Sunday afternoons in my childhood home were for car maintenance, mid-day meals followed by mid-day naps and whatever sporting event my dad could find on TV.
This Sunday , even with my wee hangover, I managed to wash my truck and clean it out (I’m happy and proud to report, no onions), I’m too tired to actually cook anything and I may die of boredom if I try and watch baseball on TV.
So, I’m one for three. Dad would not be proud.
I refuse to see anything wrong with eating an ice cream sandwich for lunch.
The barbecue was a smash hit. I made two strawberry pies, and came home with nuthin’. One of the pies made it in perfect condition, the other had a lil’ accident when I hit the brakes a little too hard trying to not miss the right turn off of “Middle of Nowhere Road” onto "East Where the Hell am I" Lane. Seriously these people live 3 miles west of absolutely nothing.
The response I got from the hosts when I explained about the pie was and I quote “you can eat it or you can leave it.” For the record, this kind of answer is why I hang out with these people. Well, that and the fact that when we all get together it always ends the same way, we start out sitting around talking, and inevitably end up laughing until we are crying.
There were no 8 year old little girls pimping for their daddies.
There were some wicked good margaritas-in-a-bucket. Well, two buckets if I’m honest. Who knew there’d be reason beyond sand castles to get excited about buckets? These things now have me trained like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
This isn’t pretty. I’m not proud.