July 13, 2009 by Marj Hatzell
Those of you who know me in real life know I’ve never, ever been accused of being reticent. Speechless? MOI? Pigs have a greater chance of flying by the window and The Hot Place Down Under has a better chance of freezing over. Of course, beings we’re in the middle of an El Nino, anything is possible.
All weekend I was all, “I’M BLOGGING THIS. I’M BLOGGING THAT.” And yet I sit here this morning, feeling pretty blah, not sure that any of it would be interesting to read. Because, you know, everything I write is interesting. And funny. And amazing. Which is why I get about four visitors a day here. That’s right, most popular blog in America HANDS DOWN. I even get a comment or two sometimes. Crazy stuff, yo.
I’m sure no one really wants to hear about Bugaboo’s music therapy, and how we tried a different location, and we got there and he thought it was cool and then a few minutes into the class he was all, “OH NO YOU DI’INT” and figured out it was a trick. No one wants to hear about the fifteen escape attempts (15. Ten plus five. Yes, fifteen.) during my sister’s birthday barbecue.
Talking about my sister’s barbecue would be boring, because who wants to hear about how amazing the weather was and the fact that we sat out there for seven hours? Or that my parents surpassed their hour party limit and stayed for NINETY FULL MINUTES? Or that we had a bonfire with marshmallows, fireworks, my first-ever homemade strawberry shortcake (my sister’s fav) that was A-MA-ZING? I mean, that’s crap. You don’t want to hear it. Especially not the part where my brother spilled red wine all over the Princess’ BRAND-NEW white shirt (you know, the on-again, off-again couple?). And we didn’t laugh when she ran into the house totally P.O’d. Nope, we didn’t laugh. Certainly didn’t laugh wine out of my nose, either.
But I know you all want to hear about why you shouldn’t drink a whole bottle of wine and top it off with two margaritas. I only have one thing to say: It is possible to lose eight pounds in one day when you are praying to the porcelain god and dry heaving for hours. It’s stoopid, careless and irresponsible. Even if it started out like rip-roaring fun and seven hours of laughter.Even if it was the best night I’ve had in a long time, but the absolute worst day after. I mean, I’M THIRTY-SIX FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I imbibe about once a month at best. WHAT THE HECK WAS I THINKING?Thanks alot, Jose Cuervo. You’re fired as my favorite drink now, thankyouverymuch.
And, y’all are gonna roll your eyes and be all, “WHATEVER. LAME.” when I tell you we are no closer on a therapy dog decision than we were several weeks ago, and now I’m questioning whether it is a good idea at all, since I read a ton about it this weekend and now wonder if Bugaboo is up for it, if it will be of any help or if I should just hire a helper more often. Sheesh.
Oh? And the husband is home sick today. Playing Hooky, really. Which totally cramps my style. Now I’m gonna have to actually finish something I start today, instead of getting in the middle of six things and not finishing anything. I mean, I have to DO STUFF today. For crying out loud.
There isn’t one reader out there among the ones of you that wants to hear about how I’ve been having heart palpitations because they found abnormalities on Bugaboo’s latest EKG and that we have to go in for four hours of tests on Thursday because HELLO, HE MIGHT HAVE RIGHT-SIDED HEART ENLARGEMENT, which may once and for all confirm that pesky mitochondrial disorder they’ve been trying to find for six years. Nah. Y’all could care less.
Nope. Nothing to talk about.