I know that a lot of you faithful, wonderful, outstanding readers come here for a funny story here and there.  I’m very thankful for that.  All of the Sisters are.  Because I love you, Dear Readers, I’m going to share with you a site that is so funny, I routinely have tears streaming down my face when I read it.  Trust me, I know funny.  Here are the rules: You may only go to this new site AFTER you’ve visited ours.  Understand?  I don’t want you all traipsing over there in a big bunch like my son’s soccer team and never coming back here. 

Remember that I love you and I’ll miss you while you’re gone.

www.theblogess.com

Seriously.  You’ll laugh yourself silly.  She’s just recently returned from a trip to Japan.  Oh dear Lord.

So as I said in this evening’s earlier post, we went out to dinner.  We asked the children 9,756, 348 times to go put on their shoes.  Finally, I went in to see what the hell The Bandit was doing in there and this is what I overheard him say to himself, “The cantaloupe has horns.” ???????  That sounds like something from a really bad spy movie doesn’t it?  I have no idea what his fertile imagination was cooking up there.  Possibly it had to do with hot lava.  Hey, speaking of “hot lava”, we are getting ready to redo our front yard.  My Honey was pricing gravel and river rock with my brother-in-law this weekend.  I voted loudly for the lava rock.  I just can’t wait to find out what the boy would think of that.

Anyway, this is what The Bandit planned to wear to the restaurant: Red shiny warm up pants, a green Incredible Hulk t-shirt, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, Batman socks and no underwear.  I was OK with everything except the boots.  Well, and the no underwear thing, but I found out about that later.  I remember once upon a time, I dressed this boy in the most adorable and hip outfits.  Now I’m just happy he’s mostly covered.  It was much easier before he had opinions. 

So, we had a noisy negotiation about the shoes and I finally convinced him of flip flops.  He really wanted to keep the Batman socks so I gave him a pair of Adidas slide sandals.  He father said, “No” on the new shoes and took away the hat.

I don’t know about you, but I think my husband is stifling him.  Don’t you agree?  Or is it that I’ve just given up?  Either way, he’s a weird kid.  Thank God he’s cute, too.

My daughter is very lovely.  She got a fantastic gene cocktail with her father and I – she is much prettier than I ever was.  That’s a really damn good thing, too because, as her father and I see it, that’s going to save us a fortune in the dowry.

She couldn’t have been more than 3 years old when we first realized that this was going to be a problem.  He looked at me and said, “We better start saving for the dowry now.”

She’s a challenge, but she’s smart as a whip and funny, too.  She’s also beginning to get sarcastic – I don’t know where she gets that.  I’m always perfectly genial.  I’m also beginning to think she’s got a little Rain Man in her or, maybe it’s that character Jack Nicholson played in As Good As It Gets – the obsessive/compulsive one.  Let me explain: once she sets something in motion, there’s no stopping her until she’s finished.  She absolutely CANNOT stop in the middle of the ABCs or Rudoph the Red Nosed Reindeer to name just a few.  There is a book that they read in 1st grade this year, Tikki Tikki Tembo.  It has a character in it named Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo.  Apparently, the girls in her class have latched on to this phrase and they recite it over and over and over until their parent’s heads explode.  They repeat it as fast as they can to the point that no one can understand a word they are saying.  She does it at home all the time.  ALL THE TIME!  It has driven me so crazy that I want to commit violence.  The next time I see her teacher I want to sock her.  Unfortunately, her teacher is very tall and very fit so she could probably take me, but I have the element of surprise on my side.  The other parents might be shocked at first, but when they find out it’s all because of “Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo”, I’m sure they will drift over to my side.

Back to the point.  We went out to dinner tonight.  She was very “Sassy” at dinner, by which I mean she was acting very much herself.  At one point I started laughing because it was that or choke her.  Her father looked at me with all seriousness and said, “I’m going to stab her with a fork.***  We’re going to have to explain to her husband why she has fork marks on her arm.”

I just don’t want to raise the bride price any higher than we can afford.

***Now My Honey is mad at me, and on our anniversary no less, for telling you the fork story.  I would like to assure you that my husband would in no way stab, poke, impale, puncture or perforate our daughter with a fork or any other implement.  I told this story because it’s funny, and I want you all to know just how funny My Honey is.  He, however, doesn’t think I’m anywhere near as funny as I think I am.  Deep sigh.  I’m wrong.  I admit it.  He can list this incident in the divorce papers if he wants. 

I’ve had to put the Big Secret Project on hold for a bit.  That’s a bummer because I was really getting into it.  I get the opportunity to pitch my completed novel to an agent at the RWA meeting in a couple of weeks.  I say “completed” with a touch of hysteria in my voice.  The Sisters and I have done such an overhaul on this book that I’m sort of in a panic.  I’ve been up later than I should with a piece of poster board, 5 different colored sticky notes and the new synopsys.  My head is spinning and I want to cry.  I’m fully committed to the the changes that need to be made, but there are so many great lines and passages, whole freaking chapters that will land in the toilet.

I think I’m way too emotional to work on this now, but it must be done.  I need cupcakes.  With sprinkles.  And a straight jacket.

I’ve been feeling poorly for the last several days.  I think I’m getting a chest cold, and knowing me, I’ll wait too long to get to the doctor and it’ll turn into pneumonia or Legionnaires Disease or something.  I haven’t called in sick.  Not because I’m an irresponsible employee or anything, but because I’m afraid that I’ll stay home on a day that I’m feeling poorly, and the next day I’ll feel SO MUCH WORSE, and I will have wasted valuable sick time.

I knew that I was officially pathetically rundown and sick this afternoon.  I have irrefutable proof.  I decided to come home for lunch and on the way there was an OnStar commercial on the radio.  I swear to all that I deem holy, I cried.  I sat there in my car and cried over a freaking OnStar commercial. 

“Don’t worry, Ma’am, the emergency vehicles are on their way. You’ll be alright,” the calm lady on OnStar told the panicked driver.

And there I sat, bawling in the middle of the intersection.  “Oh that must be so scary…..waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Good grief.

As soon as I stepped into the driveway from work, the kids burst out of the house.  Their eyes were red and their faces tear stained.  My reaction, of course, was to assume that they were in trouble for something and were hoping that I would interfere with whatever “totally unfair” punishment My Honey had doled out.  I was still out at the mailbox when I asked what was wrong. 

“The fish is dead!” they wailed in unison.  These poor kids would do an Italian funeral proud with the way they went on and on, wailing and gnashing their teeth. 

Apparently, My Honey had cleaned out the fish tank.  The clean water was probably such a shock to him, he keeled over.  Seriously, that was one gnarly fish tank.  99% of the time I don’t even remember it exists.  Once I got over the constant need to pee when I heard the water filter, I paid no attention to it whatsoever. 

There was a moment when we thought Floyd the Fish might actually make it, but in reality, the prognosis isn’t good.  My children are inconsolable.  They weren’t this upset when my sweet dog, Sophie died, and they could cuddle her and she would cuddle back for God’s sake.

I assured the children that the fish don’t live very long, and that it was alright to be sad.  I’m sure that we’ll be in mourning for at least a week.  Feel free to bring  over casseroles and bundt cakes and such.

The Bandit was over at my sister-in-laws this weekend.  His daddy and his uncle were shoveling gravel, so he and his aunt played a little croquet in the backyard.

“Do you want to take this croquet set home with you?” she asked him.  (Ultimately I put the kibosh on that plan – Roscoe will just eat it.)

“Where did you get it,” Bandit asked her.

“I borrowed it from Grandma and never gave it back.”

The Bandit stopped and looked at her with his mouth hanging open.  “You stole it?”

“No, I didn’t steal it.  I borrowed it from Grandma for a really long time and never gave it back.”

The Bandit gave her an accusatory look and shook his head.  “You stole it.”

My Honey and I were standing outside the Sprint store last night, girding our loins and planning our strategy.  Based on his feral behavior during the previous conversations that we had with the sales department, the technical department and (of all things) the customer service department, I told My Honey that I’d do the talking.  At least until I get that look in my eye and things begin to get dangerous.  He responded, “Alright, you tap me in when you’re ready.” 

Armed with the visual of him standing on the outside of the ring, jumping up and down on the ropes and screaming encouragement, we charged ahead.  In my mind, I was dressed as one of those super muscular, scary looking wrestler chicks with a bleached blond weave and four inch boots and a nasty disposition.  My Honey was wearing that weird spandex and a crazy look in his eye. 

We brought along the kids because we were going to grab dinner afterwards.  Besides, I figured it they gave us any trouble, The Bandit could use his much practiced “Poke-‘Em-in-the-Armpit” move with his wooden sword.  It’s really a shame that there’s no hot lava to throw people into anymore.  I figured the worst Sassy could do was whine and glare at them, but if that’s what they needed to experience before they were going to satisfy me, then I had no compunction whatsoever is unleashing our most powerful weapons.

Much to my surprise and delight, Andrew the Wonder Clerk came to our rescue.  He immediately understood our problems, and while he couldn’t fix them, he advised us to call Sprint Customer Care while we were there.  It’s a damn good thing, too, because I’m telling you that if I’d been at home alone and was spoken to by the unbelievably bitter and bitchy clerk, Angela, in the Retention Department, I would have gone completely apeshit.  I swear it’s true.  Even the sainted Andrew got upset when I turned the phone over to him.  Finally her boss came on the phone and Roger the Great and Saint Andrew fixed our problems.  I promised I would give them the highest marks if I was asked to take a survey.  I also promised that I would add another entry into the blog with the end result.

I really dislike being mean and hateful, and the words that I’m about to type right now are verging on evil knowing what I know about the job market.  But, Angela needs to be fired.  Sprint – if you’re reading, Saint Andrew and Roger the Great were fantastic and should be bonused handsomely.  Angela needs to be axed – toot sweet.

I called my cell phone carrier (that rhymes with print is spelled with an S and is pronounced Sprint) this week because I was having technical trouble with my Moto Q.  As I was speaking to the fast talking technical support person, I was conned into getting a whole new phone.  This was not an easy task since I wasn’t going to pay any money.  No money.  Zero money.  My old phone was nice, but who doesn’t love a new gadget that makes you feel like a moron? 

So part of the deal was that I bought one Blackberry Curve and I got one free.  Cool! I could give one to My Honey.  His phone was a little old, and besides, if I get the joy of feeling like a moron with a new phone, he should certainly get to participate, too. 

It was with great glee that we ripped open the box when it arrived on our doorstep this afternoon.  And then we were rapidly disappointed.  The whole thing has been a nightmare – a very confusing nightmare.  I spoke with approximately 185 Sprint employees today – some were very calming and extraordinarily helpful, some made me want to scream obscenities and make threats.  I was disconnected no less than three times, so I got the joy of completely starting over each time.  We should all be impressed that My Honey isn’t going down to the county jail to bail me out.

My normally relatively calm Honey, quite literally, turned into a bear.  I’m a writer.  I know what literally means.  I’m telling you, he fell on the floor, started growing fangs and extra hair, and snarled into the phone at the “help” people.  I took back the phone, for a number of reasons the largest being that bears don’t have thumbs, and resumed the conversation. 

My phone works, my Honey’s does not.  I feel really badly, too, because I may kid about the moron part, but there is so much joy to be found by playing with a new gadget.  I get to do that while My Honey pouts.

Our problems still aren’t completely solved, even at this point.  I have hope.  We have to continue our phone odyssey at the Sprint store.  I really hope that things go well.  Because if they don’t,  THAT’S when I’m going to have my opportunity for solitary confinement.

My Honey and I have decided that when we get grandchildren, we’re going to go over to their house every night just before bedtime and get them all sugared up.

“I’m gonna carry candy in my pockets all the time,” he told me.

“Candy, hell,” I said.  “I’m just gonna sneak them spoons full of pure sugar.”

My Honey laughed.  He can just picture me feeding them sugar cubes like horses.

“Who’s your favorite Grandma?  That’s right.  Here you go.  It’s a little cube of love, baby.”