Ever wonder just how cliché it is to be a crazy cat lady?
Well, here is a peek into a wild Friday evening with me and my fave pussies.
Rocky and Ted with front row lap seats.
We found ourselves minus plans after staying late the last day of the work week, so we huddled on the couch to catch up on some DVR (before my player spontaneously combusts at always being asked to remain 99% full). Except when we went to watch our weekly shows, a rerun of an Adele concert was on live TV.
And it captivated all of us.
Then between sobs, listening to Adele pine away at whatever it is her magical voice pines for, we tried to call every ex-boyfriend and girlfriend between the six of us (yes I have five furballs – and no, I give zero fucks about what folks think in regard, hence the crazy cat lady label!) because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Adele told us to.
S.O.S.
After getting zero ex answers across the board (Teddy had the most to call), we woke to a bright, shiny Kentucky Derby Saturday. No one was more excited than Princess B who has discovered the many ‘looks’ Snapchat has to offer (why does my three-year-old niece know more about social media than moi?).
Derby Darling.
I met up with Bird Lady, using the excuse for the Derby to day drink although we didn’t really adhere to any of the fancy rules.
No horses. No tiny jockeys. No hats. No mint juleps.
However, I did place a bet on the race. Since money is an object to me, I wagered a shot and when this kind gentlemen lost miserably, he paid in full. And now I have a new favorite shot: The Fresca.
I only bet booze.
And somehow this teeny tiny Abu Dhabi bar mug ended up in my purse by the end of the evening.
Trophy of sorts.
Sunday was for lovin’ on all of the mamas and mine was showered with flowers.
The power of flower.
My sister was getting extra specially spoiled on her third mother’s day with a manicure, compliments of Princess B.
Just like the spa.
Obviously.
Bored Prince B waited patiently for the paint to dry on his mother’s nails so she could be off doing better things.
Like pushing these two in a tire swing.
Mother’s Day isn’t just for those chicks who have squeezed human life out of their bodies.
No way. No how.
Do you know how hard it is to open a bag of food every damn day?
Scoop a littler box?
Give every little furry being their own attention before they ignore you for 23.75 hours per day?
Exhausting.
Turns out, for us cray cray fur ball ladies, you really can buy love.
Preshy thinks so too.
There was no better wind down for this mom of five than my sudsy Sunday soak while everyone was participating in their 23.75 hour daily ignore fest.
Just what a mama needs.
Here’s hoping you got just what you needed this weekend.
Cheers!
CBXB
