I'm going to just go ahead and concede defeat now. The weekend has kicked my ass and I keep turning and walking straight into Ben's shirt for a brief dark snooze in the black jersey and then I'm turned back out in short order because he is doing things and he will meet me later for sleep.
(If he stops singing the songs from Rango. JESUS. DUCT TAPE IS IMMINENT.)
I spent half the day in the vineyard and the other half at the lake. You know what's cool about the lake now? I can stay on shore and watch the kids swim for hours without having to be right there because they can swim very well now. You know what's not cool about the lake? The kids are still only 12 and 10 and I need to watch them every single second. It's about as relaxing as playing singles tennis. AKA It isn't. I came home fried and overheated and all jacked out on nerves.
I came home to my kickass vineyard which is finally under control and the buds are starting to plump up nicely. I need to put the nets up still but otherwise we are go for fruit. And wine!! Yay! This is all I need, more wine. Dear God, please, no more wine. I think this is quite enough.
I am also worn out from the carnival yesterday, from standing up too long, from too much sugar and too much sun, not enough sleep, endless cooking and apparently I didn't get the memo. Ben did and he read it out loud. It said:
Dear Bridget,
You are not twenty anymore. You can't run on three hours sleep and a ton of work and too much sun and all this bad food and alcohol and nonstop action.
Love, your former self, who totally could and still does run on air.
OMG. She is such a bitch and I hate her.
Goodnight. I am tiny toast, burnt and done and done and eaten. Snort.
