So, not a single comment or acknowledgement of my last post. It is true, and I am pretty sure I have stated it out loud, that I write for me. But, I also write for you. I would rather hear from you saying, “wow, that was just crap…why did you even bother?” than hear *crickets*.
Now that we are clear on my expectations, let us move on.
I realized this morning that growing up very often sucks. Yesterday, I pigged out on Christian Chicken; today, I am having to behave and eat healthy and light to make up for it. Apples with a schmear of peanut butter and a bottle of water just ain’t the same as a chick-fil-a #1 with sweet tea, extra lemon, if you please.
Yesterday, we got The Call. That’s right…we’ve been selected to participate in the annual grape harvest at our fave vineyard, Grey Ghost. Before you go getting all jealous, let me explain to you how this works. Amy ended our conversation with, “we will see you Sunday, coming through the gate at 6.” She said it way too cheerfully for meaning SIX A.M. Sunday morning. In Amissville. So we leave here around FOUR A.M. Sunday morning to get there in time for the 6:00 a.m. breakfast call?
That is so not happening.
We are heading West Saturday afternoon, early evening and hanging out at a local motel/notell in Warrenton. At first, we were looking to splurge and stay somewhere like, oh…this place. But Amy assured us the expense wasn’t worth it unless we were getting there early in the afternoon and all. We will save Flint Hill for another excursion.
We receive a hearty six a.m. breakfast, some training, and then they let us loose in the vineyard. I have been informed by My Man that we are picking the Vidal Blanc grapes. After a few hours of picking, they feed us a hearty lunch, ply us with some of our favorite fermented grape beverage, and send us on our way.
Seriously, we have been wanting to do this for years and have never been able to fit it into our schedule. This year, we changed our schedule so we can fit this in.
I will be taking my camera and attempting to click and pick. Following up with a blog post next week.
We are in the thick of our-son-is-a-senior-and-wants-to-attend-college days. Colleges are the only thing on
our My Man’s brain. The Wild Boy, our senior, is so not focused on that yet. He told me the other day that he is so busy with football and school that he hasn’t stepped foot in the basement (where the XBox is) since school started! He was quite Put. Out. I don’t mind that he isn’t focusing on colleges yet, although in a way I suppose he is since he is diligently focusing on school. And football. Oh, and a sudden and keen interest in the Lady Spartan Varsity Volleyball games. *what’s that all about?*
My nails are rockin’. My Girl talked me into getting shellac nail polish and I have to say I’m hooked. But I also realized I have totally forgotten what it is like to play the 12-string guitar with these long, rockin’ nails. It’s not good. But, considering what these babies cost to shellac, I am not cutting them down myself and my guitar playing will just have to suffer until I get my money’s worth.
I am positive that God understands that my heart is still very much in my Worship, even if my nails are not.
Two days after getting my nails and toes done, I banged my right big toe on my desk and split that nail down to the middle of the nail bed. I currently have it scotch taped together to let the nail grow out some. True story. Also, clearly I am not wearing flippies out in public. I seriously had a good cry over this because it has been forevER since I have had coordinated, painted nails and toes.
These are the things we women struggle with that men just don’t have on their radar.
I truly planned a serious blog post when I sat down this morning to write. I’ve got some things swirling around in my brain that I want to share; but honestly, yesterday was just such an emotional and stressful day with the shootings at the Navy Yard, that I couldn’t go all gloom and doom on my blog.
Maybe next time. Or not.
Love you guys.