(you drive me) crazy
So on Thursday, I had this totally awesome idea for a blog post, and I walked around my house most of Friday mapping it out in my head (because hell no, I didn't go shopping on the day after Thanksgiving, nor did I have to work my retail job, thanks to a little something I like to call "Don't Look The Manager Directly In The Eye When Asking For Time Off")(p.s. - if anyone asks, I was at my sister's in Missouri for the holiday, and seriously, have you tried her turkey because it is divine!).
Why not dive on the computer and just write on Friday? Good question. Logical. Straight-forward. I like that about you people. You don't mince words (or insert an insane number of parenthetical remarks as you stall through a blog post about nothing)(sorry about that...thanks for reading...love you...). Anyway, good question. My best answer is I don't remember much about Friday. I'd put my kids to bed Thursday night with the promise that I loved them and the threat that if they woke up at the beastly hour my Tool Man had set the alarm for, there would be a price to pay, so when they woke up at 6 a.m., Friday, and commenced bickering at 6:03 a.m., because THE TOUCHING!! DEAR GOD, THE TOUCHING!!, my brain cells poured out of my ears like a wound, and while I don't think my kids are to blame for the unexplained scratches all over my right hand, I do believe one day they will remember this past weekend as the time I went Crazy Britney and they found me huddled in a corner of our garage, crying, for real, because seriously, THE TOUCHING!! and because I may or may not have ignored their father when he called back after I may or may not have hung up the phone on him earlier and, yes, definitely, flung it across the room when he said he wasn't coming home until late Saturday and I had to have him repeat that last part because I couldn't hear so well because the boys were running through the house singing "Fat Bottomed Girls" and I was telling them to please be quiet and if they were singing that about me, AGAIN, they better rethink their performance.
YEAH! It's the holidays!
So that explains why you get this type of post today and not the clever, hilarious post that crossed my mind Thursday while I was basking in the warmth of Thanksgiving love extended by members of my immediate family and approximately 23 strangers and two dogs. I'm still riding a bit of the crazy train today, and yesterday, I think half the members of my church thought I was having a serious 'come to Jesus' moment, because I pretty much cried through half the service for no reason other than, wow, that drummer was really into worship, and good Lord, if Tool Man looks at me like that again, I will have no defense because this place is filled with witnesses...
So I figure I'll tell you how my deviled eggs turned out -
Want to know why? I emailed my Mom Wednesday morning to let her know I was in charge of bringing deviled eggs, and she immediately replied back that she had the best recipe for this tasty treat, and "Oh, you know what, why don't you just boil the eggs and bring them over and I'll make them Thursday morning before we go to your aunt's" (which, it should be noted, is not in Missouri, nor is my aunt actually code for "my sister's"). See what I did? I completely allowed her to step in without asking her to step in! Genius! Of course, this means I still have never made deviled eggs, but I figure there's always Christmas.
It also means I was also worried for nothing, because my Mom didn't even go on about how wolves must have raised me and not taught me a thing, so that was nice of her. However, as I departed her house Wednesday night after leaving my perfectly boiled eggs (ask me for my recipe - I seriously had to Google how to boil them!), she did say something to me that made me shake my head and mutter, "...and that's the reason why I was in therapy for two years," because wow, my Mom is awesome!
And so are her deviled eggs.
This post is boring. Being as how I'm still riding the fringes of Crazy Britney, here's where I'd either hit you with something or profess my love, but instead, I need to do a drunken dance up to the shower and get ready for work. I can't wait to burst into tears when some poor woman asks me for a picture book. Good times...
So how was your weekend, or, you know, whatever else you want to tell me?