When I was even younger and cooler and in college, Friday meant our friends who chose to go straight to work after high school came filtering into our tiny college town to take advantage of the best part of campus life. Thursday night tuckers out us co-eds and the week exhausts the working man and the promise of a weekend full of nonsense has us all resting up on Friday. We sat in and ordered pizza and let the good time guys roll in through the front door.
When I was even youngerer and in high school, I held down the Baskin Robbins from 6.30 til 9.30 on Friday nights. Malls are scary places on Friday nights. It's a wonder that I ever survived.
Last night we stopped in at Maison Ronaldo's and had the filet avec fromage on sesame brioche and pommes frites and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly in the terre de jeu.
We came home for our most favorite thing to do ever that we have been waiting all week to have the house to ourselves for. The Jump Party. Never done it? Oh, you are missing out. We've been doing it for years. Put on your favorite music and jump around together. It's simple and fun. Doesn't matter if the neighbors are looking in. Let them. (They were). Last night we changed out of our dinner clothes and jumped and jumped and jumped to the Cake Station on Pandora.com. If you are born between 1968 and 1982 and you are a normalish person (I say ish because you are here, and truly normal people click away after a minute or two of reading. We are a pretty special bunch here. I say "we" because I am constantly reading my blog. I crack myself up and make myself cry all at the same time. I'm here all the time when I get bored of the internets.) you will really like the Cake station.
Last night Jake suggested that we match for the jumping. He's much into the matching lately. He asked me to put on my Chuck T's and my "cold shirt" so I did.
We didn't stay cold for long. We jumped. A lot. And we may have done the mashed potato. And the twist. And the jerk. Watch us work.
Then we played with the blanket for a million hours.
Then we took turns taking pictures of each other. This is the reason that I bought a subpar camera. The boy loves to take pictures and I love not caring that he's got his grubby little ick sticks and sweaty palms all over them.
I took this one:
Jake is supposed to be in there but I missed. But I like the way I look there. I look just how I felt.
Jake took this one:
I asked him where my head was, and he told me he wasn't taking a picture of my head, he was taking a picture of my belly. Because that's where he "growed before he was born".
I'm kinda glad he did because I've been feeling icky and squishy lately and this picture proves that I'm practically ballerina thin. For like, a ballerina who eats cheeseburgers and drinks beer and snacks regularly and doesn't dance anymore and has given birth in the last decade and doesn't have the poise nor ability to stand on one foot for very long. And no my fly isn't open. It's a bum zipper. But those jeans make my butt look perky. And they are the only pair I can currently button. So I'm dealing.
Then Jake did take a picture of my head.
And one of his favorite grossout.
And then we were beat so we brushed our teeth and changed into our jams and read a book and went to sleep together.
Jake took that picture too, so it is art. If I took it, it would just be a crappy shoot from the hip pic of a book that every mom in America knows by heart. But Jake is amazing, right?