For those of you wondering why Sunday is throwing up, fear not. Sunday regurgitation occurs every Sunday, when I re-publish a prior post of mine, because I am trapped under something heavy and am unable to write anything original or riveting. Hopefully someone will notice I’m missing, remove whatever is suffocating me and I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. But just in case you never hear from me again … think of me fondly.
I think I may still be suffering from jet lag from our San Francisco trip last week because all I want to do is sleep.
Either that, or it’s Sunday.
Since I didn’t post yesterday and yesterday was July 4th, I thought I’d re-publish my July 4th post from last year for today’s regurgitation, even though it’s not really July 4th today, it’s July 5th, but it’s still Sunday.
Did that even make sense?
I think it did.
I’m going to go with it, regardless, because I’m too lazy to retype it.
Happy July 5th!
Or, in the alternative, happy Sunday!
Happy Independence Day!
Years ago, I started a movement in support of Andy’s Fourth of July Act which in essence declared that I was not responsible for any cooking, cleaning or laundry emergencies that arose within twenty-four hours of this holiday. Covered under this act would have been any task expected on my part that would cause me to panic, sweat or become agitated to the point that I scream FOR GOD’S SAKE, GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE because really, that isn’t a very patriotic thing to say on The Fourth.
I wanted to avoid those scenarios in which certain family members ran around in hysterics because they discovered an hour before we had to leave that every article of red, white and/or blue clothing was dirty and they would be perceived as either anti-American or worse yet, fashion challenged when they showed up at the family picnic wearing purple stripes, orange polka dots and one black sock. Not to mention those scenarios in which I discover ten minutes before we’re due at a picnic that someone ate my appetizers and desserts when they were specifically warned not to, forcing me to whip up something wonderful out of Cheerios, lime yogurt and pepperoni and call it eclectic haute cuisine. This only works if you have the cojones to look people in the eye as they stare at you in revulsion, roll your eyes, raise your eyebrow and tell them in your most condescending tone that if they bothered to keep up with epicurious.com, you wouldn’t be forced to have this conversation right now, then make a tsk tsk sound, turn and walk away in search of real food to eat.
The movement failed miserably as evidenced by the fact that this year, Nate offered up my services at the last minute to bring an appetizer to a picnic today and even though this constitutes a violation of Andy’s Fourth of July Act, Article III, subsection 16, it would still be do-able and I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t contracted a raging bladder infection two days ago and had my back go out in horrible spasms three days ago. But because eight years ago I drove to Babies R Us four days after a c-section, with a pillow pressed to my abdomen, to get different disposable bottles for our newborn daughter, I left Nate with the impression that I was super human, an impression that has lasted until present day. This was a profoundly stupid mistake on my part because I have no desire to emotionally scar my husband and betray his trust by letting him in on the secret that he actually lives with a mere mortal that suffers from PMS and binge eating. I mean, who am I to destroy his dreams? It just doesn’t sit well with the martyr in me.
All this to say that I must now make my way to Wegmans for some antibiotics and inflammatory meds as well as a head of garlic and green onions for my famous garlic spread and if all goes well today, I will be able to lick the bowl while in a doped up stupor and enjoy the holiday in peace and quiet because no one will dare venture within twenty yards downwind of me.
I hope you all have a wonderful July 4th and to all of you who are outside of the U.S. … Happy Friday!
And because I can never quite restrain the mom in me nor completely hide the soapbox under my jammies, I’m going to ask that when the kids decide to hold their own ultimate fighting championship and draw blood and your spouse is oblivious and the dog just shook his wet fur all over the apple pie, to please remember to be grateful that we live in a country that grants us freedom to express our frustration by screaming at the top of our lungs, slamming doors, eating everything that doesn’t move, taking the last piece of cake, calling our congressman about the unfairness of it all and throwing furniture into the pool.
Not that I have any personal experience with any of that.