Okay, that’s really a lie, but the truth is life has been really busy. As you know, I scrubbed Maison Bean from range hood to baseboards, and as soon as I cleaned one part of the house, the little Beans destroyed another.
I have also hosted guests from out of state and out of country, cooked a gourmet Thanksgiving dinner by myself, taken two little Beans to their inaugural dental appointments, visited Santa, laundered 287 loads of clothes and consumed a fair amount of wine since my last post.
I am now trying to brainstorm ways to become independently wealthy, and I’m getting no inspiration from the TV Guide channel, and I keep dozing off. So without further ado, I am ending this non-existent post. I’ll be back next Wednesday with the story of our Thanksgiving. Promise.
"Can we do it again, Mommy?" Jax asked before we even finished the first ride. After seven times on that damn thing, I was walking around like a drunk on St. Paddy's Day.
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“Cooked a Gourmet Thanksgiving dinner.” Do you believe that one? Then Papa has ocean front property in Tennessee he’ll sell to you cheap.
It was like being in the catering business around here with Jenny and her friends. Hell, if I got quarter tip for every Brandy Alexander I made, we’d have the down payment on a jet plane.
Then again, if you drink enough wine, maybe making toast for breakfast is close enough.
I’m talking about those yummy bloody Marys and the gooey Irish cheddar and turkey sandwiches with cranberry and apricot tapenade on sourdough that I made with my panini press. As for those brandy Alexanders, you were pushing those things hard. It was like peer pressure.
Sheesh, you’d think I was taking credit for the last supper or something. And, fyi, everybody knows that there’s no more ocean front property left in Tennessee. Some guy named William Clinton sold it all.
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