Yes, it's Monday. And I'm at home, in sweatpants. Because I don't have to work. And for that, I am in love with life. Hooray, life.
Anyway. I had a dinner party. On Saturday. With The Parents and Grandma. (And The Fiance, who shall remain "The Fiance," for now, anyway). And the spaghetti. Remember that part where I told you Mom's Spaghetti was so good it hurt my soul? I wasn't lying. And the five of us (count 'em - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) sat quite cozily around a table that under normal circumstances comfortably fits two (and one cat - ahem, HARLEY - who generally likes to be present at meal time. Present, as in, ON the table. But, of course, I let her, because don't forget, I'm a Cat Lady).
So, the five of us sat. At a table meant for two (or, really, four very small people). And it was grand. And we ate spaghetti and kept our elbows tucked as to not knock over glasses of milk or stick them in someone else's plate. And after dinner? We huddled in the living room, which is also not quite equipped for dinner parties, and talked about combining finances, Grandma's boyfriend, and that one time, years (and years and years) ago, post-potty training, when I used to need help wiping my butt. Thanks, Mom.
After eating pie, taking turns in the bathroom (with no help), letting our food settle and arguing over who Mom loved more, The Fiance or I (by the way, I win), it was time to call it a day. And it was a good day, even if I ate too much, and Harley, who, under normal circumstances, is an Attention Whore, hiss and spit at anyone who came within three feet of her.
So my family packed themselves back into Grandma's car and headed home. And I missed them already. And next time The Fiance mentions moving south to where it's golf season year round, I will remind him that, no. No I will not move away from my family. I will miss them. And who, then, would help me wipe?