Last Thursday, Jon left right after work for St. George. You local readers know where St. George is, but for those of you readers living in far away, exotic locations, don’t be fooled by St. George’s name. It isn’t one of the quaint islands in the Bahamas. It’s a town in southern Utah known mostly for golf and old people. And some polygamy.

So like I said, Thursday Jon took off with a couple of his friends for a “mancation” in St. George… and, incidentally, it was for the golf, not so much for the old people or the polygamy. They golfed 54 holes in 2 days. And — while I like golf and all — that just doesn’t sound super fun to me. Which is why it was a “mancation” and I wasn’t invited. Plus, to be invited to “mancation”, you sort of have to be a man. And I am a pregnant woman, which is the total opposite of what you are supposed to be. But aside from being the opposite of a man, I think the main reason I wasn’t invited was because of my golfing skills… or lack thereof. Because yeah, I like golf, but I suck at golf. It would take me 2 weeks, not 2 days, to properly play 54 holes. I regularly pick up the ball and throw it towards the hole, because yes, sometimes my “awesome” shots actually give me negetive yardage. And I average about 11 balls per every 18-hole round… lost to sand traps and tall grass and water hazzards and curious pelicans and hungry deer and holes in trees and anything else that could possibly ingest or mask the whereabouts of a small white ball. Which is why I have yet to play with my really cute Disneyland balls. Because I would lose them all ($20 worth) on just an executive 9-hole course. Oh, and did I mention the time Jon actually threw me from the golf cart? That was awesome. I did a ninja-like combat roll across the fairway. Actually, I did several rolls before rolling to a complete stop with a pulled groin area and leaves in my hair. See, I am actually even horrible at riding in the cart during golf. (And if you think I am lying about that story, our friends Cory and Heidi were actually with us, and Heidi half-peed herself laughing at me. I can give you her email if you want confirmation… confirmation about the falling and rolling, not the peeing.)

Here is me golfing one day… but not the day of the golf cart incident:

(Lifting the heel is very poor form for a drive. Yet I can’t not do it.)

And so I was left at home with the kiddies. Which really is okay with me. If Jon would have gone on mancation to a spa/bakery/ice cream shop, I would have made more of a case for myself to go. But as it was, I was here with the kids, doing the usual stuff. Swim team and soccer mostly. And I held down the fort and we were just fine without daddy for a few days. ..

…Except for at night. Because have I admitted to you yet that I am a 32 year old woman who is still afraid of the dark? Yes-huh. Seriously. I am weird about it even when my husband is here, but when he is out of town? I freak out. I can’t sleep. I think every bump in the house is an intruder waiting for me to fall asleep so he can — what? — I don’t know, steal all of our left shoes before tying us up and eating all of our yogurt? No, actually, I envision much worse things. Oh, like the night of the throwdown at the mall? Somewhere in my mind, I was totally convinced  that those punk kids waited for 4 hours in the parking lot before following me home and waiting for me to fall asleep so they could break in. I know, I am insane. And I was totally going to write this post earlier, about how I was fake-mad that I wasn’t invited to go on mancation, but then I thought, “holy crap, what are you thinking? You can’t tell everyone on the internet that your husband isn’t home! That you are alone and pregnant and defenseless! Don’t you realize that ax-murderers read your blog? Sure they do! Lots of them! And several of them are within driving distance!”And so I didn’t write all weekend. Even though I had nothing better to do, especially on Friday night at 3am when the refrigerator turned on and I was convinced that it was someone in the kitchen making a sandwich before coming back the hall to break my ankles and steal my new maternity jeans.

I know, I am insane. I already know it. I’ve said it. I admit it.

And to think my husband wanted a break from all of this — wait a second…

Hmmm, maybe that’s the real reason I wasn’t invited to mancation…

There was nearly a throwdown last night. And amazing food had nothing to do with it. There were no brownies or BBQ wings. Iron Chef Bobby Flay made no appearance.

Who did make an appearance?

A carload of obnoxious, obsenity-yelling, middle-finger-giving teenagers. In the mall parking lot. Because I guess I took the parking space that they assumed was theirs. Even though I left them a space that was actually two spaces closer to the building entrance. But no, they didn’t take that space. Maybe it had cooties. They wanted the space I had taken. And so there was much tire squealing and bird-flipping and cuss word yelling out of their car window, by one idiot guy in particular. I mean, really, it was a spectacle. People all across the parking lot were staring.

And the family loading themselves into the minivan next to us? They were equally as puzzled as I. I got out of my car and walked to the other side of their van (into the aforementioned empty and close-to-the-entrance parking spot) and said, “Um, did they not see this spot?” And the dad of the minivan said, “Yeah, that was obnoxious.” And then the little girl buckling herself into her seat in the minivan said something and the mom said to her, “Yes, sweetie, he did say lots of bad words. His mommy should spank him.”

And then my sister, Sam, who already had a tough day and was just looking for someone to hit (especially if he resembled her ex), and my brother, Paul, who was out for his birthday dinner and all hopped up on caffeine from 5 Hour Energy… well, they were all ready to rumble. They were ready to go fisticuffs with the carload of punk kids.  Me? I was 7 months pregnant and not so ready to endanger the life of my fetus over a parking space and being called a name that I didn’t even hear through my closed car window. But could I talk my siblings down?

Um, nope.

We walk through the doors of the mall and I start walking to the revolving door into Red Robin. And I go around and into Red Robin. And then my sister, who notices that the punk teenagers are walking into the mall behind us, flashes the punk teenagers a nasty look and then goes through the door and into Red Robin. And then my brother, who is looking to defend the honor of his pregnant sister, stands inside the revolving door, blocking the punk teengers from gaining entrance to the eating establishment, and proceeds to give them a tongue-lashing. Something along the lines of “Hey idiot, did you not notice the empty space right next to us?” Except he possibly threw in some cuss words for intimidation. I’m not sure. I couldn’t tell what he was saying… because me (and my fetus) and my sister were safely on the other side of the closed revolving door, watching to see if our brother was going to get hit in the face for his birthday dinner. And my brother? Not huge in stature. But scrappy. And — as I mentioned before — had some courage and energy to burn from the 5 Hour Energy drink.

But the punk kids? Totally backed down. I think maybe because my brother can also look a little psycho when the occasion calls for it. And the girls who were with the male punk teenagers? I’m pretty sure they wanted to date my brother… because I saw them giggling as the cussing, bird-giving guy squirmed. But then they all skulked away. Maybe because my brother was still blocking the door. And then he came in and the three of us got a table and ordered drinks and sang that Peter Cetera song from the Karate Kid.  You know, the one about I am the man who will fight for your honor? And then we had dinner and saw Batman again (because there’s not much else out right now). And much later as we walked to the car, I half expected to see it graffitied and defaced by the same group of kids, who are no doubt the passive-aggressive type to do such a thing. But the car was fine, and no one got hit that night, and my fetus is none-the-wiser.

But if you look like my sister’s ex? You should probably still steer clear of here for a little while. Because I think she was a little upset that my brother got the bulk of the action and she didn’t get to smack anyone.

Zoe came home from church with a worksheet she’d done in her Primary class. Apparently it was a lesson on telling the truth.

More important to note, though, was the picture she’d drawn on the back of this worksheet:

So the truth? She must have been having a rough day.