Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Oh, HELL no. Times three.

Get this.

On Saturday, my phone rang and R answered it. You know how you try to read someone's face when they're on the phone? R was kinda making the Holy Shit face.

It seems that Beebie was part of a group that was picking on a Second Grade boy on the bus. His mother was calling to let us know. She said that Beeb wasn't the worst of them, but that she was one of the three girls that were calling him gay and retarded.

OH, HELL NO.

R was LIVID. So was I, really. After all she'd been through?
Come on, Beeb.

Beeb was at a birthday party at the time, and R wanted to go make a scene and embarrass the hell out of her so she'd know better than to pull that shit again, EVER.

Cooler heads prevailed. I told him to give her a chance to 'splain. Because it's entirely possible that that little boy might have left out some big part of the story that would have exposed his own culpability. So we waited for Beeb to come home and confronted her.

Turns out I was right. Homeboy and another of his friends were calling the girls shitbags first. Doesn't make it right, sure, but seriously not cool. So R expressed his extreeeeeeeme disappointment, not because she had done the wrong thing but because she had not done the RIGHT thing and stopped it. She wrote a letter to the little boy apologizing. I better not EVER hear of her picking on ANYBODY again.


Today, my home phone rang. Out of area, I'm not gonna answer it. Then my cell phone rang. Ok, anyone who has both numbers is probably someone I should talk to.

Guess who it was?

The Church Nazi.

OH, HELL NO.

Telling me in her chipper yet strangely cold voice that there's a note on my paperwork that I hadn't paid for Summer PSR yet. And if I need ... an extension ... "then the procedure is to speak to the priest and explain your situation and then the priest will let us know how to proceed."

Um, ok...

It's really not a big deal, you know, as long as Father knows you from seeing you at Mass...

YOU BITCH.

So I told R about this conversation and the twatty barb she shot at me, and here's what I said next:

YOU are going to have to handle this, Honey, because I swear to you, if I have to go in there and beg the priest to please, please let us go to PSR so my kids can go to Heaven, I WILL NOT BE PLEASANT. I WILL GO OFF. IT WILL BE UGLY. THERE WILL BE BLOOD. WE WILL BE EXCOMMUNICATED. I PROMISE YOU.

And he said he's going to handle it.
Damn right. I ain't touchin' that.


And today I met Anti-Stella for lunch at McDonald's so we could snark while the boys ran crazy. And check out the burger they gave me after I specifically asked for PLAIN and specifically specified that by PLAIN I meant Burger, Cheese, Bun, lest they think by Plain Quarter Pounder with Cheese I mean leave off the cheese (in which case I would have said Plain Quarter Pounder WITHOUT Cheese, geniuses):



OH, HELL NO.

Gih!!!! Pickles. I have an aversion to pickles.
Have I mentioned this?

Normally, when I'm in the drive thru in my Odyssexy, I can smell the pickles instantly and hand the shit right back, but this time my sniffer was kinda thrown off by the fact that I was actually inside the restaurant. Still, as I carried it on the tray back to the table, I could sense that something was amiss.

The situation was quickly rectified, and Anti-Stella and I were able to converse in the (relative to our daily lives) tranquility of the Play Place. I told her about the time R got wedged between the waterbed and the wall and I laughed so hard I threw up. She told me about the time her toddler bit her husband in the junk (through the pants and the boxers, he wasn't naked, as I'd originally assumed, for some reason) and two hours later there was still a visible bite mark on it. No, I didn't see the bite mark, I mean, I did in my mind's eye and I'm gonna have to live with that visual for a while.

Anti-Stella had an idea that I'm kicking around.

First of all, she wants to meet Kev. And who wouldn't? I so want those two to meet each other. So I thought it would be fun to invite Anti-Stella and her crew and Kev and his little girls over for barbecue or dessert or something sometime.

Anti-Stella thinks we should invite Swamp Thing and Spawn of Swamp Thing too.

She thinks it would be funny to watch me trying to maintain my polite, nonconfrontational demeanor while seething inside. If I were viewing it from the outside, yeah, it probably would be funny as hell.

And I'm tempted, just for the sheer bloggability of it. I am THAT devoted to you, my vast readership. But it could get nasty. If she goes near my closets, for example.

OH, HELL NO.

6 comments:

Kevin C said...

I totally want to meet Anti-Stella, myself!

I'm not so keen on meeting Swamp Thing, though. Unless it's at her house so I can point at a scuff on her ceiling and say, "Oh my god, how do you live with that? That would drive me crazy!"

I think that would be totally worth it.

Evil Baritone said...

Hey, at least they were plain pickles. After scrutinizing that photo, my question for you is, "Where's the BEEF?"

Penny Karma said...

Or, Kev, you could just rave on and on to Swamp Thing about how magnificent my backyard is.

Double Entendre totally intended.

ZantiMissKnit said...

Pickles?!? HELL TO THE NO!!!! I hate pickles too.

Sometimes you just gotta do something for the blog fodder, ya know? Like a big huge play date that includes Swamp Thing. Can ya sneak a picture of her? What if she gets a giant cameltoe -- then would you sneak a picture for us?

Poops said...

I had something pithy to write, then I read the words "giant cameltoe" and completely lost my train of thought.

Kevin C said...

Double entendre? I'd love to double YOUR entendre!!!!