I woke up yesterday morning completely incensed at John Cougar Mellencamp. That asshole had the nerve to get MAD at me after I called him "John Cougar Mellencamp" in my dream, because I simply forgot that he dropped the "Cougar" part, like who can keep it all straight all the time, and even after I apologized he yanked my wine glass out of my hand and and said "this is going to kill you one day, young lady" and then I woke up and was like, don't you judge me, John Cougar Mellencamp. For HOURS. Possibly even still now, a little bit.
God. He was just so fucking CONDESCENDING about it.
Anyway, after I woke up and had a whole imaginary defensive conversation about my imaginary intervention with an imaginary John Cougar Mellencamp, I had to start frantically cleaning the house for our Labor Day party, to which I had invited the local Mamapop contingent -- Sarah, Laurie, Jodi, Tracey, Charlie -- to come over and start drinking before noon.
The party was a great success, if I do say so myself, judging by the two (2) recycling bins we done filled up with wine and beer bottles (STOP JUDGING ME, MELLENCAMP), and the staggering amount of food we all managed to consume. Including grits cakes with tomato-basil marmalade, courtesy of Charlie, grilled lamb with tzatziki, courtesy of Jason and an entire Crock Pot's worth of nacho Velveeta dip, courtesy of me.
"Bless your little white trash heart," Charlie said to me about that, while we were all practically eating our seventh helping with the little itty-bitty broken corners of chips because GET IN MAH MOUTH, PASTEURIZED CHEESE PRODUCT, but I think he meant in a nice way and not like YOU-KNOW-WHO. FUCK, MAN. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
The party also included a very enthusiastic Miley Cyrus lip-syncing performance in my backyard, during which I improvised a hairography Ode to Britney Spears' Weave of Busted. It was videotaped. It will...probably be made public embarrassingly soon in a Mamapop Roundtable. So I should go gird my loins for that indignity. With more wine, probably.
But first, I must go put Noah on the school bus for his first day of school. (OH HI THERE, EMOTIONS. GULP. SOB.) I have about 15 more minutes to convince him that he really, really needs to take off Ezra's little red fleece bathrobe, which he's been wearing for about 18 straight hours now and demanding that we all call him Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Go knock 'em dead, kid. You are just too awesome for color TV.
(We also took them peach picking this weekend. So lay off with the attitude about a couple imaginary glasses of white wine consumed at some kind of imaginary Hoarders meets Antiques Roadshow party we were all inexplicably attending in an abandoned warehouse down in the city and I was completely and thoroughly overdressed for with like, a tiara and everything, and thus nervous and prone to social faux-pas like including "Cougar" in the name of 80s rockers who have since dropped it due to label disputes or WHATEVER, WE ARE TOTALLY A WHOLESOME SORT OF ALL-AMERICAN COW-PETTING FAMILY.)