It was unbearably hot and sticky, the mosquitos have gotten big enough to tap you on the shoulder and ask you to tie off a vein for them and everyone was a great, big pile of lazy shit.
Me, Chris and Devon are sitting inside on the couch, strategically positioned beneath the air conditioning vents and glaring at each other now and then when one of us would breathe too forcefully and make the air conditioner work that much harder to cool off that particular spot around our faces.
Devon would rather have been hanging out with his friend Drew, but I wasn't allowing it. I have to empower myself with my tyrannical rule over my children every now and then or I get cranky. That, and he needed to know that it was not okay to throw half my tupperware away because he hadn't washed it when I told him to and it all looked like the mossy hills of Ireland.
We were watching the Science channel and not speaking. In fact, no one had spoken for over an hour. We were watching a special on Da Vinci and there was the occasional grunt of interest, sporadic farting and general shifting for optimum fart aiming (I'm pregnant. If I let it sit around me, it will make me ill. At least that's what I told them when they looked at me all pissed off and disgusted. Heh) but no one was actually talking.
During a break, a commercial came on for a show called, "Half The Universe Is Missing". As they enthusiastically blathered on about the various scientists and theologians who have dedicated their lives to explaining what happened to this star system and finding out what's going on in that system, Devon roused himself from his sloth-like state long enough to say, "Meh. Who cares where it went? We don't need it."
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you The Future Of America. God bless us, every one.
What I told Virginia last night:
"Yes, baby, you can play in the sprinkler, but when you're done, leave your clothes inside the door on the tile so you don't drip water all over the wood floors."
What she heard:
"Whooooo! Strip naked and run through the front yard in BROAD DAYLIGHT!! Prompt the neighbors to come over and fuss at Mommy and threaten to call CPS!! Whooooo!!"
When my neighbor came over and, instead of just laughing about it and voicing her concern, felt it necessary to act all shocked and offended that a six-year-old kid could possibly have no problem streaking in the front yard, I got tired of her officious and holier-than-thou attitude. I finally just said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I gotta go. It's time for my lithium and Virginia's martini nightcap", before slamming the door in her face.
Did I mention that I'm moving to Aruba?
I can't stop playing with the winky hole.
Chris suggested this morning, as I stood there rooting in my underwear one more time to make sure I hadn't missed a pair of my own panties, "I wouldn't try using the pee hole, honey."
Who has time to do laundry when you're busy attacking the love of your life with fire in your loins after he whispers a sweet nothing like that? And do women have loins?
Fuck it. I'm going back to Aruba where no one cares if I'm wearing underwear at all.
I think I'm jet lagged.
Edit: My boss just walked in while I was playing with the hole and up on my computer screen, as large as life, is the definition of "loins". I just looked at him all, "What? What'd I do?"
Besides, I don't own a laptop. And thank God for that. Because I would so post from the bathroom while I'm pooping and then I wouldn't be able to contain myself and not tell you all that I'm posting while I'm pooping and that is just wrong.
Anyway, Chris has never been out of the country and he has never seen the ocean. I'm super excited for him, but not nearly as excited as he is. I have started calling him Captain Ahab because after he found out we were going, he immediately scheduled a fishing trip and then spent hours poring over pictures of blue marlins and facts about blue marlins and what bait attracts blue marlins and which chewing gum blue marlins prefer.
I even caught him practicing his reeling technique in the shower.
Either that, or he was masturbating. Whatever.
Anyway, I'll be back on Wednesday and I'll bring you a t-shirt that says something shitty, like, "Some lady I don't really know, but I read her blog, well she went to Aruba and all I got was this crappy t-shirt." Something like that.
I'll miss you.
"Protein, babe. PRO-TEINNNNN. You had cobbler for breakfast yesterday, fries for lunch and Stove Top for dinner. You need meat."
"What kind of meat, specifically?"
"Chicken. Steak. Hell, eat a hamburger, I don't care. Just eat some protein for the baby."
I left from the office with the intention of buying a grilled chicken salad from Chick-Fil-A. That's the last thing I remember.
What is now on my desk:
- One personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut, supreme style
- One order of boneless buffalo wings, quantity 10, a side of ranch and a side of blue cheese
- Two jumbo bottles of Echinacea
- Two jumbo bottles of Vitamin C
- My boss gave me a horrible fucking head cold
- One Vicks inhaler
- Family sized bag of Creme Savers
- Family sized bag of Life Savers Sours
- These godawful Licorice Allsorts that are now peering accusingly at me from the garbage can
In a few months, when we're too broke from fulfilling my cravings to have internet, never fret. I'll be too fat to get out of bed and I'll have nothing but time, so I'll write to you all.
Our typical conversation is like this:
Last night, we thought we might have a few minutes to actually talk.
"So, preggo, how're you feeling?"
"Oh, fine. Just tired. I fell asleep on my desk this morning and woke up with a penny stuck to my forehead and Chris won't leave my boobs alone, but neither of those relate to this pregnancy. By the way, did you-"
"Shit. Dog howling. I smell smoke. Gotta go."
She is my hero.
Here are some of the various reactions from family members:
"You do know that twins run in our family, right?"
I looked at Chris all, Did she just seriously fucking use the word 'twins' when I'm twelve minutes pregnant?
"I want a boy."
"Yes, I know, Mom. Girls are inferior in this family. You can't imagine how warm and fuzzy that makes me feel. Asshole."
"Don't call your mother an asshole."
"Whatever. I still want a boy."
"What? When? Christmas baby? Is that nine months?"
My mom rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, good Lord, Freddie. They've been living together since November. Get with it."
My Dad just looked bewildered and starting ticking off months on his fingers.
"Oh, wow. But, Crystal. What about the boobs????"
"You're right. We should start building a bunker, stat."
"Super. Can I go back to my XBox, now?"
"Nuh uh. That's just fat, Mommy. There's no baby in there."
"You're grounded till you're married."
Let the good times roll, y'all.
At the risk of sounding bitter (and I'm not. I just don't tolerate plastic personalities), here is an example.
When I first started working here, it was just me and my boss. Now he is expanding his empire by hiring a bunch of women (one is very cool, the rest are very!! perky!) and I don't eat salads or shoe shop. I'm an enigma to them.
I thought that the plaque on my desk ("Yes, actually, I did just fart. Why do you ask?") would discourage conversation, but it didn't. If anything, they bug me even more.
So, I'm concentrating on a piece I'm writing and the new girl pops her cute, blonde, know-it-all head in.
"Finalizing the sale of an item for my father."
"Oh. What is it?"
"Hmm. I know what that is, but I can't think of it. What is it, again?"
What. Thefuck. Ever. I choose more and more obscure shit to see if she will actually admit to not knowing what something is and she never fails to irritate the shit out of me.
"It's a skull bowl from the 19th century. Buddhist monks drank blood from it during Tantric rituals."
"Oh. Right. Um. Oh. I have to..."
"Yep. See ya."
I'm running out of ideas to alienate myself. I'll have to start flinging poo or something.
It was my daughter's school.
Various scenarios of disaster run through my head when her school calls. She set something on fire, maimed a teacher, maimed herself, knocked all her teeth out (thereby giving herself hours and hours of subject matter to gab incessantly about on our eighty mile commute to the house) or my foul mouth has finally come back to haunt me and she called Mrs. Cloaker a fuckhole. She is sweet and gentle natured, but the most clumsy and unfortunate child to ever trip and flail her way through adolescence.
This is the same kid who got her head stuck in between the couch and the wall three times in one day. My trepidation was understandable.
I answered the phone.
"Mrs. McKnob? This is Ms. Shawn at Center Hill Elementary. Virginia has the strangest rash on her arm. I was wondering if you knew what that might be about."
"Oh, who knows. We're allergic to everything. Can you describe the rash? Could it be poison ivy?"
"No...well, that's the thing. The nurse has never seen anything like it, either. As a matter of fact, no one here has ever seen anything like it."
Oh, dear God. What did she eat this morning? Pop rocks. Apple juice. Cocoa puffs. No. That's a pretty standard breakfast for her. I wonder if she's been eating the fish food, again? She tried to shave her arms the other day. Maybe...
"Ms. Shawn, is it raised? Bumpy?"
"Umm, no." Here she pauses for a second and takes a deep breath. "It's an arrow."
"It's shaped just like an arrow. And it almost looks like....well, a bruise, in a way."
Ahh, here we are. Let's just say what we're thinking, shall we?
"Well, Ms. Shawn, you caught me. I've been beating the hell out of my daughter with a detour sign."
"Oh! I didn't mean to imply...it's just that-"
"It's okay. I understand. I'm just playing with you. I honestly don't know about the rash. Can you keep an eye on it and call me if it changes shape or color? I'll come pick her up and take her to the doctor."
"Sure. I'll call you in an hour and let you know if it's changed."
Five minutes after we hung up, my phone rang again. It was Ms. Shawn. I grabbed my purse and headed for the door while opening the phone.
"I'm so sorry. It washed off."
"Wow. What the hell kind of soap are you people using down there?"
"No, I mean it was just marker or something. I'm sorry to have bothered you."
"No problem. I needed blog material."
"I have a clog imperial."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means that you should get paid more. Thanks for the call."
No wonder her teachers hate to call me.
There are five of us sharing two bathrooms. I have to be inventive if I want to blatantly abuse hot water privileges.
While I was bathing, Chris came in to brush his teeth. He had spent the day finishing up various projects around the house and was quite pleased with himself.
"Hey, babe. You know what I plan on doing this weekend?" he asked.
"A whole lot of nothing?" I replied.
"Exactly. Although I do plan on getting my pole wet somewhere."
Now, Arkansas-speak is a whole different language from the rest of the country. I have only recently learned what a "come apart" is and only after having one myself. However, there is much I have not learned, so I have to clarify things now and then. This was one of those times.
I sat up and looked at him.
"I do hope you're referring to fishing."
He paused for a moment, blinked a couple of times in the mirror as he processed what he had just said and then favored me with a devilish grin.
"What do you think?"
"I think that you're very fortunate that I have small children, very dull knives and a finely tuned sense of humor. And, yes, a martini sounds fabulous."
Married life is good.
Ok. That middle one is a lie. I'm not a cool geek. But I can use a can of compressed air like no one's business.
Anyway, going to see the movie was a given for me. Chris was wary. I never pick good movies.
We carefully chose our seats because I am prone to movie theater meltdowns. Basically, if you whisper loudly, giggle profusely, or, God forbid, talk on your cell phone during a movie, I will fucking beat you to death with my box of Sourpatch Kids. There is no reason for that shit. If you want to act like an asshat during a movie, do the people who live on a budget a favor and rent a movie from Blockbuster. Then you can sit at home and narrate, speculate the outcome, shove jelly beans up your ass and call yourself Babs, I don't care. If you're out with the rest of us who've paid thirty-eight dollars per ticket and mortgaged our house to get refreshments, shut your fucking pie hole. Fuck.
We sit down among the quiet people and wait for the movie to start. Three seconds into the trailers, two black girls sit down behind us. Now, I don't mean to stereotype, but, to hell with it, I will. Southern black girls love to talk during movies. They are the worst. They will berate the damsel in distress ("Oooh, guuurrrl, I tole you not to to down dem stairs. Dumb bitch"), dissect the males ("Mmm mmm, gurrrll. He so fine. You know he gay") and generally disrupt the entire movie. They will also gut you with their three-inch fingernails if you even think about asking them to shut up, so I was already looking down the aisles and choosing our next spot when Chris turned around.
"Can you guys please be a little more quiet?"
They got one hit of his big, brown eyes and mesmerizing Arkansas drawl and shut the hell up. I was stunned. He's good like that.
As I settled into a false sense of security and started to enjoy the trailers, an older gentleman who will henceforth be known as the Most Annoying Man Alive, or MAMA, sat down two seats to my right. He and his wife had bought the bottomless bucket of popcorn and, boy, let me tell you, he was super fucking excited about it. I was blissfully oblivious to his presence until he hooted, "Whooooo! Popcorn!" Everyone in a five row radius turned to look at him right about the time he began shoveling huge handfuls into his mouth.
Much grunting. Much smacking. You would have heard less noise at a bulemic's convention.
I became engrossed with his mannerisms and odd behavior and missed most of the trailers. He was puzzled and exasperated by EVERYTHING.
"Whooo! Why they gotta tell you to turn your cell phone off? What if it's an emergency?"
Smack. Smack. Grunt. Smack, smack. Grunt, grunt.
"That right there looks like a good movie, but isn't that the guy who thinks we're all pregnant with aliens? Whooo!"
Burp. Grunt. Smack. Snuffle.
"Where's the movie trivia? Did we miss the movie trivia?"
Chris offered to kill him for me, but I was beginning to think that the guy was mentally ill. His tone of voice was at the volume usually reserved for selling vacuum cleaners or declaring ownership of a small country. I honestly don't think anyone can use that volume anywhere and genuinely not know that they're disturbing everyone. My theory was slightly endorsed by everyone else's reluctance to kick him in the face. We all thought he might whip an Uzi out of his popcorn bucket, hoot, "Whooo! Mass murder!", and open fire.
Somewhere in the first half of the movie, I lost interest in his enthusiasm for popcorn and let me tell you why: this movie is, quite arguably, the most disturbing, creepy, gory, waaaay over-the-top piece of shit I have ever encountered. Do not go see it. I have had nightmares since Friday and I'm a George Romero aficionado. Chris has a very special, tender heart when it comes to children and he was physically ill after watching this movie. It is that bad.
Rather than leave, as we should have done, we both tried to distract ourselves by watching MAMA and his antics. At some point, it became a game to Chris to try and mimic him because the guy had no idea that he was being mocked and that made it so much funnier. It went something like this:
MAMA: "Whooo! Monsters!"
Chris: "Whooo! Boobies!"
And on and on. It got so bad that one of the last things Chris hooted, and the thing that sent me sliding to the floor because I had become one of those people, the person that tries to not laugh out loud and ends up wheezing like that fucked up dog off the Hanna Barbera cartoons, was, "Whooo! Credits!" Yes, we were still sitting there and so was MAMA. It had become a contest. I had to drag Chris out of the theater while he was all the while hooting back in the direction of the MAMA and his wife.
Last night at dinner, while Chris was saying the blessing, my mind began to wander. I vaguely heard Chris say (and he cracks me up when he gets specific about what he's thanking God for, but, hey, he's tight with God and that's so very cool to me), "Thank you for these wonderful tacos."
I couldn't help myself, y'all.
Don't go see that fucking movie.
This from the same person who found it distasteful that shrimp, before ending up on a plate at Red Lobster, have long testicles on their heads.
Better Off Dead, anyone?
I sleepily dressed and knocked on Devon's door.
"Hey. Are you going with me?"
"Mmf. Nargbah. Study hall."
"Okey dokey. I'll be back."
Virginia is embarking on her journey into a new school with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old. She is frantic to begin her days of eating paste and giving wedgies. Devon, on the other hand, is morosely counting down the days until he has to be the new kid, gingerly feeling his way into a fresh circle of friends and becoming comfortable with his surroundings. I ache for him, but I have promised him, numerous times, that this is the last time he will change schools *(he's been to more than 2 dozen schools in his short life, courtesy of his father). As I was a child who endured a nomadic upbringing, I'm very aware of what he's going through.
Chris decided to go with me because our bedroom had become uninhabitable. I was dubious.
"Are you sure you can go out in public and not toxify entire city blocks?"
"I'm feeling better."
Right. Off we go. With the windows down.
The school district is in the middle of turmoil that goes something like this:
Middle school will now be the intermediate school.
Old high school will now be the middle school.
As such, we had to go the high school to enroll. We arrived in the library, paperwork in hand, and waited very patiently behind a woman of tremendous girth and her very defeated, shrunken looking son.
The administrator advised the son to pick his electives and, before he could reach for the paper, Mom had snatched if from her hand. She fixed her piggy eyes on the choices before her and her son shrank further into the wallpaper.
"Well! Choose between band and P.E! Football is not an option and you're not getting study hall. I want you to be doing something."
The kid mumbled something and his fate was sealed.
"Band! Good. You don't need P.E. I never took P.E. and I'm fine!" she exclaimed as her four chins trembled.
Chris and I exchanged knowing looks. Super. Another Norman Bates in the making.
It was then that public education hit an all-time low.
"Where does he need to go on his first day?" Piggy asked.
"I don't know," replied the administrator.
"No, I don't mean what class, I mean which school?" Piggy clarified, as both schools are still in disarray.
"I know, Ma'am. I have no idea where we'll be."
Brilliant! This ought to make the first day really interesting.
"Well, in that case, I'll just come with him the first day," Piggy decided.
I was horrified. Chris was horrified. The kid gave me the thousand-yard-stare and mouthed, "Please kill me."
After I enrolled and chose football and study hall as Devon's electives (per his wishes), we left.
Chris had a plan.
"Babe...we ought to fuck with Devon since he didn't come. Tell him you signed him up for P.E."
My son is vehemently opposed to any physical activity that doesn't involve his X-Box controller and a case of Dr. Pepper. He wants to play football, he just wants them to do it in 10 minute increments with lots of breaks. He's compromising by agreeing to try football.
"P.E. and football? He would think I'm trying to kill him."
"I know. It'll be great!"
"Noooooo, you know what would be better? If I convince him that I signed him up for band and P.E.! He'll be outraged!"
And so our nefarious plan was born. Messing with my children's fragile development and budding trust? It's what we live for.
When we arrived home, we spent a few minutes in the kitchen getting our giggles under control and then I poked my head into Devon's room. He was sound asleep.
"Devon..... Devon. Devon. Devon. Devon. Dev-"
"They don't offer study hall here. Something to do with the transition and not having enough room or whatever. Oh, and in order for you to play football, I would have had to have a physical report with me today. So, I signed you up for band and P.E."
He rolled onto his back and leaned his head up far enough to look at me. Then to the right. Then to the left. Then at his alarm clock.
"What are you looking for?"
"This is a really bad nightmare. I'm sleeping. I must be sleeping."
"Sorry, kiddo. You'll be fine."
I then shut the door and Chris and I fell all over each other in the kitchen and waited.
His sheer level of horror could only be measured by his reaction. As it is summer and his sleeping habits resemble those of a sloth, we wanted to see if he would actually exert precious energy by coming out to verify what I had just told him.
He opened his door and we quickly composed ourselves and began discussing Chris's farts.
"You know that can't be good for the baby."
"Hell, woman, have you smelled some of the things that have escaped from your ass?"
Devon shuffled over to us, wrapped like a burrito in his comforter, and stood to our side, staring.
"Yes, but those are isolated incidents. You took the gold in the farting olympics. I counted at least twenty just between the hours of-"
"Mom, did you seriously sign me up for band and P.E.?"
"I...what...was there nothing else?"
"Yes. There was music appreciation and African American studies. You want I should change it?"
"No, I just....band? And P.E.? Why? Why are they doing this to me?"
I ruffled his hair.
"You'll be fine, sweetheart. Fine. We'll buy you some tube socks and a recorder this weekend."
He turned, shuffled back into his room and shut the door. We waited. A few seconds later, he opened the door again.
"Band? And P.E.?"
"I...how...man, this just sucks."
He shut the door.
I'll tell him on his first day. When I walk him to the front door and give him a big kiss on his cheek.
This is what I tell myself every time I do laundry and find a new and mysterious hole in a brand new shirt. I cry, sometimes.
So he had a giant hole in the Vans we bought him less than six months ago. Damn those big, green toes!
As we were driving through the parking lot of the mall, a very flamboyantly gay man stepped in front of the car and began crossing in front of us while chatting on his pink cell phone. There was no crosswalk and he jumped in front of us rather suddenly, so Chris had to come to a stop within a fraction of a second. While the man finished his trek in front of our car, he turned and made direct and deliberate eye contact with Chris in a way that could only be interpreted as, "If I hadn't just had a manicure, I would scratch your eyes out, big boy."
Now, Chris is a gentle man. He is tolerant of everyone until someone is needlessly rude to him.
"Did he just stare me down?"
"He did, babe. He did, indeed."
"I ought to get out of this car and shove that pink cell phone up his ass. Then maybe the gerbil could make a call for help."
I immediately fell to pieces. A couple of seconds later, so did Chris. Then, to add fuel to the fire, he did an exact imitation of the hamster in that goofy song, The Hamster Dance. Only, he modified it by saying in a Hampton voice, "Yes, 911? Dee da dee da dee da do do, dee da dee dee do!" I clamped my legs shut to keep from peeing my pants and we sat and howled for a few minutes until a car behind us honked to get the crazy people moving.
As we were pulling away and wiping tears from our eyes, this came from the back seat, where we had forgotten the Hulk was sulking:
"Gerbil? What gerbil?"
We need a censor to just ride around in the car with us and bleep us periodically. Try explaining that to a 13-year-old boy.
Note the napkin piece dangling from my chin. Classy. Oh, and my brother-in-law ducking in the background lest he get cake on his perfectly good shirt. THAT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE DRY CLEANED.
My husband was shocked that I crammed cake in his face. I was simply impressed with how tasty the cake was, even though I had to snort it to actually taste it.
How much do I love this man? More than any wife has ever loved any husband. I'm sure of it.
Commence gagging now.
I'll throw some more up tomorrow.
We came home and I walked over to our garbage can to throw my cup away. I opened it and froze. There, nestled among the trash bags, boxes and furry slippers (don't ask) was a Christmas stocking. More specifically, it was the stocking my son made last Christmas, the one that's big enough to hide a body in. I was aghast. What kind of traditionless kid throws away his Christmas stocking? And didn't he realize that I paid 2 bucks for that stocking, not to mention the glitter glue I purchased to decorate it?
I pulled it out and found that it was stuffed full of things.
Every now and then, my son goes on a rampage and throws out things that he considers junk or just doesn't need anymore. Usually, he's very conscientious of what he throws out. This time, it looked as though he had just turned his drawers inside out and threw it all away. I started pulling things out and muttering.
Chris came back outside to find out what was taking me so long and found me sitting in the carport, by the trash, digging through a giant, red stocking.
"Um. Babe? Whatcha doin'?"
"Look! Look, Chris! Look at all this stuff he threw away!"
"Huh. So, bring it all inside and look at it. Why are you sitting out here?"
"Oh, now the damned stocking has chicken schmegma on it and it's ruined. I can't bring it in. It's stinky."
He stood and watched me, wary.
"Ha! Look at this! A perfectly good yo-yo!"
"Babe. He's almost fourteen."
"And this! He threw this away!"
"What is it?"
"I don't know, but it doesn't look broken, now does it?"
"Honey, why are you keeping that?" He pointed to an object that was lovingly cradled in my lap.
"This is Hans Solo!"
"Honey, that's Hans Solo Arm. Look. One of his arms is missing."
"So he's a little fucked up. Is that what we do to members of this family when they're a little fucked up? We just toss them in a giant, red stocking and throw them away?"
Chris stood and contemplated this for a moment. I scowled at him.
"And this hasn't even been opened! OH. MY. GOSH."
My outrage was palpable. I had a macaroni noodle stuck in my hair.
Chris hunkered down and began using the tone of voice that he usually reserves for times that I have a very slippery grip on reality.
"Sweetheart, they're toys. They're not members of the family, some of them are broken, some of them aren't. Why don't you bring the stuff inside that can be saved and talk to Devon about it when he gets home?"
I sniffed, stuck out my bottom lip, proudly gathered all the little items (including Hans Solo Arm) and stiffly walked inside.
Once inside, I walked through the kitchen on my way to Devon's bedroom and stopped in my tracks.
"Chris...what is that trash bag sitting by the garbage can?"
Chris cringed and quietly answered, "More shit he threw out?"
I sat in the kitchen until 10 p.m., talking to Hans and pulling stuff out. My son now has a forlorn pile of stuff sitting in the middle of his bed and a stern lecture on the value of a dollar coming to him when he gets home.
I am becoming my mother. Someone please kill me.
Without further ado, a collection of unrelated and somewhat disturbing thoughts because, other than the above mentioned plights, I got nothin', people:
- Last week, my incredibly patient, sweet and generous husband surprised me with one of these because he was, in my opinion, sick to death of listening to me bellow like a wounded cow about how ridiculously hot it is in this part of the south. My daughter, my son & Chris all plunged into it before it was even full. I have yet to go in because, even though Chris assures me that we just need chlorine tabs, the water turned an odd shade of yellow in a matter of hours. I remain suspicious.
- When you goggle at someone and say, "How far along are you?", and they sardonically answer, "Yeah. I know, I'm fucking huge. Thanks", it is probably best to sputter and stammer and say things like, "Oh, no, that's not what I meant!" Just nodding your head like a dashboard decoration only makes me want to strangle you blue and then go eat a gallon of butter.
- It has occurred to me that I have thus far promised pictures of the wedding shower, the wedding, my vacation to Aruba and some other things that I have not followed through on. I shall work on that this weekend. As a bonus, I'll throw in a picture of the rare and seldom photographed female bitchimus fetus carrius.
- This pregnancy has brought with it all sorts of fun surprises. My favorite is, by far, the bathroom game. What will it be today? Constipation! No, diarrhea! Or, as an added bonus, both on the same day! And since I made fun of my husband sharting in Aruba, it had to happen to me. There. I officially have zero shame or humility.
- I am more neurotic with this baby. I took a Tylenol 3 the other night for a migraine (doctor prescribed, you rods) and immediately burst into tears and told Chris that we might as well go ahead and name the baby Frances Bean.
- I lectured everyone in the office that their complete lack of support of the Philly cheesesteak pita that Arby's was offering caused them (Arby's) to discontinue it. Then I sat in my office and cried all over my roast beef sammich. I am a tool. I am also at the mercy of what doesn't negatively affect my delicate intestinal balance. That Philly was one of 2 things. The other is mini gerkins.
- We have new neighbors. The other day, Chris and I were in the front yard when the woman came tearing out of the house and straight at us.
"Do you know how to turn the water off?" she asked Chris.
"Umm, yeah. Sure. I'll get my tools."
We found out later that a pipe had burst in her house and, I directly quote, "skeeted all up" in her face. Her name is Booby. I have nothing else to say about that.
- We paid some smelly, frightening vagrants with lots of armpit hair $20 to re-paint our house number on our curb. I mean, really, who wants to be bleeding to death while the ambulance slowly cruises the street, looking for the house with a person who is conveniently bleeding to death in the front yard, where they can see you? Last night, the pizza guy went up and down the street, up and down, back and forth, while I stood in the driveway, barefoot, gnawing on my fingernails and grunting at him. I want my twenty bucks back.
- I have half a whiskey barrel in my front garden with a faux hand pump on it that is actually a fountain. It's very cute. Really. We're supposed to have four fish in there. One giant goldfish, one giant black moore and two vacuum cleaner fish (they eat all the poo). Anyway, the vacuum cleaner fish can't keep up because, although Chris changed their water out a week ago, it's green and murky and spooky again. Last night when we came home, there was a swatch of what was obviously feline fur floating in the top of the fountain. I fucking refuse to get my hand anywhere near that green murkiness now.
I'm suffering from writer's block again. You'll be the first to know when it's been relieved.
"But only if it's a girl baby, Mommy," she then clarified.
"Why not a boy baby?"
She looked at me and then looked heavenward as if to ask, "This is the person you designated to raise me?"
"Because boys have weiners, Mommy. Gross."
Officer Whitlock of the Shelby County Sherriff's Department, you should be ashamed of yourself because I AM visibly pregnant, I DID have diarrhea and I WAS trying to get to work before I assploded all over my car.
I hope you develop a violent case of hemorrhoids. The itchy, burning and gooey kind.
edit: Oooh! Lookit all the puns! With the 'crappy's and the 'unblocking' and such.
I am still not amused.
2. To wait until the neighbors are gone and then lean over the fence and hose off that nasty, mangy, yippity shithead of a dog. I might even throw a bottle of Mango shampoo at him.
3. To sew the pee hole shut on all of Devon's underwear. He has been unbearably mouthy the last few days and he must be punished. Passive-aggressively punished.
4. To box up all of the beets in the pantry and donate them. I still don't know what a beet is and I'm sure as hell not eating one.
5. To clean out the rat's cage. They cling to the bars on the side and just look at me, all, "Do you not see us swimming in a sea of poo??"
6. To putter around my garden in a big, floppy hat like a proper Southern woman. To do so in the nude because I'm trying to discourage the Clampett family from buying the house across the street.
7. To set the back yard on fire. There is no hope for it. Every day, I stand very still in the kitchen window and wait to see grass stalks swaying from side to side just so I know we still have dogs and that they are, indeed, alive in there, somewhere.
8. To teach Chris the proper words to, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap". If I hear him sing, "Durma needs Thunder Chief", one more time, I shall go stark raving mad.
9. To get back to that dirty dream with Chelsea Clinton.
I'm pregnant. Go away and quit judging me.
Y'all have a good weekend!
Although he attends every year, and the same people show up every year, and HE'S RELATED TO THEM, when asked such questions as, "Hey, babe, who's that woman beating the crap out of her husband?", he would shrug and say, "How the hell should I know?" He is there only for food and a long-standing volleyball feud. Oh, and to slink around with his farm-raised, corn fed cousins (who all stand approximately 7-feet-tall and wear identical bib overalls) to devise new and improved ways to blow shit up with the powder from various fireworks. I must have jumped and squealed, "Fuckithell!", at least thirteen times in one evening. The family is so proud to have me.
Everything went as I figured it would. His Aunt Vonnie (the one that, last year, his other aunt nervously introduced and then whispered, "She's the one who had the...you know...break down", before leaving us alone to stare at one another) followed me around and invaded my personal bubble, alternately holding my hands, effusing about the baby (all the while spraying spittle and bits of corn directly in my face) and groping my belly. The kids and Chris' dad made fun of her jerry-curl hairdo and ran for the hills when she would turn her black eyes on them. They cooked all kinds of unidentifiable but perfectly delicious food and someone dominated someone else in a rousing game of buttcrack-showing volleyball.
Yesterday, as we were preparing to leave, Chris' stepmom and Dad began regaling me with stories about his Chris' ex-wife. "What a whore she was," was the first thing out of Dad's mouth and I laughed unabashedly. This is a very Christian family and it always tickles me when their country comes out. As Stepmom and Dad vollied back and forth about her antics and how much everyone in the family had hated her, Chris began to visibly squirm. I felt sort of bad for him, so I tried to change the subject. The last thing Chris' Dad said on the matter, and the thing that so topped off my weekend and left me with that warm and fuzzy feeling, was, in a deadpan voice, "So, yeah, as long as you were white, you coulda' been just about anybody and we'd have loved you after that nasty whore."
Why, I think they should dedicate the roasted pig to me next year.
We played the game, "What If?", and my question, written on a piece of paper, was, "What if it was mandatory to come nude to the family reunion?" Stepmom's answer was, "Then the new family song would be, 'Please, please, put your clothes back on'."
Do you know why I laughed like a crazy woman for twenty minutes after reading this? Their current family song that they sing every year, and this is NO LIE, God strike me dead if it is, is, "Skeeter Time In Pine Tree", and it's almost to the tune of, "Dueling Banjos", from Deliverance. There were ten or so of us who are newly married into the family. We would converge at the back of the barn to fall over over each other in hysterics every time they would get fired up and sing it. We are terrible people.
I'll have to get my hands on the lyrics and post them. It's far too bizarre to be made up, I swear.
EDIT: It has been brought to my attention that not everyone knows what a "skeeter" is. For those of you who have never had a Schlitz beer right before you hit on your cousin, Rhonda Joe, a "skeeter" is the country name for a "mosquito". That is all.