I’ve been a very bad blogger. Between The Boy’s visit, Swap Mamas — which I’m OBSESSED with, btw — my town literally EXPLODING, and MP’s 5th birthday … sadly, the old blog has gotten the short end of the stick.
I figure the best way to catch up is a laundry list. Which brings me to:
1. The Boy. The yummy, lovely Boy. He folded my laundry. He fixed BOTH my toilets. He fixed Grammy’s sad front door, which has been held shut by an old screwdriver the past few weeks.
Doogs. He GAVE THE DOG A BATH.
Oh yeah. He played with MP. Willingly played with dolls.
The Boy even taught her a new game. Mardi Gras House.
Wait. Isn’t that a reality show?
Although admittedly, both of us were perfectly content to stay home and hang out, we DID take a few nights to ourselves.
Remember the pharmacist Grammy was dead set on fixing me up with? We ran into him at one of downtown’s popular pubs. (We all went to high school together, the pharmacist was a class ahead. Small town. Yadda yadda.) He parked himself at our table for a good 45 minutes and DIDN’T. SHUT. UP. He talked SO much, he didn’t even notice when The Boy smiled and texted me the following:
GUYS REALLY DO ONLY TALK ABOUT THEMSELVES!
Later, at another bar, sitting side by side, *I* didn’t even notice when The Boy texted me.
Seven days of The Boy, and not once was I ready for him to go home. Given the fact I’ve lived alone for nearly 15 years, trust me, this is no minor detail. When he left, I cried.
And now, in a complete change of direction, it’s looking like The Boy will be back this summer.
Unbelievably, he’s decided to pack up and move back home. Granted, there are some pretty major things that need to be worked out before the moving truck arrives, but it feels RIGHT. It feels good. It feels like it’s meant to be.
Oy. I’ve blathered on and on, and now it’s 1:30 in the morning. Mommypie’s gotta catch some zzzzzs — falling asleep at my desk every day is becoming a dangerous habit. The laundry list, like the laundry pile parked on my couch, will have to wait ’til tomorrow.
In bed at one thirty? THAT’s discipline, People.