Well, it has already happened.
We have fallen into the WHAT DAY OF THE WEEK IS THIS? routine of summer vacation, as evidenced by the small fact that yesterday was Wednesday, and the boy has youth group at 6:00 on Wednesday evenings. However, we weren’t thinking “Wednesday,” because we were terribly busy thinking, “This is some fantastic chicken you grilled here, Hubs!” and also, “Don’t you just love June weather and unscheduled evenings?” instead.
Which is why, when the our friend, Ciara, texted us at 6:02 last night and asked if the boy was going to youth group, we nearly flipped the chairs of our dining room table over, in our mad scramble to STUFF THAT LAST BITE OF CHICKEN IN YOUR FACE! and HURRY! HURRY! HURRY! YOU CAN STILL MAKE IT BY 6:15 AND NOT BE DREADFULLY LATE!
Of course, this is a surefire recipe for a very relaxing dinner, with a side dish of crazy.
And I know that I haven’t been around the blog much this week, because I just had to sweep the cobwebs out here at Jedi Mama, Inc. when I fired the computer up this evening, but really?
It’s summer break, and I wasn’t sure that anyone wanted to read about how we sat on the deck in the sunshine and watched Thing 2 go down his slide in ways that are most definitely NOT approved by OSHA. And I’m sure no one really cares that part of my day yesterday was dedicated to vacuuming up an entire bag of tortilla chips, which Thing 2 had stolen out of the pantry, dumped on the floor of our home office, and then danced upon. He got the placement of words in the sentence wrong. Most people eat salsa with their tortilla chips, but Thing 2 just heard SALSA, and decided to go with a self-choreographed and interpretive salsa DANCE on the chips, which resulted in tortilla chip dust.
Had the wind picked up inside through an open window, we could have suffered the Great Dust Bowl of ’14 with what we had on our hardwood floors.
See? What I have to tell y’all about tonight works just as well as a heavy dose of lavender, followed by an Ambien chaser.
You’re welcome for the PUT ME TO SLEEP TONIGHT post. I’d tell you that I also hope you “sleep like a baby” tonight, but I think you’d feel better if you just “slept like a teenage boy on summer vacation.”
Because if anyone has any ideas on how to get one of THOSE out of bed in the mornings, I’m all ears. Hubs and I have one that we can’t convince to STAY ASLEEP in the mornings, and another one that we can’t convince to WAKE UP in the mornings.
I’m hoping Hubs and I can actually laugh about this when we’re both 92 and sitting in rocking chairs on the front patio of the nursing home, but, if my current memory skills are any indication, by the time I’m 92 I will have forgotten that I even had a teenager once upon a time.
In other news, the boy has been on the golf course several times already this summer, because he needs to hone his skills, if he’s going to win the purse in the US Open and buy his mama a trustworthy vehicle.
Because? Did you hear? My Suburban coughed twice and left me and Thing 2 ON OUR FEET on the interstate. And really, that’s not entirely true, because it actually coughed twice and said, “I will now not drive in the forward direction at any speed greater than 19 miles per hour.”
Try THAT speed out on an interstate, people! All I did was give thanks to the Lord that I wasn’t in a major, thriving metropolis where people would have driven over the top of me at a thousand miles per hour and left their tire tracks on the top of my head.
And, in case you’re wondering, it’ll take you a sweet forever to get anywhere at nineteen miles an hour when you’re on the interstate.
So now the Suburban is in the shop, thanks to a tow truck who came and got it. At last report, the whatchamacallit was plugged and also sideways, and the thingamajig had exploded, and do we want to have it fixed, to the tune of three years’ worth of college tuition at Harvard Law, or are we okay with spending the rest of our lives driving around at 19 miles an hour?
Since I am married to the man who thinks Jeff Gordon drives too slowly, we’re having the issue taken care of, and then I will be fixing air and water for dinner for the next century to cover the bill at the mechanic’s shop.
I did drop the boy, Enzo and Quinn off at the golf course one day this week, while my camera was in Hubs’ car, so I hollered, “Squeeze together and smile! And sparkle and shine, boys! Sparkle and shine!”
8th grade boys are not always overly enthusiastic about posing for pictures, unless someone is holding a snake, or someone else’s eyeball is falling out and dripping blood everywhere, but I managed to pull off a halfway decent snapshot of these three handsome fellows.
I don’t think that their cooperation in front of my camera had anything at all to do with the fact that I handed them a ten dollar bill for drinks at the clubhouse.
And by drinks, I do mean SODAS LOADED WITH SUGAR AND LACED WITH ARTIFICIAL COLORING, because MINORS, PEOPLE! I don’t care if these thirteen-year-olds DO have a rough game and lose twenty-four golf balls in the pond; they’re not going to drown their sorrows in a Lime-a-Rita, while they curse the sand trap, quite yet.
My friend, Amy, and I went out to see The Fault in Our Stars at the cinema late this afternoon, because we’re at that critical point in our lives when the 7:00 PM movie is starting to get A LITTLE LATE. We had heard that it was going to be a ten-Kleenex movie, but I am living proof that this IS NOT the case; you pretty much need to bring a full roll of Bounty paper towels if you’re going to watch this one, because WHO thought it would be a good idea to make a movie about two teenagers dying of cancer??? Amy and I sounded like a couple of grieving widows in our seats, and then I made the mistake of using a napkin that I had wiped my popcorn-y hands on to
dab mop my eyes. That’s how I ended up with salt in my left eyeball, so I pretty much walked out of the theater looking like the zombies had gotten me.
I was NOT at the top of my beauty pageant game at 6:30 this evening, believe me.
After last night’s shock of WE ALMOST MISSED YOUTH GROUP, I actually set the alarm on my iPhone to go off and alert me to the fact that, “Hey, dingbat with the lazy summer schedule! It’s Thursday, and you and Amy decided to see a bawl-fest movie together today, so don’t forget!” I kind of had ZERO-POINT-ZERO plans of mentioning this to Amy, because I didn’t want her to think that I was possibly in danger of missing my date with her. Then, while the previews were playing, Amy leaned over to me and whispered, “We need to see THAT one.” And that, folks, is when she pulled out HER iPhone and used the LEAVE YOURSELF A NOTE feature to… well… leave herself a note. Her note involved the name of the upcoming romantic comedy we wanted to see, so that she’d remember it. This made me incredibly happy, because I was suddenly exonerated from needing to SET AN ALARM TO REMEMBER IT WAS GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT ON THURSDAY.
Old age and summer vacation take their tolls on girls, people.
Y’all have a merry weekend.