Retail therapy really is the best kind of therapy. I could go talk my heart out to a real therapist about the many a issue I have but damn if going and buying a new pair of hot heels doesn’t make me feel good. We went shopping and to a few wineries (yes, this is also fantastic therapy) with our friends on Monday and although I only came back with one shirt, the whole day was spent enjoying company and laughing, and laughter really is, the best medicine. We checked one winery off our list and moved onto the next, which happened to look like it was in the basement of a regular house, that is if you could get past the porta-john in the front yard. We were slightly frightened that we would knock on the door and an old man would yell to his ol’ lady to turn the TV off and get his pants. We decided to skip this one, since it was a sister winery to the first and shared same grapes, we didn’t really want to pay $7 to sit in a basement with father time scratching his balls while wiping the dust off the wine glasses and tasting the same shitty wine we tasted at the first place. I totally would have went in though, I love a good adventure and an even better story. On the way to our third winery of the day (we intended to hit four, we don’t mess around) we passed a smattering-of-shit-welded-together store. In the front yard was a giant metal rooster, if you haven’t read this story, read it and then the metal rooster sighting will blow your mind in awesomeness as it did mine. I have to have a giant metal rooster, I mean I guess I don’t need to go all crazy and get the giant, a little fella will do and it was only $80. My husband was not amused by my NEED for this rooster, nor could we fit it in my friends Mercedes but oh I will be going to back to get it, I will set it out on the hill behind my house, peeking out from the woods. I will be a great conversation piece. We all know I spend way too much time alone in my office, and as my own personal therapist I’m attributing my crazy chicken loving obsession to this. Just sayin.
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| That just happened. |
I was on my way out of Lily’s classroom after I dropped her off for school and they had the parent-sign-up-to-bring-shit-to the class party board and I took a quick glace at who was bringing what and what they needed and you know what I picked? Pretzels. I’m the pretzel mom. Wtf. I know my baking abilities could be far better and I could have been cool and picked jello jigglers or even stepped out of the box and got a cool Halloween recipe or something but my hand wouldn’t stop me from writing her name beside freaking pretzels. I’m not a fan of being the pretzel mom, its Halloween, I could make any number of awesome things like witch fingers or whatever other creepy Halloween shit they have. Even worse, I signed up in pen. I don’t want to be the pretzel mom AND the crazy mom who scratches her kids name OFF of the pretzel list. Maybe I could totally redeem myself however by making the most awesome Halloween spaghetti brains those kids have ever seen. Too much? I’m pretty sure I’m over thinking the whole scenario seeing how chips and carrots also were taken; at least I’m not like the toilet paper mom or something. I’ll handle being pretzel mom this one time but I’ll kick the next parties ass. You hear that Thanksgiving party? I’m coming for ya.
Have a glorious weekend, Friends!
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