Could we just…slow down? I’m still reeling from the whirlwind that was October and here it is, time to cook a turkey, and the world’s supposed to end in five weeks and then after that we’re having a baby and then I’m going to be 40.
Well, not for a while. Eventually. BUT IT’S COMING.
So, proof that I was really busy last month and not just sitting on my ass in front of the tv watching pre-election coverage. Here.
I cooked some stuff. That’s “Meme’s Smothered Chicken.” My grandfather taught me to make in when I was in Texas a couple months ago. My grandmother had gone to Houston for her weekly MD Anderson visit so I cooked for Pop, and then he was all, “Well, it’s pretty good but the gravy could be thicker.”
So of course I’ve cooked it five times since then trying to determine the precise viscosity of gravy that men prefer.
I took my kid to so many playdates and birthday parties that he began sleeping like a drunk frat boy. That child was so tired that he put himself to bed on several occasions, waving, “Night mama,” as he flopped his way up the stairs and barely made it into his bed before soaking the pillow with drool.
Then I got sick, and it sucked because the only medicinal relief I was allowed were rubdowns with Vicks and steam snuggles from Starbucks. (Ok, so, first world problems a bit. I know.)
Monkey and I made a Christmas list. I am so excited – new toys y’all! Trucks and Play-Doh and puzzles! (That’s my list. Monkey just keeps asking for a table.)
I deleted 74 pictures of my kid’s thumb off my phone. Never, ever leave your phone unattended if your toddler knows how to swipe his finger and unlock it.
I got all tarted up like a pregnant hooker and went to see MADONNA. Yeah, she’s in that picture somewhere, probably fellating a microphone and moaning about politics.
*Sidenote (Which could probably be its own blog post) – During this concert, Her Madge-esty walked a fine line between art and sacrilege. She blew the brains out of several men trying to invade her hotel room. She masturbated on top of a piano. She simulated sex with many, many objects and people. Through all of this, the women around me were silent. Then, during that part of the concert where singers insist on talking to the audience like we’re there to have a conversation or something, she referred to the crowd as “motherfuckers.”
Well, that did it for the Molly Midwestern behind me. She bunched up her face (to match her panties), stood up and announced haughtily to her companions, “I’ve NEVER been called that before. Who does she think she is? I will be waiting OUTSIDE.”
Lady. LADY. It’s MADONNA. This is not The Fresh Beat Band or Taylor Fucking Swift. What exactly did you expect? And furthermore, it’s not the violence or sacrilege or sex that bothers you, it’s the profanity? Your outrage meter, it needs calibration.
The next morning, hung over on too much bass and too little sleep, I took Monkey on an errand to do a favor for a family friend. Afterward, the friend – an older gentleman who has no children of his own – wanted to take Monkey to lunch for being so well behaved. So of course, as soon as we get to lunch Monkey stops behaving and we get our grub to go.
Let’s see, what else? Oh, there was that afternoon where Dad thought it would be hilarious to shovel sugar into a toddler’s mouth and therefore negate naptime. That was cute.
And there was the F-4 playdate.
And Monkey learned he was indeed too big for the bouncy seat.
He also learned how to pillow fight.
Then I took him out on a date. He drove.
Also, there was some guitar practice thrown in there.
We’re just kind of exhausted, as you can see. So much so that yesterday, when Monkey woke up from his nap he came and crawled in bed with me and took a second nap, curled over my neck, breathing softly in my ear and occasionally kicking me in the back as his brother kicked me from within in reply. It was bliss.
My MacBook charger died a violent death this week, so I’m late for #iPPP. If you haven’t linked up your camera phone photos, you still have a chance! Open til Friday night, y’all.
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