass technology, so that Beth could be seen on their big screen all day. I met up with a pack of girls at this church. We all crammed ourselves together into one long row of trouble that smelled of all sorts of delicious perfumes, and we were off to the races.
I took page after page of notes, and felt like, “Yes, this is a GOOD simulcast,” but I hadn’t hit the GREAT SIMULCAST level. I just kept scribbling furiously, writing down all the important points Beth was making throughout the morning, and then she started talking about how our lives are a symphony before God, and how every single seat in the orchestra is always turned so that it has a direct view of the conductor. Every musician needs to be able to see the conductor at all times.
I diligently wrote it down, nodding my head, mumbling, “Yes. How true.” I’m sure everyone can figure out that Beth was implying that the conductor is God, because clearly He’s the one who kind of runs the show and is in charge of everything.
And then Beth said, “If you cannot see the conductor from your seat… if there is someone or something standing in front of you so that your vision of the conductor is blocked… that someone or something WILL BECOME YOUR CONDUCTOR. Tell that someone or something to SIT DOWN.”
And that’s when I pretty much stopped taking notes and picked my jaw right up off the floor, because MAYBE THAT LINE WAS MEANT EXACTLY FOR ME.
I felt like Beth (I call her by her first name, even though I’ve never met her before, because we ARE best friends, in my mind) was pointing directly at me through the big screen, as she said, “Did you hear me, Jedi Mama? I said, IF SOMEONE OR SOMETHING IS BLOCKING YOUR VISION OF THE CONDUCTOR, IT WILL BECOME YOUR CONDUCTOR. TELL THAT PERSON OR THING TO SIT DOWN, SO THAT YOU CAN SEE THE LORD!” And then I sort of felt like everyone in the audience at this little church in Small Town, USA was staring right at me, because Beth Moore had just singled me out and barked at me about DID YOU WRITE THIS DOWN??? AND DID YOU CIRCLE IT ALL WITH YOUR PEN???
In other words, I’ve had to spend the rest of my weekend telling some things to sit down.
The simulcast was loads of fun, because… well... I shared the day with so many of my closest girlfriends.
On Saturday night, Sister’s family and our family met up at Mam and Pa’s house for a spaghetti dinner, and then we came home to more Friday Night Lights episodes.
The thing is, though, I hadn’t slept well on Friday night, so I was dead tired on Saturday night, which is when the boy announced that his teenage social life was about to happen… at 9:15. He zipped off with the cute neighbor boy, and was under orders to be home by 11:30.
Which meant that one of the adults living at our house had to step up and be responsible and… you know… WAIT UP FOR HIM. I’ll just go on record and state that when I announced this to Hubs, with every intention of going to bed and leaving Hubs up, Hubs actually brushed his teeth at the speed of a lightning strike and jumped into bed before I had even finished talking.
So there I was, under the influence of exhaustion, and waiting up for 11:30 to roll around.
I would now like to publicly apologize to my own mother for ever thinking that I needed a curfew past 8:30 PM when I was in high school. I would also like to publicly apologize to her for telling her that she could just go to bed, and I’d come inside quietly and see her the following morning, because THERE WAS NO NEED FOR HER TO WAIT UP! Clearly, these things are utter nonsense. Mamas NEED to know that their teenagers are home. They NEED to have all of their peeps tucked under the same roof safely, before they can go to sleep themselves, because WHAT IF SOMEONE IS DEAD, FACE-DOWN, IN A DITCH???!!! Also…WHY MUST TEENAGERS ENJOY THE LATE EVENING HOURS AS MUCH AS THEY DO??!! Their parents are old people now and need to take their Centrum Silver with a Metamucil cocktail and get themselves into bed before 9:00 in the evenings.
And really? Is anyone even still reading this? Because I feel like I’m rambling, which is totally nothing new.
On Sunday, we had church.
Afterward, we met Brian and Sarah at the park for a picnic lunch. They brought their twin nine-year-old boys, who chased Thing 2 around and around, like monkeys chasing a weasel, and wore that small boy of ours plum dadgum out.
Glory, glory and also hallelujah.
We came home to Broncos football and a messy kitchen. I’ll give you three guesses as to which adult watched football and which adult cleaned the kitchen at our house.
And then, I made a grocery list that included everything except motor oil and a new kitchen sink. We went into Walmart as a family of four, but we split apart into two teams. We ripped the giant list in half, had Thing 2 holler out, “Ready, set, GO!!!,” and we raced around the super center with two carts, grabbing what was on our lists.
We set a new speed record for the length of time it took us to fill two carts and dump $200 out of our checking account. Thing 2 and I were on a mission to be the faster team and totally beat the boy and Hubs, but those hooligans beat us by two items. Oh, yes. When they found us, we still had to get CRACKERS and GATORADE, which made us the losers. Thing 2 was a bit bent out of shape about it, until I convinced him that we would LOSE WITH HONOR, and congratulate the winning team. That’s when he said from his cart, “Good job winning, Bubbie… but I don’t really mean it.”
It’s pretty much how we all feel when we lose.
And then, people, the weekend was over.
Happy Monday, y’all.