Okay, whatever…

It’s not that things have gotten less hectic around here–we’ve had two back to school nights and a dentist appointment this week– it’s just that I started drawing the line at shit that drags the little ones out in the 105 degree heat.

Example? Picking Chicken up from school. No, I don’t make her walk (it’s a long ways) but she chose to go to a different school than her brother–we told her fine, but she has to make some sacrifices. Like waiting until her brother gets home to watch the little kids before I go to get her. She’s also started to walk home from soccer–it’s a mile, exactly, and I think that’s fair. I also bailed on a department meeting (for one of the back to school nights) and T is getting to karate about once a week. Dance is right out. Sorry, can’t do it–maybe later, when soccer is not quite the six-headed monster it is now, thank you very much. And this has given me time to bitch about total fucking weirdness.

Example? My PWT ticket. I PAID THAT FUCKER–I even have (get this, it never happens to me!) PROOF! I made copies of the ticket and I have copy paper in my check register (why I have this I have no idea…) but I can go into court and prove that I’ve made a good faith effort to send that fucker in. Just because they lost it is no reason to BILL ME MORE THAN $1100 DOLLARS TO FIX IT. Fuckers. All of them. I show them no mercy.

Another example? Rolling brown-outs. We had one today. First everything went dim, and then, in an effort to lighten the power load Mate unplugged the computer. At the exact moment he did that, everything–air conditioning included–died a violent death. Without missing a beat, Mate stood up, executed a perfect bow, and said, “And with that, I bid you Adieu!”

For more? (And this was hilarious!) Phil, the guy at The Guilded Bat (who can be forgiven for not liking Bitter Moon I that much because I don’t insist that everyone adores me. Much.) wanted to make sure that Cory in the Little Goddess series doesn’t become a thigh-spreading Mary Sue like some other characters in the PNR world. I assured him that RAMPANT was not about losing control so much as it was about the reasons to maintain it. He said good, because (in his words) otherwise, the next book would have to be called TUMESCENT and the one after that would be FLACCID. I’ve never laughed that hard in a book store, sweartadog.

And I had a thought. We need a sign, a universal signal, that says, “I am about to do something socially unaccepatable right now–pay no attention to me.” This would make things like gas, belching, and choking on water SO much more convenient, you think?

And the children (who aren’t annoying me that much) and I are about to go swimming after we pick up Chicken–because there are some things to get into a car for, when it’s 106 miserable fucking degrees outside.

See ya at the pool!