I’ve been a bad blogger this past weekend. I’m at least 40 posts behind reading what my friends have written, and I myself have absolutely nothing lined up to share—that’s nothing with a capital “N,” the bulkiest, burliest, but noteworthy, “nothing” this side of something Big.
But there’s a party to blame. That’s always an out in my book—the party pass.
Seriously, my uncle is here from Brussels, so Sara and I hosted a sit-down dinner and clam bake for sixteen yesterday.
This wasn’t a toss-some-burgers-on-the-grill-and-grab-a-paper-plate affair. This was serious party, fancy party, an oh-so impractical party. This was event—this was occasion on a grand scale.
However, our aging bodies are paying the price—beaten up by the effort—the party pound of flesh. Sara’s back is out—so she can barely walk. Limping along, leaning on one piece of furniture after another, she’s standing at the sink, trying to wash the lobster pots, the plates, the wine glasses. (We don’t even have a dishwasher.) My entire body, on the other hand, is one big, even massive ache, as I’ve worked on clean-up hour after hour, before collapsing on the bed, throbbing, threatening never-again to blow-out bash.
The bottom line is this—I apologize for my not-exactly-lazy lapse. I promise to soon resume reading the blogs I love and writing more Mafia-ed, memoir posts.
So, beaten but not defeated, I raise my glass to you. Here’s to visiting uncles, end-of-summer celebrations, and the sweetest soiree of them all—the big bang we’re making in the blogosphere, as well. Hugs to my rockin’ readers.