The Boast & the Cocktail Toast

I don't enjoy tall tales.

Paul Bunyan makes me nervous because he's got the ax and the blueness of his ox must be an optical illusion.

Stumbling across Mr Bunyan at a cocktail party would result in all sorts of problems, especially if he's hogging the cocktail toasts and drinking too many Manhattans.  He would probably greet me with a gregarious guffaw and slap me on the arm, invading my personal space. If I can see the rings of your contacts, even in a dark room, you are too close. The hide color on your ox is not found in nature and that's suspicious.

The ax is swinging precariously close to the picture on the wall- someones dad painted it of a covered bridge. Paul doesn't care and he's got a story- probably a story about the time he invented a super ox feeder or cheese cuber. Even better he's founded something like the Unified Northern Indian Topographical Ermine Development Corp, LLC. (Interestingly, that's UNITED).

I need to found some kind of entity and brag about it at parties.

I think about asking him for cash or cut lumber or even a chance to fondle the ax, but he's pretty wrapped up in the greatness that is Mr Bunyan. He works his way around the party talking to other tale tellers like Mr Worm. This Mr Worm will overpower just about anyone and he's usually manhandling you and trying to kiss you on the mouth despite your repeated warnings that the lip fungus is still pretty active under the lip gloss.

You know you have a situation when Paul and the Worm can't see eye to eye on their carnivorous, competitive cocktail toast eating. But Paul has an ax and he might just use it on something other than the cracked acrylic "Sunset over Covered Bridge" by someones Dad.

The Worm drinks and texts. Maybe there's a better party out there somewhere with no competitive foundation stories and more finger food. (Note to the Worm, we can see these because we share them with the other party goers.)

I knock over a cup of cocktail onions.

Bunyan loudly regales us with his tales of the formation of UNITED making everyone, including the Worm wonder why he's bothering with our little party anyway. It must be exhausting to remember all of those details about stuff you make up and I can independently verify on the Internet- remember though that Al Gore invented that last item.

It's unlikely that  Mr Worm or Mr Bunyan will find my little blog.

Or that I picked their pockets when I knocked over the onions.

Hey Kid

I have no idea where I've been. That's a lie. Sorry.

Why did I start this line in November, 2012...

You know which one you are so sit down and listen. First, you're killing me. Your eyes

I know exactly where I've been. I started to be afraid of writing and of words. I was afraid of my punctuation and sentence structure.

I was actually more afraid of what you might think about what I said.

The neighbors are watching, I thought. If there was something wrong with the kid's eyes, then everyone at the high school would know and that's about the least cool thing ever.

Maybe I was trying out some kind of wacko poetry. In fact, this is why I like Twitter so much. If you only have 120 characters it is kind of hard to offend some one or get in any kind of trouble. Although there was that one girl that threatened the entire city of Dearborn on Twitter.  Note to self: don't threaten cities.

Let's just get out with it. I've been hiding - living in the pictures posted on Facebook and in 120 character tweets in a massive tableau of generally useless missives. I did hear recently that you can order a pizza with it though so I don't think that's a useless exercise if your blood sugar is low and your really want pizza.

Back to the kid, whomever it was, I don't know what you did but we obviously moved past it. I'm not in prison and neither are you.

Did you sit down to listen? This is highly unlikely, but our household has tended to be loud so I'm certain that I got my point across. I wonder if I actually got up mid sentence to holler at you. You know what? Let's go with that and then I disappeared.

But I'm back.

Disclosures

I went to get my hair done this morning. I was pleased to see a Town & Country magazine on the shelf by the chair.  The hairdresser said "I knew you would like that. That's my Mom's favorite magazine."

Her mom is 45.

That's just ducky. But I'm over it now that I typed it.

You know what I'm not over? Being personally attacked. Someone out there really thinks I'm evil and surprisingly, it's not one of my children. 

So I talk to myself a lot. "It's OK," I say,"not everyone has to like you."  "It's OK, you're still a good person even though this person apparently wants you dead and fired and living in a van down by the river."

Even worse, you extend an olive branch. You try to be the bigger person and they further attack you and use your goodness as an example of more evilness. It's so twisted you are starting to wonder if you're living inside the Old Testament but without the tents.  Are people really this awful when they're supposed to be all grown up? Yes, yes they are.

You know what else I'm not over? Someone telling me that I look like a soccer mom. My kids don't even play soccer. I don't drink Starbucks and drive around yakking on my phone. Do soccer moms even do that? What is a soccer mom anyway? Seems to me like she might be in better shape because no one's trying to ruin her reputation except for the other evil Moms on the PTA.  That is probably worse- all hail to you Soccer Moms who have people on the PTA attack you. I stand in solidarity.

I show up for work every day in high heels and I even wear seasonally appropriate lip gloss. I say smart stuff (sometimes) so why do you care if I've got grass clippings on my floor mats and mummified french fries in between my seats? By the way, don't blame the kids for those. That and the dried up dripped ice cream is from me. Have you ever tried to drive 75 mph, talk on the phone and eat an ice cream sundae? Not recommended.

I may need to show up at church tomorrow to revel in the whole Jesus loves me this I know stuff otherwise it's going to be another long week. I may also spray myself from head to toe with nonstick cooking spray and let that crap just slide right off (the bad stuff, not the Jesus stuff).

Maybe I'm over it now.

The Home Team

This guy puts up with a lot of crap. Coming off of what could be describe as "the week that would not die", there he was to take me to dinner. I got one of those drinks with the champagne floating on top.  Vodka and champagne go together like peas and carrots.
The week that would not die, is still not dead and it's already another week. I hereby put a fork in last week. It's done now and time for an afternoon drink with some champagne on top so I can forget about the week that I just ceremoniously killed with a fork.

For Halloween I'd like to be a shrubbery

It occurred to me today that once, A&P really only cared about cookies.  I found this picture of them from preschool. Interestingly, Andrew is on the left. I guess the preschool teacher obeyed my commands. If you don't count me dressing up as a shrub and standing really close to the playground, I never was much of a stalker and more of a dictator.

I remember putting A&P on the bus for their first day of preschool- they were in the "special program" because they didn't speak much of anything that anyone could understand. The people that gave them the assessment just looked at me like I'd totally screwed them up and they were only 3. A&P knew what they were saying. After a lot on unintelligible stuff, things would happen, like they'd rip the blinds off the windows. So don't tell me they're behind, you persnikety preschool assessment people.  I'll never forget hating on them. Not that I'm bitter.

Anyway, I put them on that big old bus to send them to preschool to learn to talk like everyone else (like that's important), unstrapped, just loose to fly all over the place. They had to go over two sets of railroad tracks to get to the school. Part of the way was a divided highway. Some of it was a two lane road with a ditch next to it. Dang you Wood County and your bus eating ditches. (Back before I was worried about the ditches eating the car, I was pretty convinced they could gulp down a cheese wagon.)

A&P hollered and moaned. I gasped and beat my chest like a tribal medicine woman being attacked by a python. It was horrible. I found out later that the neighbors watched the whole thing. Like we were their own personal Telemundo- all the thrashing and wailing but without the priest or the kidnapping or the subtitles.

A&P finally got on that giant bus. They were the only children on it. I ran to my car and I chased that giant bus. I wanted to make sure that if it ran into the ditch I could fish the boys out through the window. Screw the bus driver, she could save herself.  At a stop light, I actually made the mistake of pulling up next to the right side of the bus.  I peered into the bus for a glimpse and to my horror the bus driver opened the door and gave me the "roll down your window, you psycho" sign.  So I did.  "Go to work,"  she said.  And I did. After I fluffed up my shrub costume so I'd be ready for recess.

Is it a Felony if...

One of the benefits of teaching a kid to drive is the full service fill ups. On Monday, I was heading out of town and it only made sense for me to take advantage.  Lucky for me, as soon as we got in the car, a co-worker called me back. I'd been waiting all day to talk to him, so I had to do it then, and I wasn't the one driving, so no harm no foul.  All was well until the kid pulled into the gas station just as some maniac was circling the lot in a big expensive car (something I'd rather not pay for). My child was oblivious to this meandering menace and continued to approach the pump. Sensing impending doom and another deductible to pay (already 2 so far in October), I scream "BRAKE! NOW! DO IT NOW! BRAKE!"

The unsuspecting and now audibly victimized co-worker says "Hey, I can call you back...." No way, I scream. I've been waiting to talk to you all day. "I don't like how this sounds. It sounds dangerous," he says pensively. What? No way.  How could this be anything less than safe- being driven around town by a 15 year old. I do it all the time!

You're too close to the pump, I say. Do it again. Oh MY GOLLY you're going to rip off the mirror. Do it again. OK, that's better. 

The beleaugered co-worker says sheepishly "Hey I made my wife do all the driving with our kids, now I know why." Did your wife end up in rehab? Did she leave you? Do you hate her? Does she have PTSD?

To the kid I say "Take the credit card, fill up the tank." The kid looks at me like I just fell from a rotating, celestial orb and says "I don't remember how." WHAT? I holler like he's just put my clothing on a wire hanger. Just FILL UP MY TANK.  The coworker is again molested and mumbles something about the building being on fire and needing to hang up.  My Eye, it's sponteously combusting.  I continue with call only to see the kid tapping on the window waving the credit card and mouthing "What do I do with this?" He's filling the car all appears OK, but he should not be waving the card so I get out anyway.  Did you put it in the machine? "Um no. " That's a problem. I'm so distracted that we almost commited a fuel drive off while my coworker is burning up in his office.  Did you know the kid's dad is a prosecutor? I'm already on such thin ice with the fam, Jesus, the CIA, the Southern Conference of Evangelical Baptists.

We survived, the tank got filled, we made it home and I spent the week dashing about.  I'm pretty cranky about the dashing so we'll just leave it at that and say that I'm awfully happy to sleep in my own bed occasionally.  The other thing that totally blows about being gone so much is that the boys visibly grow when I'm not paying attention.  And want to drive cars. They used just want french fries. *Sigh* For anyone that knows us, Andrew is on the left.

Owls

Driving has gotten a little easier inasmuch as I don't fear for my life as much as last month. I figured out that drinking first is very helpful and takes the edge off for me as a passenger- like an Ativan before a flight. This was a technique recommended to me by my insurance agent so it's a sanctioned driving lesson strategy.*

Wahoo! Let's get on the expressway to practice lane changes...

Kid: I'm changing lanes and checked the mirror
Me: You'd better look again
Kid: I already looked. You're such a worry wart. Besides, what do you think will happen? Some Fiat will sneak in behind that truck?
Me: Yes and stop swerving when you turn your head because I'll spill this open container.

How does that happen exactly? Turn your head to the left and the car shoots to the right when you rotate the wheel in the same manner as your neck. Problematic for sure when you're speeding along next to a concrete wall. 

Me: *Screaming* You can't do that!
Kid: Do what?
Me: Try to kill us!
Kid: Stop yelling! We're fine! I can explain why I did that!
Me: Explain to me why my drink is in my lap

The other kid has similar issues, but instead of looking over his right shoulder to check before changing lanes- he brilliantly opts to look right and attempt to rotate his head 360 degrees to check the left lane. 

Me: What the hell are you doing?
Kid: You said hell
Me: There's more of that if you don't stop trying to turn your head around backwards. Are you Beetlejuice? An owl?

Me: You just did it again!
Kid: What?
Me: You are not Linda Blair

Me: Turn your head THE OTHER WAY
Kid: Seriously, why do I have to do that. I checked the mirrors
Me: I'm irrational and my drink is on my lap, turn your head
Kid: Holy cow- there's an entire truck with a boat trailer back there
Me: Ta- da!


*Don't send me links to rehab units. Although, on second thought, please do send those, I'll bookmark them for later. Just make sure they're beach front, staffed by Dr Drew and washed up celebrities so I can feel superior in my sickness.