Late Enough I Ask Advice Button

I Ask: How Do You Make Three-Day Weekends Fun? Or Is This Only My Problem?

I don’t like three-day weekends. They demand busy. Social busy like grilling or partying or hosting. And talking all that small talk that gives me hives. Although I haven’t actually been invited to any Labor Day weekend parties so perhaps everyone’s in their pajamas having thoughtful conversations about saving the world.

The alternative to standing around with a hotdog trying to explain blogging is traveling with the entire country. And by traveling, I mean driving at fifteen mph for ten hours while you watch the VERY IMPORTANT PERSON next to you decide to squeeze into the front of you because your lane is going two cars faster than the lane next to you.

Plus, long weekends are impractical. I would rather my husband have the day off in the middle of the week when stores are open than have three days in a row since two out of his three days include terrible store hours.

Holy crap, y’all, I’m a curmudgeon.

Maybe I can live vicariously through your plans of awesome. What are you doing for Labor Day weekend? Oh and can you invite me? I won’t come, but this way I can say that I have plans for the 3000 times I’m asked. It’s better than going into my long-weekends-suck rant. Probably.

So I ask: How do you make three-day weekends fun? And can that fun be less social and more sweatpants-orientated?

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Plotting his next move. It probably involves television.

Burrito Man And The Pink Princess

The superheros are taking over.

It's easy to be nonchalant about Spiderman when you're a superhero, too.

We watch He-Man, She-Ra, Iron Man and read about the Justice League like someone’s in training.

The other day, we are in their bedroom, and I wrap E up in a blanket to make human burritos (also known as Zombie 101) when he jumps up and runs downstairs.  I follow him yelling: GET BACK HERE, BURRITO! (because if zombies can talk that’s EXACTLY what they’re going to say.)

He hides in the bathroom and then swoops out onto my path.

Me: AHA! I got you burrito!

E: Nope. I’m just E.

Me: You’re not a burrito anymore?

E: Well {he lowers his voice and moves closer}, that’s my secret identity.

Me: Your secret identity is a burrito?

E: Like Peter Parker and Spiderman.

Two questions immediately come to EVERYONE’S MIND:

  1. Does this mean he was bitten by a radioactive burrito?
  2. And what exactly is his super power?

If he’s anything like his father, I think that the answer the #2 is pretty clear.

And my sweet, sweet daughter, not to be outdone, later turns to me and declares: I want to be a PRINCESS!


N continues: A pink princess WHO SHOOTS PEOPLE.

Is this what Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters is like? Because I’m afraid. Very very afraid.

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