Here is your embarrassing story of the week. Feel free to enjoy.

We did all the laundry last weekend. Anything that was washable and not nailed down got washed. At some point, a crayon made its way into the hot water wash, and then into the dryer. It was likely among the dark socks and underwear load, which is sizable since Hubby and I own approximately 14 million pair of dark socks. (Sing with me! Black socks, they never get dirty! The longer you wear them, the stiffer they get!”)

So the mystery crayon was bouncing amid the sock and underdrawers, melting and reforming and spreading the technicolor wonderment of itself all over our clothing. Well, no, specifically all over MY clothing. MY undergarments attracted the Crayola love more than, say, ANY of Hubby’s.

And what color was it? Oh, I bet you can guess. Brown. And if I had to name it, it’d be “Shit Brown.”

Because now each and every one of my underthings state without fear that either a shit brown crayon did the dance as old as time in my dryer, OR I have a massive, and rather creative, incontinence problem.

The Lands’ End Packable Tote looks awesome - folds up into an itty bitty square, but big enough to haul home some serious business.

You know that book? Well, it’s not a book yet. It’s a manuscript. It’s too big. I know, wtf? Like someone expected me NOT to be wordy?

So it’s bounced its way back to my desk and I’m now editing. Eventually I’m going to stop recognizing this as my own writing and read it for the first time again. For now I’m puzzling through all the pages trying to chop chop chop some more.

Also, on Canada Day, Freebird decided that he wanted to sing O Canada as his lullabye. My boyz, they are awesome. 

After two months of nonstop work on The Book, I have time to read magazines. OMG the luxury. Freebird is watching tv from under his coffee table bed/fort (note to self: get the boys a tent at some point) and I’m in a chair drinking coffee and reading magazines from the past 3 months. Blissssssss.

But I have to ask: Who the fuck is Domino kidding with this outdoor furniture shit? $1200 for a table that gets rained on? $1500 for a wrought iron sofa WITH CUSHIONS that gets RAINED ON? $750 for a chaise that… wait for it… GETS RAINED ON? What are they smoking? I don’t spend that much on INDOOR furniture (that gets jumped on) much less the stuff that sits outside and gets rained on, to say nothing of pollen, tree detritus, seeds,apples, and flower residue.

Seriously. Craigs List. If I’m in the market for an outdoor set, I’ll haunt the used listings and get someone’s $1500 set for less. I can’t wrap my brain around spending that much for something that will look dirty and messy after one good rainstorm.

Clearly, there must be something wrong with me.

My cousin and his wife had a baby girl yesterday. After being induced because doctors feared the baby was too small, their bouncing bundle of “hey!” was 6lbs. 6oz. and totally freaking normal. So happy and so relieved.

I’m going to try to go visit, and I’m torn. On one hand, I shouldn’t show up empty handed, but on the other hand, bringing gifts to the hospital means more stuff for them to schlep home tomorrow. So, I’m thinking bring nothing. Will I look like an asshole? Who knows. 

Someday I’ll probably be back to complaining about normal weekend routines, but this weekend was full of errands and shopping and walking and hanging out and I loved every minute just because I got to do it. I wasn’t sequestered up in my office all day, staring at my laptop, squeezing one more word out of my tired brain.

Hubby and I usually exchange sleep-ins, wherein one of us snoozes until they feel like getting up while the other is up with Baba, who usually awakes hungry and loud at about 6 or 630. This weekend we decided to do late wake-ups for each of us, but only until 7. Trust me, when the baby wakes up at 6 on a Saturday morning, a 7am wakeup is a luxury. So I got up for Hubby on Saturday because he was painfully tired when Baba O’Riley started babbling, and pretty much all men were up and at ‘em by 730.

Then, I made pancakes.

Attention. Please read the previous sentence. I MADE PANCAKES. 

I got on the bus this morning and smelled hot patchouli. The driver was burning incense. Why? No idea. She was very much in love with both the gas and the brake pedal, so I don’t think it improved her driving any, but the bus smelled like we were all trying to cover something up. Yet no one was passing the dutchie, which would have made the commute a lot more fun.

This weekend we have Things to Do. Outside the house. I will not spend the entire weekend in my office working. I may not even spend that much time staring at my laptop. I don’t know what to do with myself, honestly. It’ll be weird, but very fun.

Story time! We took a walk with the boys and the dog before dinner last night, and Freebird didn’t want to get in the stroller. He wanted to walk. So we let him walk alongside the stroller - once we were around the corner from the busy main street we live on, sans sidewalk, WTF is up with that we do not know - and he picked up a stick. AND a rock. And proceeded to tell us all about the rock and the stick and how he had them. It was the Stick & Rock Show, with special guest Freebird. And when I asked what he was doing, as he tapped his stick on the sidewalk, he said, ‘I’m stickin’!’

Agreed. Whatever stickin’ is, he was definitely doing it. Then, a few minutes later, “I’m walkin’ like a big boy! With my stick! And my rock!”

Today while I was walking to my office, I thought to myself: I’m walking like a Big Girl! With my coffee! And my purse!

Totally not as much fun as would be with a stick and a rock, but what can I do?

I hope your weekend is filled with big walks, and sticks, and rocks. Cool ones, too.