The boy has been at golf camp all week, which should have freed up my mornings for errands and chores, while he was out on the golf course, perfecting his swing and preparing himself to be the next face of Under Armour.
(He’s looking for an endorsement, especially when he discovered that athletes who sign with clothing companies get free merchandise. He wants his closet to be filled with nothing but Under Armour outfits and — ahem! — undies, in every color of the rainbow.)
(Except for pink, because the boy refuses to wear pink.)
(And purple. Because he’s not really keen on that one either. It saddened him, in fact, when the baseball uniforms were handed out this summer, and he discovered that the Bats are a PURPLE team.)
(He gets this from his dad, because Hubs is a blue-gray-black-brown-and-Bronco-orange-on-Sundays type of guy.)
And even though I had good intentions of using my mornings to scrub the house down so that we could play in the afternoons, I never really got around to that, because sweet mercy! Tiff and Gina and Mary and Barb were all dropping their kiddos off at golf camp this week, too, which meant that I never really made it out of the parking lot on the first day.
Because I talked.
And howled with laughter.
I imagine that this comes as an enormous surprise to y’all.
(I know that it shocked Hubs, because he thinks he’s married to a quiet girl, and he’s always saying, “I wish you had something to say.”)
(Actually, Hubs is just plum grateful for people like Tiff and Gina and Mary and Barb, because I have a lot of words to get out every single day, and if I don’t, then I save them all up for 8:00 in the evenings, and then Hubs must take them on like a barrage of machine gun fire. I think it goes without saying that Hubs doesn’t like to do this, because all of my talking tends to interrupt hockey games and old episodes of Fringe.)
On the second day of golf camp, I proceeded to do the exact same thing, but then RECOMMITTED myself to my grand intentions of coming home to do chores.
(I say that like I live on a ranch. Like I had to come back home and slop the hogs, and feed the ducks, and gather the eggs, and fix the fence, and fire up the tractor, and sweep the horse stalls, and milk the cow we named Old Bessie.)
(I think it’s safe to say that my chores were less intense.)
But yes. On Day Two, after telling Tiff, “Listen! I would love to stay and chat for all morning, but the laundry isn’t going to do itself,” I had just enough time to drive back through all the road construction on the highway to the golf course, where I spent some quality time stopped in front of a flag girl who spit sunflower seed shells all over the grill of my Suburban, and make a cup of Coffee Mate with a hint of coffee in it at home, before it was time to head back through the construction to collect the boy.
So clearly the eggs stayed in the chicken coop yesterday.
And then really?
Well, Kellen came over to hang out with us and dig through our 45-gallon tub of Legos yesterday afternoon, and I took the boys to see Mr. Popper’s Penguins, and TA DA! There was the day, done and over with, and none of the chickens or hogs or common city chores received any attention.
(But Mr. Popper’s Penguins? Oh, people! We adored it! I have to admit that I had my doubts, because listen: Jim Carrey usually does nothing but embarrass me when he’s skipping around on the big screen while he spins his arms and swings his hair all over the place, and I have never been a fan. Ever. Until yesterday, that is, because oh, my! It was just a cute, feel-good, great-for-the-entire-family-and-even-your-hound-dog-and-your-MeMaw sort of cinematic wonderment.)
(And the boy and Kellen plum loved it, and they laughed at the penguins until their sides ached. They laughed so hard, in fact, that one of the bags of popcorn hit the floor and was completely dead to us from that point on.)
(And then both boys announced on the way out of the theater, “We want pet penguins!” And even I was kind of on board with that, because low! Penguins are just flat-out CUTE.)
So by today, my house was looking a whole lot like an entire rookery of penguins lived here, except we did not have one sitting in the freezer drawer of our refrigerator, but that’s only because we DON’T HAVE a freezer drawer — we’re a side-by-side sort of family when it comes to our refrigeration needs.
Yes, our house really was that bad.
So I went to golf lessons with a single focus this morning: Drop the boy off, do nothing more social than WAVE AT PEOPLE, and get back home to romance my jug of Clorox bleach.
Which is exactly what I did, after I talked to Tiff for twenty minutes. I waved good-bye, and I came home, and I dug in, people. And then I picked the boy up, and I had a hired hand.
The hired part implies that I was paying him, when, in actuality, he was free labor under the authority of The Queen Jedi Mother. Together, the boy and I listened to Michael Jackson (at full volume), and Weird Al (also at full volume), and Mozart (at break-the-speakers-out sort of volume). I don’t know WHERE the boy gets his housecleaning playlists. Michael and Al and Wolfgang go together about as well as Lady GaGa and Def Lepperd and Travis Cottrell do, I guess.
(Between Hubs and I, I think we’ve messed our kid up, good and proper.)
We have kicked the rookery of penguins OUT of our house. The floors are clean; the laundry is done; the sinks sparkle. And when the house is THIS clean, I do hate to cook, so we simply had dinner at Jimmy John’s tonight, which helped keep the kitchen clean.
(Don’t let me fool you, though; I hate cooking even when things look like a frat house harboring a rookery of stray penguins around here.)
(Cooking is not my spiritual gift.)
(I can do it; I just can think of a thousand other things that I’d rather be doing.)
(Like scrubbing the bathrooms in a truck stop on an interstate in a shady state.)
So there you have it, people. It only took me 1,100 words or so to tell you that I talk a lot, and that talking in the parking lot of the golf course does not get the laundry done!
But really? Do boys get any cuter than our little golf pro?
But that would be an untruth, because we’re still sporting the shaggy ‘do over here.