I have literally been sitting at my desk for the past ten minutes, staring at a blank Blogger screen, wondering what on earth I could possibly have to write about tonight.
Other than the fact that my contact lenses feel like they’ve been hit by an Iraqi sandstorm and need to be peeled off of my eyeballs, and I am beginning to think that my glasses sound pretty good at the moment. Wearing them will make me look smart, and I’ll have immediate relief from the sandbox in my eyes. Win-win.
That topic alone has kept my mind entertained for ten consecutive minutes, as I’ve waged an internal argument with myself as to whether or not I should get up from the desk and take the contacts out.
And then I realized that getting up and taking them out would be entirely too much work, and, if I did this — if I actually walked across the house to the bathroom and plucked the little offending bits of plastic from my eyes — I’d probably just crawl into bed and be done with the entire evening, and then we could completely forget about a Tuesday night blog post.
So yesterday, I did indeed accomplish seven loads of laundry, if you’ll let me jump like a grasshopper on cough syrup to a new topic here. I’ve had about three people stop me today and say, “So…did some laundry yesterday, did we?”
Well, if you count seven loads as laundry, then indeed! The answer is yes!
I have to say that this was the very first topic of conversation that Hubs brought up when I collected him from work yesterday. He crawled into the Suburban, and we were destined for Gymnastics Land, USA with the boy and Ryan and their water bottles, and Hubs looked at me and asked, “Did you dig into that pile of laundry today? Will I have any workie-works to wear tomorrow?”
Yes, Nard Dog, the laundry is done. You won’t need to wear your jammie-jams to the office.
Hubs never really pays much attention to the pile of laundry in the closet, but apparently he grew tired of trying to step over this pile by the end of the weekend, and he was concerned that his stockpile of clean jeans was running a bit low.
If by a bit low you mean fresh out, then yes. He needed some laundry done.
And really? I would have just told Hubs, “Have at it. The Tide is in the cabinet in the laundry room,” but Hubs is prone to ruining laundry.
I am fully convinced that he does it on purpose, so I will look him in the eyes and say, “Do not touch the washing machine ever again.”
What else can I ramble about?
Did I mention that the contacts in my eyes are a bit dry? And that I can only really see the computer screen by squinting through the left one and completely closing the right one?
I had my 3rd and 4th grade PE classes run the half mile for a time today, and I’m fully convinced that I need to talk to their math teacher. Two of my little guys approached me after class, and they were both red-faced, and it wasn’t all from the running. They were ready to go toe-to-toe with one another and duke it out with fists and grunts and blood. I asked them what the problem was, and one yelled out, “He says that he beat me in the half-mile run, and his time is WAY longer than mine!”
I looked at their times. One accomplished the run in 4:27. The other pulled it off in 5:09.
Mr. 5:09 said, “My time is way higher than his, which means it’s BETTER! I beat him!“
And Mr. 4:27 yelled back, “Your time is WAY, WAY slower than mine, and I beat you!“
There were tears. Many tears. Lots of angry, frustrated tears. Apparently both boys were quite worked up about this. I did indeed have to say, “This is one of those times in life when you want the lower score. Like golf. Because in running, lower is better.”
And then we ended up with double tears, as the light switch was flipped.
This afternoon, I took the boy and one of his buddies to the park, because the spring weather made it impossible to stay indoors. The boy and Enzo frolicked and had a marvelous time, and ran into about six other boys who were familiar, so they soon had an enormous game of tag going on the playground equipment, and I sat at a park table with a couple of other mothers, enjoying the sunshine, and the day was perfect.
And then we ran into Jeremy and his kids.
Jeremy and his wife, Nina, are good friends of ours. Nina was at home, recovering from some out-patient surgery, so Jeremy had left her to rest, and he’d brought their darling little kiddos to the park to play.
And, after having spotted four other moms that he knew, he announced, “So now I officially know what stay-at-home moms do all day, and I can’t say that I’m pleased…”
We also do laundry, Jeremy. Sometimes laundry can last all day.
After our park outing, we dropped Enzo off at his house, and scooped up the boy’s friend, G. Hubs was starving — plum starving! He kept whining, “I’m so hungry, I want to eat a brontosaurus burger! I want a six-pound burrito! I want a 96-ounce ribeye steak! I am weak with the hunger!”
Hubs should have pursued a career in the theater.
Our refrigerator looks a little like Old Mother Hubbard’s at our house, so we decided that we’d venture out for a Man Vs. Food meal for Hubs, and we happened to see G riding her bike along the sidewalk in front of her house as we set out, so we stopped to see if she wanted to go with us.
She did, and off we went.
As we were driving along, Hubs saw a swanky little restaurant in town sporting an enormous banner on the side of its building. “All You Can Eat Jack Daniels Ribs Tonight.”
Hubs was sold. He needed no other convincing that this was where he should be.
He ordered the ribs, and I truly tried to take a picture of his plate with my cell phone, but the lighting in the restaurant was all wrong, and the photo didn’t turn out at all. Honestly, the ribs looked as though they’d been pulled out of a hippopotamus. It was the biggest rack of ribs I’ve ever seen plunked down on a plate.
Hubs grinned from ear to ear and said, “I may not need another plate of these in this all-I-can-eat fest.”
But really? Hubs gave up after eating less than half of his ribs. He sadly announced, “This is a bunch of boiled fat on a bone, smothered in barbecue sauce, with eight drops of Jack Daniels on the top. These ribs are disgusting. It’s like eating whale blubber.”
The boy and G were quite pleased with their spaghetti dinners, though.
I know this, because G actually ate more than three bites.
G, you see, is a snacker. She eats mini meals throughout the day. It’s what all the fitness magazines encourage America to do, and G has taken their advice seriously. Or rather, she’s just too tiny to hold much food at any one given sitting. Four bites of a meal can often push G’s belly to distended limits, so she has to pace herself. She likes to eat like Kevin, from The Office.
Three bites for Breakfast. Four bites for Late Breakfast. Two bites for Early Lunch. Three more bites for Lunch. One bite for Early Dinner. Three bites for Dinner. It’s how she rolls.
But the spaghetti dinner tonight? She actually consumed enough of it that we could see a visible dent in her meal, before she pushed the plate away and announced, “I’m going to explode, I’m so full.”
Hubs looked at her and asked, “So you’re saying you have no room for a bit of boiled fat on a bone, smothered in barbecue sauce? Because I have some extras Blue Whale ribs.”
People, I have nothing else tonight. I have lost the battle with the contacts, and they need to come out of my eyes.
And also? I am anxious to crawl into bed and read a couple more chapters in the Nicholas Sparks book that I started yesterday.
We all know how it’s going to end. Someone is going to die, or someone is going to leave someone. I think I’ve complained to Nicholas Sparks before about this.
Dear Nicholas Sparks,
What will it take to get you to write a happy ending?