This weekend had some pretty high highs and some fairly low lows. Friday was delightful. Philomena blessedly slept until almost 9, so she was in a delightful mood for playgroup. This week we went to a retirement home and “reversed” trick-or-treated, in that the kids wore their Halloween costumes and brought treat bags to the elderly residents. Yeah, this was a good idea in theory, but all the children were under three, and most of them barely had the “receive candy from strangers at their doors” situation down, let alone “give them candy from your bucket.” But, meh, ladybug and frog and duckie costumes cover a multitude of sins. Speaking of that, Mena was wiped out on the way home, and so I shall gift you with just one more cute monkey picture. This time the monkey is sleeping, so it’s definitely different than the 4,632 pictures from last post:
That afternoon, my mom helped me finish the second coat on the red dining chairs from the pits of Gehenna. After our productive session, I was was just glowing and beaming with DIY pride, but after today’s waxing debacle with said chairs [the trauma is too fresh to give you any more details], I once again hate them and all things do-it-yourself.
The highlight of our weekend was Saturday night, in which we attended a fancy-schmanzy fundraising “gala” for my family’s parish and school. My sister has been working hard on the planning committee for a year now, so she gave Ryan and me tickets to sit at her table. My in-laws graciously offered to babysit. Ryan and I even went on a mini-date before the gala to have some one-on-one time over whiskey and wine [you can probably guess who had what].
We never miss an opportunity to play dress up, which means Ryan sported one of his nicer old man hats, and I wore a black lace dress with these completely ridiculous heels:
Ryan gently asked me as we were leaving, “um, do you think you want to bring a back up pair of shoes?” As I precariously teetered down our steps, I huffed something in response about how I was FINE, that I used to wear heels all the time, and I could definitely handle this.
Well, I think we all know where this story is heading. The gist: these mom feet can-absolutely-positively-NOT do stilettos anymore. At all. Never ever again. Aside from the pins-and-needles pain searing through every tendon and bone of my feet, my ever-present klutziness was taken to a level of epic proportions.
As we were breaking it down on the dance floor, [translation: I was fumbling my way around Ryan’s lead, complete with spoken “one-two, one-two”], I fell twice. Yes, indeed, two flailing, unintentionally immodest, comedic falls onto my backside. After the first descent, my husband suggested that perhaps I just kick off my shoes. However, I would have none of that. Yes, pride does, indeed, come before the fall.
We left shortly thereafter, and I quite literally stumbled to our car. On the way home, it dawned on me that to the outsider, I probably looked inebriated. This is when the true post-event mortification set in. No, I didn’t drink too much at a church fundraiser; I’m just vain and imprudent. At least I have that.
The rest of the weekend was thankfully less eventful. At Mass this morning Mena tried to “feed” her toys to about five people, and she pulled the hair of an unsuspecting girl in front of us, and she yanked on the pearl bracelets of the lady behind us. Ryan and I braved the coffee-and-doughnut scene again, and this time we didn’t sit by ourselves in the corner. Instead, we stood by ourselves in the opposite corner. We’re definitely making progress toward parish socialization.
Okay, to put an end to this silly post, here are some pictures from the not-cliche-at-all photobooth from Saturday night. From my cheesiness, you can decipher that this was before my fall(s) from grace. [Sorry, I meant to put these pictures earlier in my no-point-at-all story, but I forgot, and I’m too lazy to go back up in the post.]