Britch

Many years ago, as in about 45 years ago, my Mothah gave my father a Valentine.  It was a pair of red, nylon boxer shorts.  It was a joke.  He never even had them on his body-not even once-because I, the one year old, snagged them and held on to them, well, for the better part of the next 45 years!  I liked the way the nylon felt on my face when it got cold. If I set Britch (as in short for britches) to the side in my bed, I could grab him a few minutes later, and he felt so good to hold on to!  Unfortunately, Britch’s friend, Nightie, did not make it.  Nightie was one of Mothah’s hot pink, nylon nightgown’s that I also commandeered and took for my own.  Sometimes, I would actually wear Britch and just carry Nightie around.  Nightie disintegrated years and years ago-from so much love.  I think she must have been made from nylon not as durable as Britch…because Britch lives!   The other night, The Baby got into my bed because his Daddy was at a meeting.  He had his Bunny and Penguin with him, and those are their names: Bunny and Penguin. They are (as if you wondered) a Bunny and a Penguin.  Why complicate things? I think The Baby is very practical.  Mini Me’s first teddy bear from Build-A-Bear was named Jim. Try to explain that one.  Any way, we were chatting before going to sleep and I told The Baby all about Britch and Nightie.  He stared at me with his eyes wide.  You mean you actually slept with your father’s, um, I mean Poppy’s, underwear??? The Baby said to me. I chuckled.  If you put it that way, I suppose it does sound a little…well….let’s just say strange and leave it at that.  YES! I told him, and guess what? I still have him! The Baby’s eyes got wider as I jumped out of the bed.  I only had to look in 3 drawers before I found Britch.  See, I always know where Britch is.  Just like The Middle Child always knows where Bippo is.  Just like The Baby always knows where Bunny and Penguin are!  I held him up for The Baby to look at.  He was mystified.  How, in God’s name, could his mother still have her security blanket? And furthermore, why in the hell was it a pair of nylon boxer shorts that are now unrecognizable as such? In fact, the only evidence at all that Britch was, at one time, britches of any sort, is the tag that says “Size 32”.  I showed The Baby Britch’s paint stain.  I got Britch in some wet, white paint at some point. It’s still there.  Anyway,  we finally went to sleep.  The next day, I got up and made up the bed.  That night, we got to go to see the Atlanta Braves play at their new stadium.  We got home at midnight.  I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I heard JC (who never turns down our bed) yell out:  OH MY GOD! Is that BRITCH?  I spit on the mirror-from laughing.  I walked into our room and he was looking at me, eyebrows raised.  YES, HELL, IT IS BRITCH!  I said, WHAT OF IT?  I snapped a quick pic of Britch in our bed.   He was still looking at me. That is seriously fucked up, he said.  It is not! I said, and explained the whole thing.  Then, not really caring what he thought about it, I got into the bed and turned out my light.  Whatever, I said, and I went to sleep with Britch in my clutches.  Britch

Grinchmas

Here it is, a week before Christmas, and I just finished decorating.  I don’t think that has ever happened before.  I managed to twist Mini Me’s arm enough so that he and his friend (and bandmate) Jody (who will now be known to us as ‘Cody’ because the music teacher, who is also a friend of mine, kept calling him that)  played guitar for the 4th grade program at my school yesterday.  They even participated in our “tacky holiday/winter wear dress-up day” and wore ugly sweaters.  I am pretty sure that the kids loved them.  I do not think that Mini Me and Cody will be fulfilling my dream of them playing in the lunchroom on Tuesday, though…. Mini Me’s expression tells it all.img_3685

This is the first year that I have truly considered not buying a Christmas Tree.  Of course, this was only in my head and not discussed with anyone else in my household, and we did get a real tree.  Mini Me, The Middle Child, and The Baby each have a fake tree in their bedrooms, so it’s not like I was going to deprive anyone of anything.  I was just feeling particularly grinchy  and not in the mood. You see, I am the one who goes into the attic each year and gets out the 10 red and green Rubbermaid containers of Christmas shit. Usually, there is nobody standing at the bottom of the attic stairs to hand the containers to. I am the one who puts up every tree, decorates every tree, puts all of the empty containers back into the attic, and then gets them all down after Christmas is over, and undecorates every tree and puts it all back again.  I am the one who gets the bigger Rubbermaid containers out of the shed in the backyard and carries them to the front yard.  I am the one who puts up all of our outdoor decorations and lights, and I am the one who has to take it all down and put it all back.  JC does not enjoy getting ready for Christmas-that is what he told me when I once asked him to ‘get into the holiday spirit’ and ‘let’s put the outdoor decorations up together’.   Quite frankly, it is all a big pain in the ass.  When I was a little younger, and the kids were a little younger, all of this brought me great joy-they would get so very excited.   Now? not so much.  Now, it brings me sciatica and nerve pain in my back, and makes my toes numb and tingly.  The kids don’t give a rat’s ass if their trees are up- otherwise they would help me decorate them.  That, alone, should be the sign that I should stop. Yet…this year, I did it once again.  ‘Tradition’, I called it, (in my head).  This year, I threw something new, albeit a little creepy, into my dining room decor.  I dressed up all 12 of our American Girl dolls- in holidayish attire, and set them out around the hearth and dining room tree.  That was all fun and games until The Middle Child came to me and said, “Mom, when my friends come over for my gingerbread house party next week, you have to put my dolls up.  It’s embarrassing.” Damn It.  I told her there was nothing embarrassing about her dolls-they are her damn dolls! And, they are not moving! She stomped off.  I spent hours dressing those bitches! Do you know how long it took me to find all the fucking shoes????? And I did their hair!!!! For the love of GRINCHMAS, they are staying the hell out!!!! And The Middle Child can just get the hell over it!!

I am about over our Elf.  It’s so boring.  I can’t really tell if The Baby still believes or not.  He goes down to find Elvis, and then he will be like ” oh, yeah, he hides there every year-whatever”.  And I am like well, shit. I got up out of my warm ass bed to go move this fucker…. I really think the jig is up, but I will keep on keepin’ on….I do think I am going to have to start getting creative again, but I am just so damn tired and I don’t really want to make a mess am going to have to clean up!!! img_3697

Mini Me sent his grandparents his Christmas List. I think the cheapest thing on the list was $400. This was their response, prior to them asking for an updated list, which he did send.  img_3682

Christmas was once my favorite time of year.  I think I have moved on and now Summer is my favorite time of year.  Nobody has any special performances.  Nobody has to take special gifts or food anywhere.  I am not expected to be anywhere at any certain time, with any particular food items, for any specific length of time…Yep. Summer is where it’s at for me. Zero obligations. I am now in the “gotta get through the holidays” mode.  I miss the olden days.

FullSizeRender (18).jpg

fullsizerender-17

Rochambeau

rock-paper-scissors                        court-rochambeau_0

 

I will never forget it.  It was Tuesday night, November 8, 2016.  Election Day, of all days.  We were in my family room. Mothah was on the small couch.  JC was on the big couch.  I was in my chair.  The Baby was sitting between me and JC, on the arm of the big couch, belting out songs from Hamilton, nearly at the top of his little lungs.  JC was on his laptop, trying to figure out Mothah’s Hilton Honors account, as she had no recollection of even opening that account or filling out any information regarding Hilton or Honors of any kind, yet there was a Hilton Honors account- in her name– associated with our upcoming reservation at the Midtown Manhattan Hilton. Go figure.  We needed that damn number, or we were going to be sans internet for three whole days.  I was on my laptop, trying to escape the chaos-at least in my mind.  The Election was on the television.  This was a lot going on, if I even need to point that out.  I was trying like hell to block out the noise of The Baby’s singing and the television, when Mothah said, “Jennifah, I need to talk with you about my Advance Directive.”  I looked up, over my glasses and across the room. “WHAT?” I said. “I want to talk to you about my Advance Directive,” Mothah said again. “RIGHT NOW?” I said, having to raising my voice over my little Daveed Diggs, who was mid- What’d I Miss? in my right ear.  “Jennifah, it’s nevah a good time, so I figure that now is just as good a time as any”,  she said.  I had to admit that she had a good point.  Lately, it seemed I had had zero time to talk to anyone but myself, and when, was it, really, good time to talk about anyone’s Advance Directive???  I told The Baby to hush the Hamilton for a few, and turned down the television.  Mothah began:  Alright. I have finished my Advance Directive.  This is in case I evah have to be on life support or any decisions regarding my life have to be made without my input-all of the directions are in my Advance Directive.  It’s all taken care of and you don’t need to worry about a thing, Jennifah.   “Okay,” I said, wondering if I was supposed to feel some relief at this declaration.  I need to tell you something about it-something that is in the Advance Directive, Mothah went on.  She had my complete attention.  If, at any time, you and youah (your) brothah cannot agree on ‘when to pull the plug’ , “MOTHER!,” I interrupted, as The Baby was listening, wide-eyed and completely enrapt in the conversation. No, Jennifah, it’s fine if he hears this! she said. I backed down, simply because I still do what she tells me to (most of the time) and she continued:  If there comes a time when you and Eli (my brother) cannot agree to ‘pull the plug’, you are to play Rochambeau until one of  “WHAT?!” I practically yelled, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? ROCHAMBEAU?!”   YES, JENNIFAH, ROCHAMBEAU!! she yelled back at me.  Now, let me just tell you, in case you do not know, because I have found that many do not know, that Rochambeau is another name for ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’.  (Now, I am not going to go into the many theories of why this is, because there are too many, and, well, the truth is that nobody really knows why.  If you are interested in learning about some of the theories, then Google it. It’s a very interesting read if you have nothing better to do! )  I had this sudden mental image of Eli and myself…standing at Mothah’s hospital bedside, where she would be all hooked up to monitors, and with tubes coming out and going in everywhere, her hair looking like Kramer on Seinfeld….and the two of us playing ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ to see who would get to decide when to ‘pull the plug’.  I started laughing.  Surely she was not serious!  But she was serious.  Dead Serious (pun intended) LOL.  I MEAN IT, JENNIFAH! IT’S IN THE PAPAH’S! AND IT HAS BEEN NOTORIZED! Mothah said. Oh Lord. That meant somebody outside of our extended family had actually witnessed this!  Mothah had more to say about it:  Now, Jennifah, I came to this decision because I realized that if I was on life suppoht, that Eli might be ready to ‘pull the plug’ aftah, say, seven days, but then you would want to give me a few m0re weeks, and y’all would get into a fight.  Rochambeau will keep you from fighting with each othah.  You have to do it, Jennifah, because it is in my Advance Directive.  “Okay”, I said, “We will. Can we stop this now?” Yes, Mothah said, laughing.  She knows I hate talking about the mere possibility of her not being immortal.  The Baby started up another Hamilton song and JC turned the tv volume back up.  He had managed to locate Mothah’s Hilton Honors account, somehow. I sat in my chair, realizing yet again, that I have bat-shit-crazy blood running through my veins, and thinking that perhaps (in 25 years or so) I should start honing my ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ skills….. Seriously, people.  I could not make this shit up if I tried.

fullsizerender-10

Elvis Has Left the Building

FullSizeRender (13)

Preface: I am well aware that this is entirely too long 😉 I actually cut some of it out and left the best parts, so just be thankful for that

Sunday was a week since we moved Mini Me to college. I think I have tried to write this story a hundred times.  I feel like I am missing a limb.  The first time I cooked dinner and went to set the table, I realized that I only needed to set four places, and the knife, that was plunged into my heart last weekend, twisted again.  It was not that Mini Me has eaten every single meal with us all of his life, it was that that time was different.  It seemed more permanent.  Like for real.  I am going to tell you about taking Mini Me to Belmont last weekend, and it is not like the beautiful, sweet stories people have been sending me on Facebook.  Please don’t misunderstand me–I appreciate all of the well wishes and kind words and thoughts, more than anyone knows.  It helps to know that people are thinking of me.  But….I really need to tell you that most of those stories are exactly that: Stories. And that is just a nice way of me calling a real loud and clear ‘BULLSHIT’.  I am here to tell you the truth. 

I have gone back to work, after an 8.5 year leave.  This has not proven to be the easiest task on the planet, but despite my best efforts, I am actually enjoying the hell out of it.  This job thing does get in the way of a lot of my would-be normal, day to day activities.  I could not just randomly gather all of the shit that Mini Me needed, whenever I felt like it, on my random, every other day trips to Target.  Those no longer exist.  I also could not just give Mini Me my debit card and say, here ya’ go, sonny! Go get whatever you think you might need!  I never have the energy to go to Target after dinner, and somehow, the weekends preceding his departure had been filled with other things, sooooo the morning of the day we left, I ran to Target to do some last-minute-Mini-Me shopping.IMG_2555

My list was relatively short.  I ended up with two shopping carts and a grand total of just under $400.  It took me over an hour and a half because I kept getting text messages from all three children.  Most of these were unnecessary.  I do not need a text message response of “NP” or “OK” or “THX” or “It would be really cool if you would bring home Starbucks”. This only makes my shopping trip longer, with me having to dig for my phone in my black hole of a purse.  If the important points of our textversation are over, then, for the love of God, just leave it alone.   When I got home, I backed the car into the carport so that I could unload all of the shit I had just bought, only to take it inside the house, repack it and then reload it into the same car.  Mini Me and I had decided to try to pack the car before JC got home.  We knew that if we had the car half loaded when he got there, he would make us unload it and he would start over.  JC likes to load the car.  In his defense, he is a good car-loader.  BUT….we had a LOT of stuff to load and we knew, from many previous packing experiences, that JC would require one or more of us to bring all of the shit out to the car, and stay out there and watch while he thought about what would be loaded and when.  Then, if he changed his mind and thought of a better plan, he would make us help unload it and start over. This may happen multiple times before he got it right.  This sort of perfectionism drives me insane, and I refuse to take part in it.  Mini Me and I started haulin’ ass.  We actually got most of it done before JC got home.   Since all 5 of us were going to Nashville, it was decided that Mini Me and JC would ride in the other car, and I would drive The Middle Child and The Baby in the minivan, that was packed so full that I could not see out of the rear view mirror.  We were getting ready to walk out the door and JC and Mini Me and I were in the kitchen alone.  I burst into tears, realizing that this was it.  This was the last time we would be here, in our house, like this.  Mini Me grabbed me and hugged me hard.

We hit Atlanta rush hour and Chattanooga rush hour, which was par for the course.  Somewhere beyond Adairsville, Georgia, when I had started to make up some time, I came upon a Scion, riding leisurely in the left hand lane.  Left lane riders really piss me off.  Also, about this time, The Middle Child and The Baby were starting to bitch at each other.  Unable to pass on the right, my road rage took over, and I rode the Scion’s bumper for about 10 minutes.  When I could finally pass on the right, I happened to glance over at Scion, to give a scowl, and saw a Native American woman shooting me a bird….her giant dream catcher dangling from her rear view mirror.  I thought to myself that there was seriously something wrong with that picture. Bitch.  I blew her doors off and traveled onward.  The Middle Child and The Baby and I were having a lot of fun between fights.  We were listening to the only thing we listen to, ever: The Hamilton Soundtrack.  We tested ourselves and we made it almost 1 hour without listening to it.  We then decided that there was simply nothing better to listen to, so we just turned it back on and never considered listening to anything else again.    I now have to make sure that I remind The Baby, each and every morning, before he gets out of the car at school, that he may under no circumstances be caught singing under his breath (or at the top of his lungs) any of the following lyrics: How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore….;  ….he’s been kicking ass as the ambassador to France; …..Sittin’ there, useless as two shits, hey, turn around, bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!;  or the ever so great: Southern Mother Fuckin’ Democratic Republicans, OH!  I am seriously just waiting on the school to call me.  Two out of three of my children sing incessantly.  I think they don’t even know they do it about 95% of the time. I’m telling you….the call is coming.  “Broadway Musical Soundtrack” had best be enough to get us both off the shit list.  Anyway,   we found ourselves to be a little hungry, and were overjoyed to realize that the bag of Mini Me’s snack foods was, indeed, in the minivan, and also easily accessible!  The 3 of us put back an entire big bag of Boom Chicka Pop kettle corn in less than 30 minutes.    With traffic and rain, it took us 5 full hours to get to Nashville. And guess what? We arrived in the nick of time for JC and Mini Me to get to the Butch Walker concert.  Imagine that! So guess what else? The Middle Child, The Baby, and I ordered room service for dinner. Imagine that!

We had to be at Belmont the next morning at a specified time. I can no longer remember what that specified time was, but sure as hell, we were running late.  I was the last one to get ready, so everyone just left me in the room and told me they would see me in the car as they ran out of the door.   I told them if they left me, I’d kill every damn one of them.  We managed to pull up within 5 or so minutes of our designated time frame.  There was a team of students, all dressed in Belmont shirts, waiting to greet us at the front door of Kennedy Hall.  They immediately asked for our student’s name, which we provided, not realizing, that when we opened all of the doors of the minivan, the team of Belmont students would start cheering his name and clapping for him.  The most fun thing to watch was the Belmont students unloading my car! Within 5-7 minutes, my entire Honda Odyssey had been completely emptied, and the only thing I’d carried was the Ryan Adams Boxed Vinyl Set. Things got a little testy in the dorm room, what with all 5 of us in there, trying to help unpack and give helpful decorating and organizing tips of how we would do it.  Eventually, 4 of us were banished to the lobby for 15 minutes so that Mini Me could collect himself, because he was on the verge of cussing us all out.  It had already become abundantly clear that my little ‘last minute’ jaunt to Target just hadn’t cut the mustard, and we would be making another trip after lunch at Edley’s.   I really thought that if we could just raise our blood sugar a tad, we would all be much better off. Oh, how wrong I was.  All 5 of us fought our way through Target.  To be fair, Target had about 2500 customers, and all of us seemed to be in the same general vicinity: lamps, rugs, towels, white boards, printers, food, school supplies, household goods….basically the entire store.  It was a clusterfuck of such gigantic proportions, that I thought I might have a panic attack at any moment.   Those times make me really bitchy and snappish.  JC said we should have gone to Wal-Mart.  He was right. And, damn it, I cannot think of any time I have ever made the statement that ‘we should have gone to Wal-Mart’.   It really pissed me off that he said it because I felt like he was blaming me for us being in Target!  I said You were driving the damn car! Why didn’t you just drive us to the damn Wal-Mart if you wanted to go there so bad? Huh? He said because you said go to Target. And I said, well, I’d a heap rather go to a Target any damn day before a damn  Wal-Mart! ( knowing, as the words were coming out of my mouth, that at that moment, I probably looked as though I belonged at a Wal-Mart) And The Middle Child was all like PARENTS! STOP IT!  So, we did.  We had only about $179.87 worth of shit in the shopping cart, so we just checked on out of Target and guess where we went to get the last 3-5 items on the list?  YOU GOT IT! Wal-Mart.  It was nice to shop for those 3-5 things in a less clustered atmosphere, I do have to admit.  By the end of that shopping extravaganza, most of us were just plain done.  I dropped JC and Mini Me off at the dorm and I took The Middle Child and The Baby back to the Hilton. We ended up ordering pizza and watching some completely inappropriate crime show-Dateline or something-before calling it a night.  JC ubered back to the hotel, and Mini Me was spending the night in his dorm, but we would spend the day with him the next day.

The next day, we ate lunch at Edley’s.  I know I said we did that the day before.  We did do it the day before.  And we did it again.  We really like Edley’s. So what?  Then, we went and picked up this red, microfiber futon we found on Craigslist, for the dorm room.  It was brand new, in the box.  It was really awesome.  What was not really awesome was that when we got in the car to leave, all the doors to the van had been open while we were loading the damn thing, and the van was now full of baby yellow jackets.  Like we were parked on a yellow jacket nest or something….Nobody got stung, and it only took us about 5 minutes of riding with all the windows down and the sunroof open and screaming to get them all out. In fact, I am quite sure that the screaming was the main factor that contributed to getting them out.   Fun times, I am talking about, People, fun times.  We went to Carter Vintage Guitar.  It is one of our Nashville Rituals.  Mini Me loves to go in there and play guitars.  I decided to sit in the car with The Baby, who was screaming about how much he hates Carter Vintage Guitar, and how boring it is to go in there, and how much he did not want to go in there, and why were we making him do such an awful, miserable thing like going into Carter Vintage Guitar when he so really, really did not want to go? I damn sure did not want to go into Carter Vintage Guitar and have to listen to that whiny bullshit. I’d just assume sit and listen to it in the comfort of the van.  We also had promised The Baby that we would take him to Third Man Records-another one of our Nashville rituals.  The longer we sat in the car, the later it got, and the whinier The Baby got.  OH MY GOD! When are they gonna come out? This is awful. I can’t stand this. Please go get them. Please make them leave. Can’t we just leave them here….I told you I did not want to come to Carter Vintage Guitar!!!! As you can imagine,  I really wanted to bitch slap The Baby, but he had a point.   I looked at the clock on my phone and was shocked to see that it was almost 5:00pm, Nashville time.  That meant it was almost 6:00pm, Atlanta time.  I had to work the next day.  The kids had school.  We had to get this show on the road.  I started texting The Middle Child, and JC.  They came out a few minutes later.  Mini Me jumped into the front seat and slammed the door like he might break the damn thing off it’s hinges. He then went off on a tirade about some guitar that was apparently like the Holy Grail of guitars.   He was really pissed off.  I finally pieced together what had happened.  He was enjoying playing guitars, and then JC handed him this fancy schmancy one to play, and it was like the bomb.  Like a $7-8000.00 bomb, which is really not all that big of a bomb in the world of guitars.   He was thoroughly pissed off that JC would actually hand him a guitar to play that we had no intentions of buying.  Now, this whole situation was ridiculous.  Mini Me has gone in Carter Vintage and Gruhn’s and played instruments that cost a whole lot more than this guitar I am telling you about, and he has known every time that nobody was buying a damn thing, unless it was a time when we were looking to buy a damn thing.  He knew this particular day, that nobody was buying a damn thing.  But he went off  like the spawn of satan. He said some things that I am not going to repeat–mostly because I think he regretted them the instant they came out of his mouth, the second time he said them, since he said them more than once 😉   I sat there and thought to myself that just maybe, this whole leaving him here at college, 4 hours away from home, was not going to be as hard as I had imagined…little fucker.  In fact, I thought we might just ought to leave his ass right there, in the parking lot of Carter Vintage Guitar  and let him walk his ass back to his dorm!   We went to Third Man Records and JC sat in the car.  His feelings were hurt by the awful things that had come out of the spawn of satan’s mouth. Usually, all of us are pretty quick to apologize when we have done something we know is wrong.  That apology we were waiting on did not come until we were headed back to the dorm a little while later, but when it came, it was very sincere.  I had heard about this ‘spawn of satan’ behavior.  It is apparently a quite common defense mechanism…..I had hoped we would be able to avoid it, but I should have seen it coming a mile away.  After we unloaded the futon and put it together, we asked Mini Me to come outside to tell us goodbye.FullSizeRender (15)

I really thought I was going to be fine. I really did.  I did not feel the least bit weepy.  Then, I turned around and saw Mini Me hug The Middle Child, and I heard an audible sob come from her, and that–that was all she wrote.  

I sobbed most of the way home, but managed to belt out a few Hamilton songs with The Middle Child in between breakdowns.  I called Mothah and Daddy.  JC had The Baby with him in the other car.  I think he knew that after our stint in the van at Carter Vintage Guitar,  The Baby and I needed a small break from each other.  When we pulled into our driveway, I felt this surge of sadness come over me because we had actually come home without Mini Me.  He really was not here.  I went straight to his room and the tears just kept falling.  It seemed so empty without him. I grabbed the gray blanket off his bed and carried it with me (I have slept with it every night since).   I went into the playroom and looked at the side that was and is his side–the music side.  There were still a few guitars hanging on the wall, and of course the piano is there, but the cables and mic’s and amp’s-all that stuff is gone.  And my Mini Me is not there.  Elvis has left the building.

IMG_2641

Bad Ass Certification Complete

11992027_10207526605428942_1253756695_n

 

Yesterday, my husband had our car.  We are about to buy another car. That, in and of itself,  is a long story that I will not bore you with.  Let’s just leave it at: yesterday, I was at home without a car. Yes,  I could have called a friend to take me, yet again, to Kroger. Yes,  I could have called my father in law, to drive across town, to take me to Kroger. I could have walked to Kroger.  I could have called Uber and gone to Kroger. I could have gotten my ass to Kroger to get stuff for dinner, but I did not. I despise going to the grocery store. It is my least favorite chore on the planet.  I will do just about anything to get out of it.   I chose to work out at home, and then clean off my back porch that looked like Sanford and Son’s back porch.  Then, I mowed my back yard and bagged up some leaves.   My husband was picking up The Middle Child after her chorus rehearsal at 5:00, so I texted him a short list of items to please pick up at Kroger on the way home, and  I never thought about dinner again.

When the mail came, a vinyl thingy I ordered on Etsy was in it. It was for The Baby’s new
“Star Wars” themed room and says “May The Force Be With You” in silver.  I have always just painted straight on the wall. These vinyl things scare the shit out of me.  They come with directions–something I don’t follow very well. So, when I heard The Middle Child and my husband come through the door, I was upstairs, applying that damn vinyl thingy to The Baby’s wall, cussing up a storm.  Thank God I got the damn thing level.  It was the hardest thing I have done in my life. The Middle Child came into the room to see it.  “Did y’all go to the store?” I asked. “No”she said. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head and said, “Great.” About that time, The Baby came running up the stairs with my husband, to show him the new vinyl.  I was so pissed about the grocery store, I couldn’t help myself.  ” I guess you decided not to go to the store?” I dug in.  “Not yet” he replied.  I went into our room and started changing my clothes.  I had heard The Baby ask him to go outside and play with his giant foam airplane, and that should and would take precedence over the damn grocery store.  I would take my ass to Kroger so that my husband could play outside with The Baby.  The two of them went out to play.  I was still getting ready to go when my husband came in and asked if we had a ladder.  I am the one who paints, repairs, etc. around here …LOLheisenberg_meth  So, I informed him that no, our ladder is not tall enough to reach the roof.  When I need to do any roof work,  I always have to borrow a ladder.  Now right here is where I am going to get to the nitty gritty of the story.  Our next door neighbor was not at home, so we could not borrow a ladder from him.  I was not about to call my father in law and ask him to drive across town, just to get this damn plane off the roof.  Recent unfortunate events have led to the demise of what was a really good friendship with one of our other neighbor’s .  I have taken ownership and apologized for my role, but unfortunately it is the type of situation that cannot be fixed, and I wish that things were different.  I would still do anything for them if they needed me-though I know they would not ask.  It used to be that I would just go over and borrow their ladder.  In my crazy town head, I wondered if they were over there, laughing at the fact that we did not have a ladder and The Baby’s plane was stuck on the roof.  This, my friends, this thought alone, was enough fuel to complete my Bad Ass Certification.  I went into the house and slammed the door.  My ass was going onto the roof, hell or highwater.  I stormed out the back door.  I was sure that my husband was going to come out there, but he did not, and that was a damn good thing.  I started taking chairs off the back porch.  Thank God I had just cleaned off the back porch, or I wouldn’t have been able to find the damn chairs.  I tried putting this 6ft old, wooden, rickety ladder into these chairs. Not tall enough.  Dammit.  I stood there and thought. And thought and thought and thought.  There had to be a way.  I was just sure my neighbor was probably saying, “she should just get on her broomstick and fly up there”…..And in my crazy town head, I thought, if I had one, I’d have flown to fucking Kroger earlier and gotten groceries for dinner, bitch!….  a5238b5ae19db3dcac10b35a0df8c215

I don’t know..Maybe I am the only one who has these types of dialogues in my own head? So….It was on. I remembered that our large round umbrella table was on the bottom patio, so I ran down and got it. In flip flops.  I positioned it just under the lowest part of our roof, and made sure there were bricks under the legs so it would not sink in the pea gravel.  I put that rickety-ass ladder up on that table and climbed aboard, all the while, trying to figure out where the the hell my Wonder Woman cape from Six Flags might be. I knew it was in my closet.  I also knew it would take time to find it and had the potential to ruin my surprise of getting onto the roof in the first place, so I just ditched that thought and moved on.  I got to the top of the ladder and chickened out.  There was no fucking way.  Also, I was in my semi-good jeans and a shirt I liked–I had changed to go to the grocery store, remember? I climbed back down.  Then I remembered the thought that had fueled the fire in the first place,  and climbed back up, this time, all the way up on top of the rickety-ass ladder.  I hoisted one knee on top on the roof and that was all she wrote. I was up there. Yep. In flip flops.  I have been on our roof many times, so I was not scared.  I ran across and picked up the airplane.  I yelled The Baby’s name.  “MOM! HOW DID YOU GET UP THERE?” he yelled.  “Don’t worry about it!” I said.  About that time, my husband came out from under the carport-his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.  “HOW did you get up there?” he asked.  “I’m resourceful” I said.  “You’re a Bad Ass” he said.  I just smiled and said thank you.  I won’t need any compliments from him for years.   In my mind, for your own husband to call you a “Bad Ass”…well, that is about the highest compliment one can ever receive….even though my children have been calling me that for years 😉

I must say that Mini Me was not home when all of this occurred.  When he heard all of this, he called me a “Dumb Ass”….. 😉 I am sure that Mothah might agree….. I will also say that my husband did come around to the back and hold the ladder so I could climb down safely, and all’s well that ends well.  Bad Assery, well done 😉

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑