It seems that I managed to take a short vacation from blogging, but that’s probably because I had a real-live coffee date this week with a good friend, and a real-live date with Hubs, and (AND!!) I managed to see two entire, full-length feature films at the cinema with another darling friend and Hubs and plenty o’ buttered popcorn, so clearly all of my words for the week have been used up. I may have talked quite a bit, because that’s more activity than my social calendar has seen in the past twenty-two years.
I think Hubs was just glad that I’d had some Girl Time this week, because it ultimately means that he doesn’t have to listen to me chatter away quite as much in the evenings, when he’s trying to focus on Playoff Hockey That Doesn’t Involve The Avalanche. Because as much as PHTDITA isn’t as exciting as Playoff Hockey That DOES Involve The Avalanche, we still have to take it pretty seriously around here, because WHO IS STEALING STANLEY’S CUP AWAY FROM HUBS’ TEAM? We have to find out. And apparently we have to cheer for anyone who is playing Edmonton. Or even Detroit. Or maybe it’s Toronto. Dallas? I get them all confused.
Y’all, the only thing I care about on TV is Fixer Upper, and what outfit Joanna Gaines is wearing, and whether or not she and Chip exposed some shiplap above the fireplace. Also, it seems like a no-brainer that Hubs and I should move to Texas and buy a house for CHEAP DOLLARS, where I would become Joanna’s BFF. She would come over for coffee and let me know that YES! RIP THAT SHEETROCK OFF AND LET’S SEE THE SHIPLAP UNDERNEATH! And then she’d point me toward some great throw pillows and an antique cabinet. I also feel rather certain that she’d help me cut up a nice wedge of cheese and artfully arrange it with a bunch of green grapes on a wooden cutting board, which we would put smack-dab in the center of the kitchen island for decor.
And… it doesn’t snow much in Texas, so I feel like this would just be a win-win. My elderly self is SO OVER snow.
On one of the chilliest, dampest afternoons recently, the boy asked if he could go golfing. Apparently the words CHILLY and DAMP do nothing to detour the determination of a PGA Hopeful. And, since Thing 2 and I are always up for a good FREEZE YOUR BUNS OFF TIME, we made the poor choice to bring JUST JACKETS, rent a golf cart, and accompany the boy, as he golfed his way into one of his lowest scores yet.
I won’t lie.
I was wishing that we lived in the Texas sunshine that afternoon, but the time with both of my boys together, in a golf cart, was nothing short of precious. The three of us had so much fun, especially when we realized that Thing 2 really IS quite interested in showing us his left-handed golf moves.
Never mind that he kind of combines golf with hockey, rugby and cage wrestling. Our toddler managed to turn his golfing session into a full-contact sport that got his heart rate up good and made him beg for a Gatorade.
The thing about being fourteen years old is that you adore driving anything with wheels on it. This means that when your mama rents a golf cart, because she owns a driver’s license and can legally secure one, as long as she promises not to drive and drink too much wine on the course, you will steal the driver’s seat plum away from her.
And then you’ll have to fight your three-year-old brother for it later, because apparently the driving gene is strong in the male child.
The boy managed to whip out one of his lowest scores yet, regardless of the wind and the damp, leftover remnants of an afternoon rainstorm, while I clapped wildly for him. Hubs and I have learned that golf is a very quiet sport, where no one waves giant, foam fingers with shouts of enthusiasm or shoots T-shirts out of a cannon to celebrate a good drive from the tee box, but I felt like ON THIS PARTICULAR DAY there was no reason to be overly quiet.
We were one of just two golfing parties on the entire golf course.
Obviously, the chill and the damp scared everyone but the boy and Jordan Spieth away and made them all hole up in Starbucks, until the sun came back out.
Thing 2 is an enormous help on the putting green, as he immediately yanks the flag out of the hole for his Bubbie.
And then, when we were all chilled clear through to our bones, I tried to get my numb fingers to fish my Suburban keys out of my pocket, so we could head for home, where we started a fire in the fireplace and ate giant burritos from a little Mexican take-out hot spot in town.
And we called it a very good afternoon.
Y’all have a happy Tuesday.