I made a ginormous breakfast this morning for my guests: bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and bacon gravy with buttery biscuits and strawberry jam and apple butter and orange juice.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.
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