Doesn't matter why

So last weekend the fabulous neighbors knocked on the door and instructed us to report for the first cul-de-sac gathering of the season.  Of course we obeyed.  The fire pit was deployed, and everyone brought "a little something" to share.  This was the most last-minute and impromptu of gatherings -- no one (not even Saskia -- Lake Ridge's own Martha Stewart) "made" anything, but we all brought a tasty store-bought something.  The fabulous neighbor gave us all an approving high-five:  "Good job, ladies -- way to keep it casual!"

And then the very next night, we met again at our church:  Trivia Night!  It was another fabulous reason to hang with our besties:  some tasty food (this time we did pull out our "dish to share" cookbooks), a fundraiser for a worthy cause, and a fierce competitive adrenaline rush (fed by $2.00 beer and wine). 

And I will just pause a moment to say that as a table we were pretty freaking smart: nitrogen as a cause of the bends; the crocus-to-saffron transition; memorization of Bible verses; a confident mastery of '90s sitcom and music trivia -- we rocked it, y'all.  We came in second, and immediately had t-shirts made:  "JUST WAIT UNTIL NEXT YEAR, TABLE NINE!"

But the point I want to make here is this:  I don't care about the reason for the gathering.  I just love these people!  How lucky am I?

A poem for a sunny spring day!

Ha!  I always knew I was hot stuff!

Cranky . . . .

Image via Cranky Birds -- a fabulous blog!

 Here is a sampling of comments that I have actually made -- in writing -- in the past few days . . .

1.  Across a spreadsheet that our Girl Scout Council requires of the over-worked cookie mommy volunteers:

This is s stupid form -- and is a duplication of effort. Troops have already provided this information through eBudde; why does this council require this ridiculously awkward form in addition?  This is why volunteers flee as fast as they can from working with Girl Scouts.  You do it to yourselves!

I thought this tirade was a better idea than asking someone to help me learn how to fill out an Excel spreadsheet.

2.  On the feedback page of yet another purveyor of beautiful clothing that my two teenaged girl urchins yearn for:

Dear Free People -- I would be more inclined to purchase your lovely dresses for my lovely daughters if these dresses actually covered their asses.  Regards -- Liz

I have sent this note a few times, to various merchants.  By the way, props to ModCloth, who brought back the "Longer Lengths" section of their online catalog (I must not be the only person who complained).  But Free People -- what the heck?  The name they gave the dress pictured above is "Lolita Syndrome."  I'm not even kidding.

3.  This is actually a groveling email I sent after I was -- let's just say a little testy with the nice pharmacist at CVS:

Dear Kathy -- I wanted to apologize again for losing my temper this morning while trying to find out where the hell my mother-in-law's chemotherapy prescription was.  I also deeply appreciate your help in getting the cost of the drug reduced from $8,100 for a 30 day supply to only $1,200 -- even after I implied that you didn't care whether my mother-in-law lived or died.  I know you do care whether my mother-in-law lives or dies.  I was overwrought.  Regards -- Liz

4.  Here's my text to my beloved tall boy, when he asked whether I could come fetch him from his college campus in the city for the long Easter weekend or he should wait outside in the rain for the commuter bus that might or might not show up and sit with a bunch of people who might or might not have the flu, and get home well after dinner time after walking that last six blocks in the aforementioned rain:

Bus.

Snapshot: Lazy Easter Bunny

The Easter Bunny is usually exhausted by the time he makes it to our house. He hides the eggs only in the most ceremonial sense of the word. It's true that he does sneak inside the house -- he knows that my bed-loving children would never bother to go outside first thing in the morning to look for eggs and risk getting the fuzzy socks wet. But the eggs are usually left in pretty blatant spots.

I sometimes imagine the Easter Bunny standing in my living room, smoking a cigarette and swaying with exhaustion (he drank too much Scotch at that party after the Easter Vigil Mass), flinging hard-boiled eggs without looking to see where they land.  Good thing, too -- because the teenaged urchins are way more interested in the candy he also leaves behind -- and in getting themselves wrapped around a mug of coffee.