Excellent BBQ with the geniuses yesterday. Ferocious heat got me a ticket indoors where, out of sightlines of palatability police and in air-conditioned comfort, I scored a cheesburger and half my weight in steak.
Her partying stamina lags far behind mine, however, and being up past beddy-byes last night means she will likely go all wet blanket and nix plans for today. The evidence: she was off her game this morning when, first, she nearly forgets my getting-back-into-the-car-after-picking-up-coffee cookie, necessitating heroic prompting, and then puts broccoli in my eggs.
Cleansed the palate with – drum roll – salad. At last.
So if it’s going to be a Rest Day (re: warehousing) with no fireworks outing, it’d be great if she’d scream less at the TV this afternoon. Whenever she does this on the heels of my vanilla bean freezer snack, it turns what would be a pleasant tryptophan nap into an ice cream headache.
Likeliest intervention avenue would be the Duchess of Cambridge taking HRH’s woeful pitch recognition more seriously and getting him help, like the Queen Mother did for George VI’s stammering thing, so he’d stop swinging over every 4A or better change-up.