storytelling

Do I tell you about my Father's Day gift panic, because it's only eating me alive. (I used to be an incredible gift giver. Not to toot my own horn or anything. Then last year I gave a girlfriend a Tim Hortons card for her birthday. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Face first. Into a sewage pipe full of terrible coffee, frozen donuts and hepatitis laced needle points.)

Do I regale you with how f*cking fun this weekend was with Stella away at Gramma's house for TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. I can't. It was sublime and decadent and selfish, and full of these:

{blackberry mojitos with stagette straws}

So I'll just say this: Thank you to my Mama. You are courageous and amazing. And can we do it again soon?

Do I tell you, with a deep guhhhh sigh, that we're going to have to move soon because the condo sold and man, I really would have loved to be here for another summer. Minutes to the beach AND park. We're also literally tripping over ourselves and all of Stella's baby entertainment systems, so more space will be a good thing. But, packing our books alone just gave me a heeby jeeby all up into my asshole.

But I can't tell you all my stories - I have a burnt oatmeal pot to curse at and legs to shave and MLS listings to peruse all before someone wakes herself up by thrashing about with her blanket, legs hanging off the sides of her bed, panicked wails starting small then hitting a "SHIIIIIIIIT, I CAN'T BREATHE UNDER HERE MAMA" crescendo.

Happy Monday Motherlovers.