I have so much to do this week it ain't even funny and of course, Mr. Man is excused from helping because he's off wearing a big gun and protecting the world from people who want to take the Homer Simpson reality tour. (He works at a nuclear power plant, people. That's why that's funny.) There are words to be written, fires to be put out, things to be updated and government agencies to be dealt with. I'm not loving it. I figure I'd better get organized and make myself a list or Friday will show up and I will still be sitting here doodling Mrs. Michael Buble all over my notebook.
Confirm reservations for hotel in Branson. I'm going to spend several days next week in Branson, Missouri. My parents are coming in from North Carolina and they have a hankering to pay huge amounts of money to see has been singers who can't even get a gig at a six-year-olds birthday party in Dayton, perform such standards as "The Streak" and "Born Free". I love them and don't get to see them often enough, so I will go and pretend that I've never been completely happy since Lawrence Welk went off the air.
Fill prescription for extra strength Mexican valium. Just in case I should become overly excited when I see Buck Owens eating pie at a restaurant in Branson, I want to have the ability to calm myself with prescription medication. He's not dead is he? Oh well, I guess if he is dead, seeing him eat pie would most definitely require a need to self medicate.
Hire hypnotist. Here's the thing. Mr. Man makes fun of my choices in music and as I plan on listening to exactly what I want all the way to the Hee Haw of the Ozarks, I'll need some form of mind control so I don't have to listen to his complaints. I would also like to have the ability to cause him to spontaneously sing the theme song to the Flintstones as Ethel Merman every time I snap my fingers.
Purchase new tags for the automobiles. While I would rather stick a fork in Mr. Man's eye than stand in line at the tag getting place, do it I must. Sure, I've had a month to take care of this and sure, I've waited until the very last minute possible to take care of it, but I have a good reason: I don't want to do it. I have to drive to a tiny city several miles away called Erie to get them. Who in their right mind would ever go to a city named Erie of their own free will? I'm an obsessive-compulsive superstitious chick who won't even step on the cracks in the sidewalk. If you never hear from me again, it's because I was sucked into the black hole, parallel universe that is Erie. At least I'll have current tags.
Buy more frozen peas. While it's true I have enough frozen peas in my deep freezer to give a single pea to everyone in the state, I feel the need to own more. I don't know what you've heard, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my next husband works in the frozen pea aisle at Wal-Mart. I simply appreciate the incredible nutritional value of frozen peas.
Force my son to do stuff he doesn't want to do. As my favorite guy starts a three day football camp tomorrow, I am in a unique position to get anything I want out of him today. That's because he is absolutely terrified I will hang around at camp and do something horribly embarrassing, like dress as a cheerleader and run up and down the sidelines screaming his name, or yell at the coaches not to hurt my sweet baboo, or maybe even wash all the dirt from his sweet face with my spit and a Kleenex I whip out of my bra. I'm sure I have no idea where he got the notion his Mother would be capable of such behavior. All that matters to me is that the trash is getting taken out today and the dog is getting a bath.
It's gonna be one heck of a week, for sure. Maybe I should add, "run away to Vegas" to my list. Yeah. That sounds good.
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