The timing is late for sure, but tomorrow we’re going to see the new X-Men movie. Quite frankly, I can’t think of anything else to talk about at this point.
Except my kids are straight bananas. I wish I had gotten video of Mia last night doing what appeared to be some sort of modified cabbage-patch expressive jig. My brown-eyed little girl was jamming in the center of a circle of her teammates, after winning their week-long softball tournament–all flush-faced and grinning from ear-to-ear, and I couldn’t help but smile, because hey–like mother like daughter. And friends from my clubbing days could probably testify: I just love to dance, dancing’s my favorite. Merrick’s not half-bad at breaking it down himself, though you’d never see him so much as tap his foot in public.
The house is stuck in construction purgatory for now. I’ve mentioned how my husband is dead-set on doing much of the work himself, but I neglected to say that Caleb also has to support our growing family with his full-time job from time to time. Plus coach an all-consuming t-ball team a million nights a week, and help me teach Sunday school, and mow the lawn, and fix cars that keep breaking down, and occasionally play with the children that live in our house, and sometimes sit by me and tell me I’m pretty.
I’m exhausted just mind-walking a quarter of a mile in his shoes. (You think you know, but you have no idea.)
Know what else is fun? Tax audits! shootmeinthefacenow.
I feel like I can never, ever, adequately express the love I have for french fries. Shoe-string, crinkle-cut, waffle, sweet potato, fried, or baked–I dont even care. I simply love them all so much.
I put on 5 pounds last month–which is astoundingly low, considering my inhuman ability to snarf large quantities of junkfood like its going out of style. Cheyenne’s graduation week and my parents visit significantly contributed to May’s weight gain. I also experienced an intense pain under my right rib that had me crying out every time I laughed, or coughed or breathed or moved for about 2 weeks. My doctor blamed my gall bladder and recommended a strict diet of ABSOLUTELY NO GOOD FOOD WHATSOEVER, which I promptly ignored, and then regretted ignoring. French fries might indeed be the death of me, and I’m almost okay with that.
… But I went ahead and started eating regular food at regular times just so I could function again (and by function, I mean sitting on the couch during the day as opposed to laying on it.) This was easy to do once my mom and dad weren’t here to take to all the cool restaurants we never get around to trying in real life. (Real life is when you don’t go out to eat because you’re too busy siding a house or laying on a couch.) My gall bladder is being cooperative again, even when I sneak in the occasional bag of Skittles. I’m shooting for 5 more pounds by the end of June.