Sleepovers And A Totally Irrational Rant About Golf

Olivia is going to sleep over at a friend’s house tonight. The last time she slept at someone’s house, it wasn’t a great success. She was supposed to call me at 11 p.m. with her bg reading and didn’t. Tonight she will be instructed that she has to call me – this is her last chance. No phone call, no more sleep overs until spring.

I’m a little nervous about it. The family seems very nice and really eager to learn (this is the family that didn’t invite O to the b-day party a few weeks back – big misunderstanding, the mother and I have since talked about it). I’m trying to figure out how much information to send without overwhelming them. I think the bare minimum, with every phone number I can think of. Glucagon, too, although that does tend to scare the crap out of some people. We’ve never had to use it (knock on wood, go outside, turn around three times and spit towards the East) and I stress that any time I hand that big red box to someone. Hopefully they won’t freak.

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I’m going to see Harry Potter tomorrow and I’m so excited I can hardly stand it. I may be sitting ehre at my desk, typing on the computer, but inside, I’m jumping up and down and shrieking with glee. Glee, glee, glee!
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And now golf.

I hate golf. I think it is a stupid sport and no amount of debate/argument/persuasion/derision will ever get me to think otherwise. I’ve tried to play it and I suck. Suck like a Dyson vaccuum cleaner. Suck like Ross Perot’s giant sucking sound. Suck like the pull of a black hole. Suck. My darling husband, though, thinks it’s the best game going. He gets orgasmic over it. It’s disgusting. He’s going to play on Sunday, hopefully for the last time this season.

What bugs me the most is that it takes So. Freaking. Long. to play. Six, seven hours. It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s going to drive to Quincy, which is a good hour and half from our ouse, play golf (spit) for six hours, and then drive home another hour and a half. I’m not very good at math, but near as I can figure, he’s going to be gone for NINE hours. On Sunday, one of only two days off a week that either of us gets, which means I’m left holding the baby. Literally.

Fanfuckingtastic.

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