So here's a fun mental exercise to see how well you know your significant other.
On the show The Office Jim knows everything about Pam, what she likes and more importantly, what she doesn't like. When Andy decides to ask Pam out, he seeks out Jim for advice. Jim proceeds to tell Andy to do and be everything that Pam hates. She sweetly endures the barrage of horrible advances, unwilling to spoil Jim's fun.
If someone wanted to ask out your significant other (or would-be significant other) on a date, what horrible things would you tell them to ensure their absolute failure?
For Justin: "Okay sweetie, here's what you have to do..."
Arrive in the following ensemble: denim jacket, sequined tube top, and mom capris with embroidery around the bottom hem. Accessorize with big hoop earrings, a chunky metal chain necklace, a lot of bangling charm bracelets, and (at this point Justin visibly shuddered) a couple toe rings. Also carry a purse that wouldn't be qualifiable as an airport carry-on, and would be all kinds of blinged out.
Drive to Applebees in conversational silence. Allow the blaring of cheap and easy pop music to fill the car. And be sure to drum along on the dashboard with your very acrylic nails... on the offbeats.
Once in the restaurant, make sure the conversation centers on the truth in your feelings, a myriad of complex topics upon which your opinions are both stalwartly immobile and utterly unsubstantiated, and how tomorrow never comes. Emphasize consumer culture; denounce bravery and hard work. Make sure you appear to be the victim of every situation life throws at you.
It would also help if you think you have every medical condition known to man. Hypochondria is the new sexy. Be sure to tell him you have an undiagnosed allergy to gluten and that wheat makes you sleepy and fat.
When he agrees (because every gentleman has his breaking point), be sure to ridicule him loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear.
Tell lots of "m'urse" jokes.
After a delightful plate of spinach cooked in vinegar and baloney sandwiches heaped with raw onions and topped with mayo (because they totally serve that at Applebees, right?) leave the table an appalling disaster. Make sure it is as messy as possible. Excuse the untidiness with a laugh and rudely remark that it's the waiter's job to clean it up. And when he tries to tip well tell him he is throwing his money away. They don't work hard enough to get a tip.
Use slang whenever possible. And please, for the love of God, don't pronounce the 't' in mountains.
Back at your door, with no subtlety, invite him into your unkempt trailer, which if possible should be illuminated in the flickering glow of florescent lights. Place the large terrareum holding your sweet pet baby, a twelve foot boa constrictor, clearly within view.
With Firefly flickering on the TV in the background, put on all your charm. Raise your eyebrows and flick your tongue out to reveal a large metal tongue stud.
After vomiting profusely all over the doorstep, Justin will excuse himself to gargle lots and lots of whiskey. ... which you should offer him from your pantry.
Showing posts with label bad day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad day. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Friday, January 22, 2016
What the Texas Wind Devours
The day started with a broken dish. Then things went bad. The Little Hurricane is attempting to dump the bottle. I suppose that is an inaccurate statement: mommy is trying to dump the bottle for the Hurricane. She is screaming. A lot. Because sun and moon and tide and seasons have revolved around, ebbed to, and changed with that bottle. My hand pauses several moments longer than normal as I twist her doorknob open in the morning. Psyching myself up for the shrieking storm to greet my milkless self. Noah isn't ready to be potty trained. I've pleaded, I've forced, I've bribed, but the Little Man is just not ready. Alas, I realized this as he stood in front of his potty peeing on his shoes. (I promise I will delete this blog before y'all are old enough to care to read it, my precious munchkins.)
Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.
A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.
I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns. It's got a chip on it's shoulder. The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition. H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.
Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.
Then I dragged them home.
Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).
We ended up here:
Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.
There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."
Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?
Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.
1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.
2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.
3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.
4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.
5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.
6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.
7. Don't have a two year old.
8. Don't have a three year old.
9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.
The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)
I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:
When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!
And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.
Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.
Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:
Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!
Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.
A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.
I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns. It's got a chip on it's shoulder. The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition. H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.
Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.
Then I dragged them home.
Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).
We ended up here:
Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.
There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."
Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?
Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.
1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.
2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.
3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.
4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.
5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.
6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.
7. Don't have a two year old.
8. Don't have a three year old.
9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.
The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)
I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:
When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!
And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.
Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.
Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:
Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!
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