Sunday, September 16, 2012
Y2 Day 18: Mommy and Martini Go to the Mall
Church, frankly, was annoying. I need to wear a sign that says "DO NOT ASK ME TO DO ANOTHER FREAKING THING." I told Husband that I wanted to make a quick getaway (I was hungry, for one thing, which is grouchiness-inducing right there), but Li'l Martini was nowhere in sight — and I guess they frown on people leaving without their children. Fine. But it meant that I had to say three no's in a row, and I was quite sour on most of the world by the time we left.
Then I had to broach the topic of yard work with my offspring. We haven't done it in months, weeds abound, and our place would be right at home on Tobacco Road (from the outside, anyway, I am quite tidy indoors). We all hate yard work, which is why we never do it, and it pisses me off that I am always the one who has to declare that Today is the day, when I hate it just as much as everyone else. But today was the day; it was sunny and beautiful and not too hot, and we had nothing else on our dockets. (Except Husband; he's busily scanning 100 pictures of my Uncle Bill for the slide show at Bill's memorial service — he gets an honorable discharge). And oh, the whining and bitching and bellyaching I have to put up with! The sourness of my mood did not abate in the slightest.
The patio looks much better, though, after just one hour. And tomorrow we'll spend an hour in the front yard, and maybe I'll stop getting that sinking feeling when I pull into my driveway. (A feeling that I am very good at shaking off and forgetting the instant I step through my front door.)
To reward my yard-workers, I made pancakes for dinner, using my grandpa's excellent recipe, and I decided to one-and-a-half it so we'd have leftover pancakes for breakfast this week — and somehow I decided that one-and-a-half times two eggs equaled . . . six eggs.
I didn't fully triple the recipe, but I did my best to create a batter with the right texture, and the pancakes tasted fine. Still . . . that was a LOT of pancakes. And a lot of standing. And a lot of flipping.
And here's me going: I worked in the yard too. Where's MY freaking reward??
But jeans shopping with my boy, who sprouted several inches this summer, was a pure and simple joy. He's past the point where his jeans are "Medium" or "Large" — I actually have to make sense of those mysterious numbers on the waistband. Should you want to buy him a pair of jeans, he's a 29 waist and prefers "Regular" fit (as opposed to "Slim" or "Relaxed"). He also picked out a nice-looking button-down shirt, a jazzy hoodie, some classic black sweatpants, and a most excellent men's watch, which doubles as a stopwatch and has an alarm. We then stopped at Barnes and Noble for drinks and had a very merry time. He is such a sweetie!!
(Except when I'm asking him to do yard work.)
(Mr. Bates — world's unlikeliest sex symbol. Swoon . . .)
Sweet dreams, my friends!