Since I've long known that my idiocy is not indeed an accident, rather a gift that makes others feel better about themselves, I'll let you know that a couple of weeks ago I rear-ended someone with my car. My new car. And because I believe in putting my full effort into things, I really went for it and smacked into someone in a jacked-up Suburban. Which meant his back bumper was aligned directly with my front grill and subsequently crumpled it like a piece of tinfoil, without leaving a scratch anywhere on his vehicle. In my defense, I hit him because my public (that would be AD and the RM) were clamoring for my really excellent musical interpretation of "Let It Go". Just as I was letting them know all about how HERE I'll stand (fling left arm out!), and HERE I'll stay (fling right arm out!), the guy slams on his brakes. I didn't hit him hard enough to deploy the airbag, but since my arms are outspread like Jim Bakker instead of on the steering wheel (see above reference to: fling) my head bounces into the steering wheel. Kind of hard. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough, as it turns out, to leave a really nice palm-sized bruise on my head. A bruise that in fact looks just like my steering wheel, right down to the leather stitch marks. Needless to say, when we got out to exchange insurance information I was more than happy to take the blame, turn the Disney volume down and hustle on home. My rental car has been punishment enough. It's a Toyota Avalon, which is really nice but it stinks. Literally. Someone smoked in it, a lot. As in maybe someone sneaks in our driveway every night and breaks in that thing and sucks on Camels (not literally with that reference...lord I hope not) til the sun comes up. Also it has one of those fancy-schmancy push button ignitions which just fucking does me in, especially in my current state. I'm fine remembering how to start the car and all that, I just keep forgetting to turn the damn thing off. I can't tell you how many times I've come home, gone inside and then come out hours later and thought, why how nice that the car just KNOWS I'm ready to leave! I'm told it's supposed to turn off on its own, but like everyone in my house it apparently came without an off button.
Speaking of my children. I fear we're walking AD's innocence to the Lido deck and preparing to toss it flowers and wave bon voyage. Last week she finally figured out the Easter Bunny wasn't real (thanks to some serious basket mis-management on my part) and she also admitted that she Googled the word "fucking". Let me clarify and add insult to serious childhood psychological injury, she Google IMAGED the word "fucking". I found this out one evening when she came running into my room (after sneaking onto the computer without permission I must add), sobbing "remember that woooooord I asked you about! and you! you wouldn't really teeeellllll me what it meant! I LOOKED IT UP! I don't understand! What's all those pointy hurting things! And there's elbows but not really? And the wrinkling and the brown! And a LITTLE LADY WIENER! WHY does anyone DO those things!" Instead of instinctively commiserating (oh I'm kidding - I'm not that grouchy), I explained to her that first of all, the reason we she wasn't allowed on the internet without our supervision is because there are all sorts of untrue, hurtful lady wieners on there that might mislead or scare her, and that I was so sorry I hadn't answered all her questions to her satisfaction. Without question, she's nine years old now and deserves an honest answer to whatever she wants to ask, we will always be forthcoming, sweetheart. Then I told her to go find her dad and talk to him.
The Red Menace, for her part, continues to try on new names and personalities as if she's shopping for a new outfit. Earlier this week she was Berle - that's been with us for a while - and informed me "Berle knows how to snap." She then turned her back to me, pulled her jeans down and put both hands down the back of her underwear and snapped her fingers. Not sure why in the world the snapping involves such proximity to her crack, but it seems to be so. Yesterday however, a new kid came to town. Her name is Burrita and she's not taking any of your shit, not for one second. She came home from school today with a huge scab on her leg and told me "Some kid. He tells me this. He doesn't like my shoes."
Me: "Oh. Well, that's silly. Your shoes are great. We picked those out together, remember that? And oh my goodness, your leg! Are you okay?"
B: "...."
Me: "Were you sad? Because it's okay if you were but you shouldn't be, it's just shoes. And your leg, honey, what happened? "
B: "...."
Me: "So, okay. What? What did you do? And how did you hurt your leg?"
B: "I put that little man in the dirt. The dirt. That's what I did."
So.
I don't know where to go with that. I realize at this point that this is, I think, my first blog post without any pictures. Since I don't have any of my steering wheel head, or Burrita (and Google image "fucking" for yourselves, you lazy bastards, I'm not enabling you camel-suckers), here's a nice one of Cslos and me from a '70's party. Let's take a time out from whatever is troubling us, throw on some polyester, and have a Mai Tai with your favorite person, how about it?
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Nice posture, among other things. Complain about it and risk the wrath of Burrita. And all the beloved and missed residents of 113 E Spring and 1010 Queen - you know who you are
