This weekend Andy and I did nothing. Not a thing. I’m struggling to remember what it was that we did actually do so I know it’s naught of importance. I do know however that I was a big ole flaky flake. I hate being a big ole flaky flake so I tend to beat myself up about it in an effort to not do it again. Obviously, this ploy has yet to work out but I’m still hopeful. You know that horribly overplayed Sunscreen song where it says not to live in California too long or else you get soft? That’s a bunch of bullshit. What that song should have said was “don’t stay in California so long that you become a big ole flakey flake and start thinking no one is going to notice you aren’t a nature blonde with those big black hairy eyebrows.”
So I was a flake. Andy and I intended to go meet the Vegemite Wife (finally) at the Beer Festival in Manchester but we decided at the last minute not to go. The reasons for this were many, which I will include below, but it didn’t stop me from feeling like the biggest lame ass this side of the Atlantic. We could have gone. We should have gone. We didn’t go. All of the below reasons for not having a good time are listed here:
- The night before the festival, Henry woke up at 10 PM, 2 AM, and 4 AM. He stayed awake from 4 AM to 6:30 AM when he finally took an hour nap. It was, of course, my turn to do the night shift.
OK, so there was only one reason. I suppose when you’ve only had 4 ½ hours of fragmented sleep, this seems like a valid reason but now it seems, well, lame. My 25 year old self is slapping me upside the head right now. Believe you me, she lives in there (my head that is), still stroking that fuzzy Grover hat asking when the next rave is.
That’s about all I have. I’m a flake. There’s your proof. I could tell you about the cheap ass dining table (and chairs) we just got, or how I pulled out my back yesterday putting together said table and chairs (add it to the stupid injury list) but I think for tonight I’ll just end things on Fuzzy Grover Hat. You’re welcome.