I Love You Guys
I’ll admit it: I’m half in the bag.
Margarita Fridays are back in this house, and I’m making up for a long hiatus while the girls were in high school. After learning most kids raid their parents’ stash if they want to booze it up, we quit stocking alcohol to avoid the liability. I trust my daughters, but not necessarily all of their friends.
So among the changes taking place this week was reintroducing my tastebuds to tequila served with a tart mixer and crushed ice in a salt-rimmed glass. I’m on my second slushy. There’s a charge in the air and sprinkles of mixer on the counter. Someone should really clean that up before the ants do.
The transition to empty nesthood has been eased by a raging head cold and long hours at my new job. It also helps that I’ve avoided going into the girls’ rooms. Oh, I’m driving a new car now, a brand-new Dodge Caliber the insurance company gave us while that banged-up Scion is “going away for a few weeks.” We’ve abandoned eating outdoors in favor of dinner in front of the TV, watching movies each night instead of paying bills and folding laundry. The evening’s entertainment quickly devolved from blockbusters and high-brow documentaries to badly dubbed Korean monster movies and Japanese cartoons. And still it seems such a better option than washing dishes or even multitasking by going through the stack of mail.
I’ve discovered you can save a lot of time if you just throw everything on the floor instead of putting it back in its place. But even I’m starting to look around and not like what I see. I’m sure it’s just a phase. Eventually, I will need clean clothes. And in a few more weeks I will rejoin my Saturday morning running group. That alone will warrant more restraint come Friday night. Until then, someone pass me the bottle and salt.
Margarita Fridays are back in this house, and I’m making up for a long hiatus while the girls were in high school. After learning most kids raid their parents’ stash if they want to booze it up, we quit stocking alcohol to avoid the liability. I trust my daughters, but not necessarily all of their friends.
So among the changes taking place this week was reintroducing my tastebuds to tequila served with a tart mixer and crushed ice in a salt-rimmed glass. I’m on my second slushy. There’s a charge in the air and sprinkles of mixer on the counter. Someone should really clean that up before the ants do.
The transition to empty nesthood has been eased by a raging head cold and long hours at my new job. It also helps that I’ve avoided going into the girls’ rooms. Oh, I’m driving a new car now, a brand-new Dodge Caliber the insurance company gave us while that banged-up Scion is “going away for a few weeks.” We’ve abandoned eating outdoors in favor of dinner in front of the TV, watching movies each night instead of paying bills and folding laundry. The evening’s entertainment quickly devolved from blockbusters and high-brow documentaries to badly dubbed Korean monster movies and Japanese cartoons. And still it seems such a better option than washing dishes or even multitasking by going through the stack of mail.
I’ve discovered you can save a lot of time if you just throw everything on the floor instead of putting it back in its place. But even I’m starting to look around and not like what I see. I’m sure it’s just a phase. Eventually, I will need clean clothes. And in a few more weeks I will rejoin my Saturday morning running group. That alone will warrant more restraint come Friday night. Until then, someone pass me the bottle and salt.
