Saturday, Saturday

I woke up this morning with a mission--to get my house as clean as humanly possible without the aid of a million little animated bubbles on bristles come to life.

Then I walked outside.

What's this? Sunshine? And, holy crap, is it actually...hot? What is that strange sensation on the soles of my feet--do you mean to tell me the sun has actually heated the wooden deck to the point it's making my feet burn?

Well, hot damn. Literally.

So cleaning fell by the wayside while Bob and I donned our swimsuits and played in the sprinkler and ate bomb pops. And while we were doing so, my fabulous husband, rejuvenated after finally being allowed to have sex with his wife after an interminable dry spell, cleaned the hell out of our bathrooms. Yes, he even scrubbed behind and around the toilets. Bless his little pea-pickin' heart.

Eventually Bob and I came inside, and he and Ben went off to the in-laws' house to fetch a weed eater my father-in-law had offered us. I had every intention of slacking off, but ended up doing everything but.

I wiped smudges and fingerprints off walls.

I did several loads of laundry. (Washed, dried, folded, put away.)

I vaccuumed (two levels).

I took a shower and applied make-up. (Yes, I wear make-up, even on weekends. My mother was one of those "I don't have to impress anyone" types, and I swear, it seriously affected her outlook on life. I just feel better when I don't look like ass.)

I did more laundry.

I ate lunch.

I found the cat food I bought last weekend and hid so the cats couldn't gnaw their way through the bag, and fed them, to their sincere gratitude.

I checked my email, my budget, paid some bills online, and updated our online calendar.

When the boys came home, Ben asked me if I'd felt like I had more energy today.

"Hmmm...well, I did scrub the walls."

He's convinced I will have Moosebaby within the next 24 hours. I'm convinced I will eventually be world-famous for having a 30 year old man living in my uterus. (This is a battle I would happily lose to him.)

I anticipate much in the way of what Liz refers to as "forced in-law interaction" in my future. Ben apparently told his mother--who I may have mentioned is a total buttinsky--to butt the hell out, and did so in such a way that not only did she get the point, she got it enough to drive her to tears. Which, of course, made him feel shitty. I feel shitty for him, but honestly, I think it's something she needs to hear. We both know she means well, and we both appreciate her efforts tremendously, but having a parent breathing down your neck constantly has a tendency to wear on a person.

Speaking of people who need to get a point, I really, really wish Bob would get over his crush on the boys next door. They have, it seems, come to realize over the winter that he is little more than an annoying little kid multiple years their junior who lives next door to them and bugs them without end. Which is fine, but I wish they weren't so damned nice about it and would just TELL HIM as much. Even a simple "look, kid, you're too young, we just want to play with kids our own age." But they keep stringing him along like bad boyfriends, and he ends up wandering around with this jilted look on his face that breaks my heart. I mean, it's not like I can really play with him right now. Thank God we have a dog who enjoys a hearty round of fetch...