Just Plain Tired

Tonight, my husband and I are hittin’ the town—Shelby style.

I’m not sure what that means, but it sounded nifty.

You know what else sounds nifty? Sleeping. Which is something I haven’t done since our oldest was born. And because monsters have decided to move into her closet, the chances of getting any are looking slim.



So, I’m too tired to tell you that last week I attended the Taste of Home cooking show at Shelby High School. 

Or that sitting in high school auditorium seats last upholstered in the 1970s is exceptionally uncomfortable after any length of time.

Or that when you’re in a yellow room, with yellow walls, and yellow seats, everything and everyone in your pictures look----well, yellow.

I’m too darn exhausted to tell you that the highlight of my evening was sitting next to Gaye and Rachel. They’re fabulous friends, wives, and mothers. And listening to them enjoy each other’s company and the anticipation of another great Taste of Home cooking show was utterly delightful.

As were their smiles. Happy birthday, Rachel!

I cannot see straight enough to type that this gentleman has this same expression in nearly every photo I took that evening. And it's kind of scary.

Or that these high school students ran 5 miles each around the auditorium collecting door prize entries and I felt old just watching them.

Or that this delightful photographer from The Star and I had a showdown with our cameras.

And this cheerful woman was caught in the cross-shuttering. (Sorry, bad photography joke.)

Sleep deprivation has rendered me so hopeless that I’m not even ashamed to admit that I considered knocking The Star photographer off stage and stealing her vantage point more than once. Because it was better than mine. And my hips are bigger than hers.

Or that my camera loved this girl. She’s got that wonderfully quiet, nonchalant, girl-next-door look that was mesmerizing.

But mostly, I just wanted to knock her off stage.

Because toothpicks are propping my eyelids open, I can’t tell you how jealous I was of Michelle Roberts’ red chef coat and her endless backstage assistants.

Or that the projected video of her work surface was less than quality and mostly a string of advertisements for major sponsors.

Or that this picture makes me giggle as if I were 9 again. I don’t know why. 

I can’t even tell you about the decadent desserts she prepared.

No, really.

I can’t.

I left halfway through. It’s a new mother thing. That and my favorite cookies really do work.