I’ve been in A MOOD for most of the day today, simply because I woke up with a little blemish right above my lip.
And by little blemish, I mean that I look like I’ve decided to give that art of GROWING TUSKS a try. I had a meeting this morning at the school where I teach PE, with a group of teachers and counselors, so that we could all be on the same page with one little fellow who needs a little extra help, so I was up and at ’em early, using the hot rollers and the lip gloss and the iron. When Hubs kissed me good-bye, he simply whispered, “You have a little something on your lip.”
Yes. Yes, I do. I was the walrus in the corner, who was quite diligent about not turning my head in sudden movements, so that I didn’t take someone’s eyeball out at the meeting.
And yes, we had a fantastic weekend, because I hadn’t grown my tusk yet, so I wasn’t being chased by poachers.
By Friday afternoon, our best guess was that Hubs had worked somewhere between 82 and 84 hours for the week. The computers and high-tech security system at the new county building in Smaller Town were running smoothly, so Hubs decided to throw in the towel. Because the boy and I hadn’t seen him all week, the three of us piled into the Suburban, and we went to see the movie Real Steel (as in UNFAKE and MADE OUT OF METAL PARTS, which is absolutely nothing like Reel Steal, which involves someone taking your fishing pole without your permission).
People, it’s the perfect movie for families with boys. Hubs and the boy were happy, because it is packed with action and boxing and fighting and computerized, remote-controlled robots that look pretty spectacular. I loved the movie because the underlying theme is about a deadbeat dad who steps up and takes responsibility for his son and falls in love with that eleven-year-old boy of his.
And the answer is YES. I cried in the end when the dad finally realizes that he has what it takes to be a good dad, while Hubs and the boy were applauding the final fight between the robots and completely missing the HEARTWARMING issue beneath the boxing victory.
As we walked out of the theater, Hubs announced that he’d just been slapped in the face with a migraine that was going to knock him down, if he didn’t get home and deal with it. So, our plans of heading up to the high school football field to cheer the Small Town boys on were scrapped, and we went home for the night. Hubs took some big pills, we blamed the migraine on the culmination of a LONG work week, and then! Hubs found the game on the internet, which he ran through our big screen, so we sat like loaves of bread on the sofa and cheered our hometown boys to an enormous victory.
And then we went to bed.
On Saturday morning, we slept until 8:00, which made me feel like a teenager all over again. Even the boy slept in, which is absolutely UNHEARD OF at our house, because the boy is all about the EARLY MORNINGS. He and my 84-year-old great aunt get along swimmingly there. Unfortunately, Auntie B gets up very early to bake cakes and garden and vacuum and dust, while the boy gets up early to sit on the sofa with his fuzzy blanket and the TV remote.
By 8:15, we had made the decision as a family to dash up to Bigger Town, USA (which is a two-hour drive from Small Town) to visit the farmer’s market. We whipped ourselves through the showers, and we were off.
Off to Starbucks.
Ten feet away from the drive-thru exit, the lid on my chai tea popped off, and I dumped my hot drink all over the Suburban. We pulled over, and I used eighty-six napkins from the stash in our glove box to clean up the mess, while Hubs said, “How on earth did this happen?”
Two miles down the interstate, after having cleaned up the slop and discovering that I still had a fourth of my drink left in the cup, I took a big swig. The lid finished cracking, and I slopped what was left of my chai down the front of my shirt and all over my pants.
And that’s when Starbucks and I broke up.
Thirty miles away from Small Town, Hubs announced, “Oh, man! I never even thought to see if we had enough gas in the Suburban!”
Thankfully, we had half of a tank and were relieved to know we wouldn’t be stranded, calling our closest friends for help.
Sixty miles down the interstate, we realized that the cash we’d gotten for the farmer’s market was sitting on our kitchen counter at home.
The farmer’s market doesn’t take debit cards.
Thankfully, the boy had brought HIS wallet, which was loaded with two tens. We decided to shop lean.
And THINK about repaying the boy.
When we reached Bigger Town, we realized that there was NO FARMER’S MARKET GOING ON. Apparently their website, which says “Farmer’s Market: Open Saturdays, August through October,” really means, “We reserve the right to shut things down after the FIRST Saturday in October.”
Hubs looked at me and said, “We’ll be lucky to get home in one piece today.”
The boy looked at me and said, “Well, at least nobody’s going to steal my tens out of my wallet.”
The boy has a buddy named John, who moved to Bigger Town two years ago. With one phone call, the boy had booked himself a playdate for the entire day, and Hubs and I were left to shop by ourselves.
Hubs, you see, needed jeans, and, if it’s even possible, Hubs is a FAR WORSE CLOTHING SHOPPER than the boy is. I have been trying to talk Hubs into being fashionable and trendy, and steering himself away from Levi’s and Carhartt jeans. I’ve told him to consider the whiskered jeans. Even Christy rode on my train, as she told Hubs, “Listen, Hubs! You’ll never regret a pair of jeans from American Eagle! You’ll be so hot!”
Stubborn Hubs replied, “I’m shopping at the ranch supply store for Carhartts, or I’m not shopping.”
And so that’s how we came to own more Carhartt jeans.
Hubs and I ended up at Costco on Saturday, too, where Hubs bought enough beef that the cashier said, “I think it might have been cheaper to simply buy the whole cow.”
But Hubs’ ammunition is all set for his Traeger grill for quite some time.
Eventually we collected the boy from John’s house, and we headed for home, because Enzo’s family was hosting a big homemade pizza party, and listen, people. Enzo’s dad is a chef, and it’s never your best decision to SKIP one of his dinner parties. He was grilling pizzas on Saturday night, and we were so there!
But by the time we actually got back home to Small Town, I was beat down and so was Hubs. We ended up SKIPPING THE GRILLED PIZZAS, but we dropped the boy off, because the boy is never tired.
Even when he REALLY IS tired.
While the boy was partying, Hubs and I sat on the sofa with a bottle of wine and watched the Colorado Avalanche win in a shoot-out.
And then Hubs collected the boy.
And then we all went to bed.
This post, it’s riveting. I don’t know how you’ve managed to read this far!
On Sunday, we went to church. And then the boy met his friends at the local (very dirty) roller rink, because Bek was having a birthday party. The gang skated and skated and skated, and then we brought Patrick home with us, so that he and the boy could build with Lego bricks for the rest of the day.
Hubs took a nap on Sunday afternoon. When he woke up, he announced, “Even Joe Sakic and Batman take naps after a long work week.”
And then Hubs cooked an enormous roast in a pan of butter on his Traeger, and we stopped at Jimmy John’s for day-old bread, so that we could have hot roast beef sandwiches.
I think Patrick summed it all up nicely as he said, “These are the VERY BEST sandwiches I’ve EVER EATEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! In fact, this has been my favorite day EVER! I just loved today! Roller skating! And Legos! And these sandwiches! You need to tell my mom how to make these sandwiches!”
Hubs said, “It’s all about the butter marinade, the Jimmy John’s bread, and my amazing skills at the barbecue.”
Hubs is so humble.
And THAT, people, catches you up to speed.
I’m going to dig through the medicine cabinet to see if I have any Miracle Tusk Shrinking Cream and head to bed.
Happy Monday night.