I know that the blog was a bit neglected last week, but I had things going on. Namely, I had a manicure, a pedicure, and a haircut and color last week.
A few months ago, my friend Sarah commented that she’d had her teeth cleaned at the dentist office, visited her OB/GYN for the annual exam, and went to the eye doctor, all in the same week. She laughed and said, “I guess it was Personal Maintenance Week.”
I’m pretty sure that I like MY version of Personal Maintenance Week far better than Sarah’s concept of it, because my toenails are painted in Autumn Sunset, and the gal even got her craft paints and her itty bitty brushes out and painted a giant sunflower on my big toenail. Sarah did not have that little gem at the end of her Personal Maintenance Week.
I’m feeling a bit queasy in the stomach tonight. Please don’t tell Hubs, but I’m blaming a DiGiorno frozen pizza.
Hubs, you see, doesn’t like frozen pizzas, because he thinks his taste buds are all refined and high class. Never mind that he’ll eat a Bahama Mama hot dog the size of a gasoline carrying semi from the corner gas station; he draws the line at frozen pizzas. Back in the day, my friend Elaine and I used to heat up DiGiorno pizzas in our ovens all the time. We’d kick back for lunch on our decks, talk like a couple of chickens in a hen house, and proclaim the DiGiorno pizza the best in all the land. Hubs would wrinkle his nose and tell us that he didn’t want any of the frozen pizza spilling over from lunchtime to dinner time, which was when he was home.
Then Elaine packed up her bags and moved several states over, because she decided that hanging out with her husband during a job transfer was the thing to do. Never mind that she had fantastic friends in Small Town, USA. That was pretty much the end of my love affair with the DiGiornos, because no one else would eat them with me.
Now, a hundred years and numerous hot flashes later, I have Thing 2. Thing 2 loves pizza. He calls it “Aussa,” and he asks for it every day. The poor little bean will go stand in front of our refrigerator, hollering out, “Aussa! Aussa! Aussa!” with some genuine hopes that there’s leftover pizza in there, and that I’ll be a good little mommy and chop him up a piece.
He asked for Aussa at 7:30 this morning.
It’s so blasted cute, that it makes me want to run out, shake a Pizza Hut employee awake and say, “Get out of bed! Make my baby a pizza! He’s begging for one, and it’s killing my heart.” The sad double standard to this is that if the boy asked me for pizza at 7:30 in the morning, I’d be all, “What? No! We’re NOT buying a pizza for breakfast!”
Hollering for Aussa is cute when you’re one and a half.
After church today, Hubs and I went to the grocery store, and I bought my baby an Aussa. I decided to introduce him to the world of DiGiorno. I was excited, because I don’t think I’ve had one since Elaine moved, and that happened before either one of us knew what hot flashes and Women’s Mustaches were all about.
Hubs did not eat the Aussa for lunch, because of how classy he is, but Thing 2 and I dug right in.
And then I got a queasy gut.
DiGiorno pizza might be dead to me forever.
And that, people, was over five hundred words on the story of my lunch and subsequent gut ache. I think you might be in trouble tonight, because MY WORD at all THE WORDINESS.
Last Thursday, Thing 2 officially turned eighteen months old. Our baby is one and a half. I dressed him up Thursday morning in the cutest hand-me-down shirt from Carrie’s boys, with a coordinating tie. I used PRODUCT in the baby’s hair! And then I took the little pumpkin outside for a photo shoot. In my mind, he was going to sit like a baby angel would. His halo was going to glow bright, and I was going to get some amazing snapshots.
In reality, Thing 2 pretty much refused to look at the camera, because THE STICKS! THE STICKS! MA! LOOK AT ALL THE STICKS! We couldn’t function outside, because Thing 2 could not leave the sticks on the ground, and my dream photos evaporated like my deodorant usually does.
I did not grow up with brothers, and a boy’s obsession with ALL OF THE STICKS is something that I have never understood. Even at the age of thirteen, the boy still has about twelve good sticks in varying shapes and sizes stuffed away in his closet.
On Thursday night, the Denver Broncos played some football. This is where I go on record and state that Keith and Carrie watched the game from a box suite above Sports Authority Field, where waitresses brought them drinks with umbrellas and orders of fancy nachos all night long.
Hubs watched the game from our living room. He had made every effort to talk Carrie out of HER ticket to the game, so that he and Keith could have a Man Night on Thursday. Hubs said, “You and Carrie will just talk so much during the game anyway, the two of you would probably be more comfortable at home together.”
Yes. Yes, we probably would have been, but Carrie insisted on using her ticket that night and dating her husband.
Which, you know, left me at home with Hubs. After being at home all day with a toddler, I’m usually starving for adult conversation in the evenings, which means that YES! YES, I DID! I talked so much during the opening moments of the Denver game that Hubs had paused his live TV approximately nineteen times.
He had also sighed heavily about twenty-six times.
He was not interested in hearing my coaching strategies, so, people, I went to bed at 8:15, and didn’t learn until Friday morning that the Broncos had experienced a blowout of a football game. Hubs proclaimed them ON FIRE!
I’m also quite certain that he enjoyed watching the game in peace and quiet.
On Friday, Thing 2 took a twenty-five minute nap, because… well… I DON’T KNOW WHY. By 4:30 Friday afternoon, we were experiencing a total meltdown that had every indication of making Chernobyl look like a tiny thing.
And here’s the deal. SMALL TOWN HIGH SCHOOL WAS OPENING THEIR SEASON AT HOME ON FRIDAY NIGHT!
I did what any mature parent would do. I stayed at home to put Thing 2 to bed. He was asleep before our Small Town boys even received the opening kickoff. Hubs and the boy went with Hubs’ buddy, Paul, and his girls. They came home three hours later, laughing and telling me how much fun they’d had, and how Small Town High’s boys had knocked the other team down hard for a solid win.
(Hubs’ wife is incredible. She’ll give up a night of sitting in the bleachers, talking to all of her girlfriends, WHICH SHE LOVES DOING, so that she can put the baby to bed while Hubs attends the game.)
(She’s probably going to have big diamonds in her heavenly crown.)
On Saturday, Hubs and I drove over to Smaller Town, USA (some thirty miles down the interstate) to look at a great little sporting goods store over there. The boy, you see, needs new tennis shoes. The boy and I have NEVER had a problem shopping for shoes together in the past.
Shopping for jeans with the boy makes me ask for wine and Valium while I’m standing outside the fitting room. With the shoes, though, we’ve always been golden.
Until Saturday, that is.
Which is when we learned that the boy now hates trying on shoes, too, and WHY DO I MAKE HIS LIFE SO MISERABLE? Why can’t I just order him some dadgum shoes online, and if they don’t fit, I can send them back? Why? Why? WHY???
We came back to Small Town with no sneakers, and I made grand plans to date a bottle of Cupcake Wine that night. Hubs’ headache was even more grand than mine was on Saturday afternoon, so I left him at home alone to take a nap for THREE ENTIRE HOURS.
(Yes. I’m quite a catch, as far as wives go, aren’t I?)
The boy had hightailed it over to Enzo’s house, where he was moving in for the night, so Thing 2 and I visited my parents. And we visited Sister and her kids, while Sister’s Husband was on the mountain hunting. And we went to the park together, even though it was approximately four hundred and three degrees outside on Saturday. And then my baby boy and I had a date at Starbucks together, where we shared a cold drink.
My boys also wore matching T-shirts on Saturday, because I found an Under Armour shirt that came in each of their sizes. When your kids are thirteen and one-and-a-half, it’s hard to dress them all matchy-matchy.
This is their very first experience at being twins!
There was also a bad DiGiorno pizza.
And a forty-five minute nap for Thing 2, because he seems to be giving naps up. Ultimately, this means I may soon have a private room at the state mental institution and a new pair of bath slippers to shuffle around in.
There were no football games that anyone was interested in watching this afternoon.
And THAT, people, was our weekend.