If only you can wade through the bullshit to get there?
Today was one of those. But worry not– I’ve got a bag full of, uhm, interesting stories to pull out for you, because, as I was telling a young friend of mine, my life just does that.
Lessee… where to start…
Oh, okay. Yesterday morning. Took the dog for a walk. And, because he is a dog, he had to smell ALL THE THINGS. Yes, yes, ALL THE THINGS, and they were WONDERFUL, and we had to ROLL IN THEM because they were WONDERFUL, oh yes, oh yes, ALL THE THINGS! And then we get that dog home, and suddenly me, the kids, Big T–we’re all wrinkling our noses, and oh holy shit WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL????
RED ALERT RED ALERT RED ALERT! All children outside with the dog and a bottle of baby shampoo and a hose–STAT! NO, don’t pander the little shit-bag, WASH him–he is the ENEMY and he needs to be lathered, rinsed, and repeated until that smell is GONE, GODDAMMIT, GONE!!!
A half an hour later, as I was cuddling a shaking, traumatized Chiwhowhat (who now smelled like baby shampoo, and, go figure, wet dog) we looked at each other as if to say, “How did this happen?”
“I know how it happened you little snicker-poo-poo junkie– leave the other dogs’ shit ALONE!”
He buried his nose in my cleavage and I assume that was an apology.
But they can’t be all bad, right? Because today, when I stopped to get gas, Big T was holding Jonnie on his lap in the front seat, and this little old lady– she was so sweet. She was stooped and fragile and her blue hair was perfectly coifed, and she had a dog bed in her front seat, which was home to an obnoxiously fat Chihuahua. Whom she scooped out of the front seat and brought to meet Jonnie, thinking that they must be friends.
She was sweet, and very dear, but I have to tell you–I think our dogs were confused as Minnie-mother-of-Hell.
Anyway– I took Big T up to my parents to mow the lawn, and then went back up to get him. When I was there, I got a call from my Aunt, detailing a situation with my mother which has apparently been building for months. I was irritated (and felt more than a little guilty since I hadn’t seen my mom since May) but mostly irritated, because one does not tell a mentally ill woman who has been accidentally phased off her meds to “take your medication or we’ll take away your money!” and expect good results. (For the record, my family did not actually run with this argument, and I’m pretty sure it came from my uncle, and, well, we’ve discussed this.) Anyway, I’m going in Monday to help fix the situation (not that I have a lot of clout), but before that, I had to rant a little on my Dad and Stepmom, who were reasonably sympathetic.
And then I did the unthinkable.
My parents’ driveway is sort of a nightmare. In order to get in, you have to execute what amounts to a slow ninety degree turn, and in order to get out, you have to make two of those– backwards. Fun, right? Well, I used to be fairly proficient (minus a couple of broken tail lights, and one memorable moment of PMS in which I told off my stepbrother that if I could do it he could do it, and then smacked my car against his) but after all these years? Well, I usually have Mate do it. Driving backwards is the ultimate mindfuck for me, and it doesn’t help that my dad is usually sarcastically applauding my painful efforts on the way out. Anyway, today, I was parked perilously close to random white truck (seriously, I do NOT keep track of all of their vehicles!) and seeing that it was, like all of my father’s cars, pristine, and I was driving the crapmobile which is, well, imagine if you took a metal rake down the sides threw or four hundred times, and then pounded the handle in along the side doors, well, that’s a rough approximation of the damned car. Anyway, back to my crime against nature.
“Dad, could you please back my car out?”
“No, seriously. I don’t want to be responsible for that damned truck.”
“Fine, whatever, I’m asking nicely. I know my limitations. PLease back my car out.”
“Okay, you get the gate.”
And then my father backed the car out in one smooth “S” motion, and proceeded to gun the thing out of the driveway, flying gravel and all, and take off with my children.
In case, you know, I’ve only shared the good shit, I think that maybe I should make that clear. But by this point in the story, I’m sure you’ve guessed.
So he gets back, and is laughing his ass off.
“You are the biggest asshole on the entire planet!”
“Thank you! I’ve worked hard to become so!”
“Well practice makes perfect– it’s working!“
“By the way, your car needs to be looked at. Your power steering is loose and your breaks chatter.”
“So, is it going to get us to Monterey and back? Because we’re leaving tonight.”
“Well, it’ll get you one way.”
I get into the car and look at Big T, who is manfully suppressing his laughter.
“T, I need to apologize.”
“You are obviously descended from a bag of dicks. I probably passed it on. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’re a nice person.”
“Yeah, but you never know when I’m going to change.”
I don’t even tell Chicken this story. She was the first person to look at my mom’s side of the family and go, “You know, some of those people are real douchebags.” Because you know how it is with family– you don’t really think about this when you’ve grown up with it.
Well, maybe you don’t always recognize it at all, because it’s a part of you.
And now, I’m going to take my little bag of dicks in training to Monterey, and hope the dysfunctional car gets as much mileage as my dysfunctional family.
Maybe by the time we get back (if we get back) that picture of the kittens will have done it’s work.