I apologize to all of you, faithful followers.
Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I have a lot to cover. So, so much to talk about. None of it was particularly enough to be a post on its own, so I've done my best to make mental notes so I could compile a post that was worth your time to read. Because why? Because I love you, my vast readership. My BMB Bitches. My PK Posse. I hope you know how very much you all are appreciated.
And I organized all of it, in my head, in alphabetical order, so I could remember what I wanted to write about. Enjoy.
B is for Boobs.
Are y'all sick of my bodacious boobage yet? Me neither.
Anti-Stella even copped a feel when I met her and the lovely Miss Bo (as in Bolivia) at McDonald's last week on an Early Dismissal Day. Here's a pic of Bo, plus, as a bonus, Anti-Stella's stellar rack, if you're not exactly sick of boobs but you might like a little variety. See what I do for you kids?
Next, C is for Character.
Last week Pie misplaced not only his homework, but also (gasp!!) a magazine he'd checked out at the school library. He was absolutely beside himself. He gets so upset when he can't find something, I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack. I can't stand to see him so distraught, but at the same time, I didn't want to make it sound like it was ok not to take care of your stuff.
So I told him I'd email both his teacher and the librarian to ask what we needed to do to help him relax a bit. I'd make sure he'd do the responsible thing, we'd pay for the book, he'd do the homework again, whatever, just tell me what to do. I didn't hear back from his teacher right away, but the librarian was quick to inform me that a mere $12 would take care of everything.
Pie was pretty sure he'd turned it in, and I believed him, knowing first-hand of the high probability of human error in The Library System.
Pie's homework had to be turned in Thursday, so when we hadn't found it Wednesday night, I told him I thought maybe he should re-do the five sentences that he had to write for his homework. So he did. Not really a big deal, but if he'd kept track of his stuff he wouldn't have had to do them a second time. I figured that'd be enough to teach the lad a lesson to keep his shit togther.
So Thursday afternoon he came home and told me he'd gotten a Character Counts award from his teacher. Why? Because he had actually turned his homework in several days early and forgotten about it. To me that was kinda like being rewarded for forgetting you'd already done your work and stressing yourself out to the point where your mom had to email your teacher for you, but the teacher was proud of him for being honest (for telling her that he couldn't find his homework) and responsible (for doing it again when he didn't really have to). And he was proud of himself.
PLUS, the same day, the magazine he'd been looking for since about the 2nd week of school miraculously showed up in the library. Instead of checking it in like they do with the books, Pie had simply put it back on the magazine shelf. And The Dragon was, predictably, kinda twatty to him about it. I'm so kicking her ass the next time I see her.
Bottom line, he got a Character Award and I didn't have to pay $12 for a magazine. I'd call that a darn good day by any standard.
D is for Dream Dates (that aren't really dates).
Thursday night I got to go out on a dream date with KOFA (which was most emphatically not a date) to see Ben Folds at The Pageant. It was sold out, and I wound up paying way more than face value for the tickets from a guy on Craigslist (who, coincidentally, was in my sister's class in high school), but we had great balcony seats and we were able to take our time getting to the show rather than having to bust ass to find two seats in General Admission.
We went to dinner beforehand at Blueberry Hill, and our androgynously beautiful, tattooed and pierced waitress was totally hitting on me despite Kev's best efforts to wow her with his clever wit. As I usually do when I order food in a restaurant, I politely ask the waiter or waitress to please keep any and all pickles well clear of my plate or I will, quite literally, vomit. KOFA told our waitress, "Feel free to hold my pickle too..."
Yes, he fuckin did! Seriously. And I loved it.
Then we went to Rag O Rama, this awesome vintage clothing store where I found a shirt and a pair of shoes (which I'm totally going back for at my earliest opportunity), and Kev picked out two awesome pins for me. One says Knit Till You Die and the other is a 1" story that reads "She was such a sweet girl, until she started all that knitting." or something like that. Ironic, as I haven't knit anything in a while other than a bunch of cotton dishcloths for Rip. I WILL, I WILL, I WILL finish the Ice Queen. I'm almost done, I just have to remember where I hid it from myself in a fit of angst, months ago.
Anyway, we had a nice time, even though we both wished Ben had played more of his older stuff. Ben Folds is a genius of an entertainer and at one point he kinda apologized for playing mostly the new album. And he essentially played each song on the new album twice because there's actually a real and a fake/leaked version of each song on his new CD (which is a hilarious story in itself), but he told the crowd that at the end of the set he and the band were going to walk off the stage like it's over, but then they would do an encore and come back out and play the old shit.
And he played for over two hours, which was especially great for a girl like me who doesn't get out much. There were a couple of songs I was really hoping to hear, such as Luckiest and Song For The Dumped, and this dude behind us apparently wasn't leaving until he heard Rock This Bitch, but Ben played Annie Waits, Zak and Sara (which would be a far better song if Sara had an H - there, I said it), and Army, and that was cool. Since the show, I've listened to his newest CD a lot in the van, and it's growing on me. I would absolutely love to see Ben again. It was a fantastic concert experience.
Friday was Beebie and Princeton's School Dance. They were so cute together. At one point, Beeb was climbing out of the back of the van, and Princeton offered her his hand to help her down. SO SWEET. They're adorable. They're such good friends. She's not that giddy sappy head over heels girlfriend girl, she likes him, and she knows he likes her. They genuinely admire and encourage each other. Of course, I can't stop wondering how envious her friend Jack would have been, but I think ultimately he'd be happy for her.
I should also mention that I'm starting to actually like Buffy, now that I've let my guard down a bit. She calls me on her way to work almost every morning, and I've dropped some personal tidbits on her that might offend or freak out a lesser person. Like the fact that I have told my husband, in no uncertain terms, that if I happened to run into Bill Clinton at a bar, I will leave said bar with The Former President. Because he's very persuasive. Anyway, my iciness toward Buffy is melting. She's invited me to a hockey game. Plus, I thought it might be fun to have a radical, outspoken pal to introduce to the Inlaws just to fuck with 'em. Stay tuned.
E is for EVIL.
Saturday night R and I went out to watch the ill-fated MU/Texas game and have some dinner with Rip and his seriously gorgeous son, Jailbait.
Remember how I ask for anything pickle-related to be kindly kept the fuck away from my plate? I asked the waitress, in full view of R, Rip and Jailbait, to please hold the pickles. And I have to say that now I don't think I'm ever going to be able to say Hold The Pickle ever again without harkening back to KOFA's attempt to woo the Blueberry Hill Waitress.
But anyway, our dinner arrived, I double-checked my plate for any picklicious presence, and everything was cool.
Fast Forward to pickles mysteriously appearing on my plate. THREE TIMES. Rip held my attention while R lobbed three pickles onto my plate. I caught him the fourth time. And I punched R in the arm repeatedly as hard as I could, because it was actually the second time that day that he had seriously pissed me off. Hold on for G.
The next topic - F is for Fat Chick Compliments - I actually drafted as a separate entry, in anger, a few days ago. I'm over it now, but I still think the story needs an audience.
I've heard them my entire life. I know one when I hear one. I could write a book.
I was always the "she has a great personality" chick getting set up on blind dates. I get it. I know my strengths and my weaknesses. I know what I am and what I'm not. And I know I'm a brillant conversationalist, not a supermodel. And as long as I'd rather eat a Twinkie than do a damn sit-up, this is the body this girl's gonna have. And for the most part, I'm really ok with it. But some people aren't.
Today I received a Fat Chick Compliment.
While it may or may not be true that I have a cute face and a magnificent rack, why don't people get that it's soooo much more about what isn't said?
Here's a little PK PSA: You don't ever, EVER tell a bigger girl like myself what a pretty face she has. That's what our mothers are for.
Because Sweetheart, you have such a pretty face is usually followed by (whether or not it's actually spoken out loud is not even the point - you know they're thinking it) if only you'd eat more salads and fewer Peanut M&M's... yeah, thanks, Mom. Oh, and ESPECIALLY don't point out your preference for my petiteness when regular ol' XL isn't big enough for your ass either.
Just because you believe that being gently tactful is tantamount to being false or sugar-coating the truth, that doesn't make you a noble, honest person. Even if you mean well, it makes you a bit of a jackass.
Because now you've made me acutely aware that there's something about me that you have an issue with, and I'll never ever feel like I'm 100% comfortable in my own skin around you. I'll always be sucking in my gut and stressing about how big these jeans make my ass look.
And frankly, that's your loss, because now I can't give you the best of me. Sure, I can laugh at my own neuroses, but I'm way more fun to be around when I feel like I can relax. Like I'm loved for who I am and there's not a single thing that you'd change about me, even if you could.
I know I'm not perfect, so please don't remind me. If you want me to feel good around you, remind me, occasionally, of the things you DO like about me. And if it's too hard for you to think of something nice to say that's neither a lie nor a backhanded compliment like "wow, you sweat a lot less than I thought you would", then just don't say anything. That's all I ask.
G is for GODFUCKINDAMMIT.
(And, dare I say, this is the best part, particularly if you're a fan of profanity. And, dare I say, if you're not, what the fuck are you doing reading this shit?)
Saturday Tito had a birthday party to go to. Crucial to the telling of this story is this picture of the actual invitation:
So Saturday afternoon, R took Tito out to get a gift for his friend Johnathon. Tito picked out a Spiderman action figure, we put it in a gift bag and all five of us went to drop Tito off at the party, which was just in the next subdivision over from ours.
I walked Tito to the door, where I saw a chalkboard which read:
Happy Birthday
Johnathon
AND
Lubaba!
FUCK!! Lubaba's a KID!
I thought that was Johnathon's last name or something. Shit. Shit. SHIT.
So I very discreetly told the very nice woman (and I don't want anybody to think I'm slammin cultures or anything, but she wasn't foreign - she was whiter than WalMart) who answered the door that I was very, very sorry and totally mortified, but I hadn't realized that this was a party for two children. I said I would get a gift and be right back, and she said "Oh, no, don't worry about it..."
Ok, what part of one kid getting a gift and the other not is acceptable? No, no, I won't hear of it. I'll be right back. Again, I'm very sorry I misunderstood, see you in five minutes.
As soon as the door closed behind me, I literally sprinted back to the van and hissed to R,
Fuck. Me.
Right now?
Dude, the party's for TWO kids. We have to go get another gift.
What? Two kids??
Lubaba's a fuckin KID, for fuck's sake.
Oh, SHIT.
Yeah, oh shit! Fuck!!!
Wait a second, is Lubaba a boy or a girl?
HOW IN THE FUCKING NAME OF CHRIST WOULD I KNOW???
Well, how is it spelled? Is it L-U or L-O-U?
What the FUCK difference would THAT make?
I just meant Lu as in Lu-Ann or Lou as in Louis...
Are you fucking kidding me?? DUH, Louis could just as easily be LOUISE, it's the same spelling, Dipshit! Jeeeezus, how fuckin inconvenient. DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!!!
I was so distraught over the whole thing, I was in tears, and meanwhile Beebie and Pie were lauging their asses off at me from the back seat.
But I didn't care. I was so completely pissed off at the idiot mom who planned the party for putting me in a position of totally understandable confusion and making ME feel like I'M the idiot.
Just so you don't have to scroll back up, look at this shit again:
Would it have killed the bitch to put the word AND in there, instead of a half-assed, backwards plus sign between Johnathon and Lubaba? Seriously! Woulda helped.
R suggested we go to Target, three blocks away, where he had seen Moon Sand on clearance.
No! We CAN'T! There's no TIME!!! Let's go to Walgreens, it's right here...
So we went into Walgreens, and I'm still seething and cursing and the kids are thinking my quiet, obscenity-laced tirade is absolutely fucking hilarious. Beebie kept antagonizing me, saying,
Hey, Mom... LUBABA.
Goddammit, Imma kick yer ASS, and then Imma kick Pie's ass, and then Imma kick Lubaba's ass.
Pie, c'mere, let's line up for our asskickin!
I swear to Christ, if you assholes don't shut the hell up...
They love it when I swear at them. They do, really.
So we went to Walgreens and found some sort of gender-neutral something or other (being careful not to have it be anything cooler than what we'd given Johnathon) and a gender-neutral bag to put it in and went back to the party, which, I don't know if you noticed on the invitation, was only scheduled to be an hour long in the fuckin first place. Oh, and I was asked to RSVP a full week ahead of time for a one-hour party at the kid's HOUSE.
I discreetly dropped off the last-minute gift, hoping to spare me (and Tito) from humiliation and got back in the van, still hopped up on adrenaline.
So, so many elements of this party showed a supreme lack of party planning competence. I hate it when people do stupid shit and I wind up getting totally pissed off at MYSELF because of THEIR stupidity and not mine. I get all worked up because I'm embarrassed, not because I'm at fault. I fucking HATE that.
I told Beebie and Pie that we can never tell Tito that I was hatin' on Lubaba, because I figured it would get back to Lubaba and Tito wouldn't understand that it wasn't really Lubaba I was mad at. It was the fuckwit whose brainchild it was to have Lubaba's party along with Johnathon's.
When we got back to the party, I made R go pick Tito up at the door because there was no fucking way I was going back a third time. R and Tito got back and I proceeded to find out the scoop on Lubaba.
So, was it a fun party, Tito?
Yeah.
And it was a party for Johnathon AND Lubaba, then?
Yeah. It was for both of them.
Is Lubaba in your class too, then?
(Laughs) No! Lubaba's his sister. She was turning three.
Ok, once again, a major party planning faux pas. Who puts a party for a seven-year-old boy along with a party for a three-year-old GIRL? Especially if the kid in the seven-year-old's class doesn't even know of the existence of the little sister? Have two separate parties at the same time - one that invites the boy's friends and one that invites the girl's friends - and send their guests completely separate invitations UNLESS you know that the guest knows both children.
It was totally a mooch-off party. Like Ok, you're in my son's class, but it's my daughter's birthday too so could ya bring an extra gift, even though I know you've never met her? What the FUCK??? Did they do it the other way too, for the kids in Lubaba's preschool class, did they have to bring a gift for a Kindergarten boy they'd never met? Tell me that's not fuckin tacky as shit! I wish I HAD gotten the three-year-old the fuckin Moon Sand from Target.
The punch line (literally) of the entire story is this:
As we were pulling out of the subdivision, R said,
"Oh, by the way, she asked me if you were Penny Karma..."
After a split second of Instant Diarrhea, I punched the fucker in the arm as he was driving. He says it still hurts.
GOOD.
