Shirts

My husband (bless the man... but) has an addiction to shirts! He works in one of those industries that hand out shirts like insurance salesmen hand out calendars. He must have somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve trillion shirts with vendor/supplier/contractor logos on them. And the universe knows, we all need twelve trillion golf shirts. On top of that he coaches (another shirt dispensary), and our son plays competitive baseball (he too has twelve trillion shirts - they all refer to baseball) and again, more shirts for the DAD. (I confess I have far too many shirts about baseball myself). So a couple of years ago, he comes home and says "I need some shirts that don't have anything written on them. This seemed reasonable, I mean you don't want to go to every dinner party, neighborhood picnic, etc. wearing something that says "Sprinkler Guys do it in the Mud" (okay he doesn't really have any shirts that say that on them, usually just the logo thing). I gave the nod to purchasing some shirts w/o logos on them. Fast forward two years later... we are going broke on shirts. He is buying shirts like Imelda Marcos buys shoes. If he likes a shirt, katie bar the door, he will buy three in every color. The man now has sixteen trillion shirts! So, we are out Christmas shopping, and he asks me to buy him a shirt - a shirt that looks very much (if not exactly) like 14 that he already has. I tell him, fine but...(secret private threat), which he responds to by putting back the shirt and picking out a nice pair of windpants - good choice. Then after the holiday, he tells me he is returning a pair of pants that my mother got him because they were too small - seems reasonable. He exchanged the pants for that SHIRT! I think I'm going to send him to a twelve step group, or at least get him the shirt.

Machines and Movies

Dialogue shared with a co-worker just now over the *&$#)($%#! copier...
ME: "Now you've jammed it dammit... Dammit Jammedit"
COWORKER: "Don't you dare say 'I love you'"

You may have to read it out loud, and also have been a child of the 80's - classic cult movies and such

and I perhaps could have replied "It's so screwed"

oh Frankie you sexy sexy man...

Friday

I was driving to work this morning and for a short time I followed one of those trucks - the ones that say "How's My Driving" with some 800 number and then a 12 digit vehicle i.d. number in 8pt font below it. It wasn't exactly rush-hour (had to take the drama queen to her grandmother's for the day as the pain in her back was preventing her from speaking normally, walking normally, and apparently she was also unable to brush her teeth), and the roads weren't really icey (although you would think they were Eisenhower Tunnel ) aka Johnson Tunnel, but noone calls it that, and it's Sunday apres-ski (that means everyone is exhausted and half bombed on hot buttered rum) traffic and I'm hanging on to my cigarette (yes I smoke in the car, it's a terrible habit and my car stinks, but its MY car and MY habit, and it covers up the smell of the farts from my teenaged son) and I'm drinking my coffee (all day, every day) and I'm driving with one hand, and the maniac passes me weaving in and out of traffic (keep in mind they are all tired and drunk), and I see the familiar (all too familiar) 800 sticker... so I grab my cell phone (which probably has intermittent shitty service in this locale) Now I'm holding onto coffee, cigarette, steering wheel, and I've got my hands on the buttons of my cell phone in the semi-darkness of wintertime dusk chasing a maniacal driver up a mountain to get the phone number which I am trying to dial in the dark and then when it answers I envision (can you do that with audio) that it is one of those 'press 1 if you have a power outage, press 2 if you have fallen and can't get up, press three if you speak spanish (repeated in spanish),... press 997 if you are falling one of our idiot drivers over a mountain pass', and then another discourse of press this and that for what they are or are not doing right or wrong 'press 1 if the truck you are following is currently west bound, press 2 if the truck you are following is white with red letters... press 678 if the truck you are following is moving so frighteningly fast that you are having trouble catching it to get the 12 digit vehicle id number in 8 pt font below our phone number' which is of course followed by 'enter the 12 digit vehicle id followed by the # sign' - by now we have gone through the tunnel and are headed down the 80% grade on the east side and he is still barreling along despite the signs that say "Truckers use low gear - this grade is so steep you could lose control of your brakes if you were walking {along with the not so familiar to me 'double black' ski slope indicator}", I am desperately trying to read the tiny vehicle id # and punch it into my phone in the semi darkness amongst the tired drunken skiers at which point I spill my lukewarm coffee all over my lap and drop the cherry off my cigarette and the homemade tape that is in the cassette deck (I have three teenagers, and no extra dough to buy a cd player) finally switches sides after the 30 minutes of silent non-recording and blares out 'Like a Hurricane' at volume level 70..., this is when I wake up from my day-mare and realize that "How am I driving?" stickers are a menace to traffic and pull into my parking garage in lovely downtown Denver, glad to have survived my imagined terror and hoping that I didn't run any red-lights while day-dreaming again.

My kids

My kids think I resemble the mom in Malcolm in the Middle - frightening really, I think she's a raving maniac with no sense of justice, however, I do admire the way she embarrases her children publicly. I try not to truly embarrass my kids, unless they really deserve it, but I think it's fabulously funny! I did go through a phase where I would make them drop and give me twenty if they were disrespectful to each other, including in public - it was a bit embarrasing at the ballet recital reception where everyone was dressed lovely and some grandfather gave me the eyebrow. While I am frequently telling the kids we aren't financially able to do something, in my various different colorful ways..."did you learn to crap money at school today?", we aren't actually as bad off as Malcolm's family. I do threaten frequently to sell them to gypsies, the little smartasses usually retort with something about a re-stocking fee when the gypsies return them - I would never send one of them away to military school, obviously... no re-stocking fee. Also, I'm a far more lenient on chores, and a far worse housekeeper... I had to ground my kids from watching Clean Sweep because I was afraid they would sign me up and I'm such a pack rat. Would make a great episode, but I would probably do my Linda Blair in the Exorcist impression (also know affectionately in our house as "mom's head is going to spin") when they made me start throwing stuff out. Keeping one item just simply would never cut it (reminder to self, devote a post to all the ridiculous crap in the basement). I would much prefer if they would choose another T.V. mom to compare me to - although Donna Reed never wore sweats, Mrs. Brady never drank beer, and I'm very certain that Mrs. Cleaver never used the same colorful words that I do. If they picked another T.V. mom it would probably end up being Roseanne, and really I don't like malamars very well. Although I hate the Simpsons, I wouldn't mind being compared to Marge, aside from the giant blue beehive, she really has it all together.
Tonight I was driving home from the batting cages where I met my husband (the dear man who knocked me up three times in 2.5 years) to pick up the daughter who had been dropped off at the cages after her swim team practice (so far from home, she should need a passport and visa) and the boy was beginning a mini-camp (aka coaches can't take another minute at home and away from the game... neither can the boys). The daughter, oldest, fourteen years old, managed to fill the entire drive with suggestions of ways I could spend money I don't have -- kids have no concept of "recovering from the holidays". We aren't talking cheap either, she wanted to know if we were going as a family to "The Stock Show" - this annual outing generally costs a couple hundred dollars, tickets, food, beer, more food, more beer, etc. (yes I realize that if we cut out the beer we could save a bundle, but it just wouldn't be the same - I've been drinking beer every year at the stock show since I was like 9 or something... okay probably 18, since that WAS the drinking age) She also wants to know when we can go "Formal Shopping" - both daughters belong to an organization that requires formals for several occasions - hmmm there's another $150 at least. Then to top it off she asked if we could stop at Chubby's for an horchata, I said no to even this $2 treat, for which she offered her own money, isn't that generous of her.
Got home to the younger daughter (pre-teen, oh isn't it joyful), also my "drama queen". She managed to drag her wounded body to the door to unlock it and then whimper her way back to the massage chair (I assume her back is hurting, didn't ask, asking would have just opened a flood gate of dramatic sighs and painful groans). Apparently she had the energy and strength to clean her room (funny how the threat of dad's wrath is worse than any imagined pain), and to get through her day at school, which I am certain included much jumping and leaping, etc. She wanted me to sit and watch her eat her dinner, I fed her from my breast for almost two years, ate cold dinners for another three or four years because I was either feeding her or cutting up her food... and now she wants me to watch her eat. She really is quite entertaining, and lovely to look at, but watching her eat was somehow not on the top of my list of ways to relax after work.
Yes I work, at a lawfirm, downtown, with lots and lots of women... coming home and watching sports is a welcome relief to me, so it's been very good for my marriage to super-jock sports fanatic. Almost no one at work is aware that the NHL doesn't exist this year, they have no idea nor desire to discuss Oklahoma's abysmal performance in the Orange Bowl (although there were a few mentions of the lousy half-time show), I doubt anyone (even the token men) makes picks during March Madness, and I'm certain not a one of them celebrates the return of Spring Training or Opening Day. On the other hand, I have spent the last 15 years bitching about constant sports on the t.v. - I've had to, just to keep it in perspective, besides wives are supposed to bitch... and I'm not stupid enough to bitch about his family or the things he does around the house to help out. Speaking of which, he's on his way home with my dinner and my boy, maybe I will do a load of laundry to surprise him!