On the heels of a fabulous weekend seeing my granddaughter, the week back north turns a little ugly and crazy with weirdness. This continues from Tuesday through Sunday to the point where I am having nightmares about Shakespeare's now-long-dead wife and other strange people appearing out of nowhere and chasing me. I awaken Monday morning from this same dream in which I am screaming bloody murder (thankfully only in my dream and not for real).I am on serious overload. Serious.
Monday afternoon I am making my way through the tiny grocery store, planning on cooking dinner when I get home, when my daughter texts and asks if I want to go out to eat. I look in my grocery cart. I am halfway done with the shopping, and I've already picked out what to cook tonight.
No matter. I can make tonight's dinner tomorrow just as easily.
I do, however, have to finish the shopping. I need important things like eggs and milk and paper towels and laundry detergent and my son has a special request for cinnamon raisin bagels. Of course, today of all days the lines at the store are longer than I've ever seen them. Usually I am through the checkout in a quarter of the time. When I get home, I unload everything, leave non-perishables on the table, and rush over to pick her up.
After "the week that was," an icy Cold Snap is the cure-all. Even though the soup arrives after the gold fever wings, it's all good. And, other than the fact that after specifically requesting NO CHILDREN near us, the hostess sits not one, not two, but three toddlers next to us.
I guess it's all good. Because, really, it all comes down to the basic reason for our dinner out:
Sometimes you just have to celebrate Monday.
