Usually, this is a common theme around our house:
|Don't fuck with the mom-person.|
But when I have people over, I want to IMPRESS, dammit, so I'm kind of going all-out. Yes, I need praise. Yes, I need my ego stroked. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.
I went to Walmart last night, sans kids, at 8:00 pm, to pick up everything I forgot the other day when I was trying to be super shopper extraordinaire. Usually, my view on WM is this:
BUT! Last night, it was almost a pleasure! There was no one there! (This is where I pat myself on the back going grocery shopping TWO days before the holiday instead of today, where most likely people are shanking each other with shit they made over in the personal hygiene department with a lighter to get the last can of crescent rolls. I might watch too much Lockdown for my own good.)
I'm not gonna lie, I'm still in a twist over hosting people that I've never seen before. You know, good first impression and all that. I mean, I swear in front of my parents (my dad haaaaaates the fuck word, so I try to not use that one) but I am seriously going to have to gorilla glue my face shut tomorrow because I doubt my colorful everyday language isn't even on the appropriate spectrum until we bust out the booze at about 11 am. THERE'S A LOT OF HOURS BEFORE THEN, PEOPLE!
|Doesn't everyone? Just me? Oh. Well, then.|
|I say this a lot more than I probably should. Hey, at least I apologize, right?|
So I'm baking up a storm this morning, with the plans to clean this afternoon. The house isn't dirty. per se, but cluttered and I've already dropped an egg and some oil on the floor (I never said I wasn't a klutz), so there's some cleaning and de-doghairing that needs to happen around here. Usually, I have this attitude:
|I motherfucking wish.|
Regardless, I'm sure tomorrow will be a good time. And if not, well, the fridge in the garage is full of booze, and there's pie, so we really can't go wrong, can we? I just need to remember this:
|Wouldn't that be something to put on a resume?|
Mostly, I just hope that no one finds me in the bathroom, curled up in the fetal position, muttering this:
And if all goes to hell in a handbasket, then you'll probably overhear this conversation between my mom and I at the nail salon sometime this weekend:
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!