Work it, work it

So last week, I posted about earning my new title “sh– for brains.”

It’s like the gift that keeps on giving.

Because I earned it this week too.

Saturday morning, Cro Magnon and I are having a discussion in bed, after I’ve woken from a rare sleep-in-late (it is almost 10 a.m.). I’m slightly hung over. Giggle.

“I’d like to take you to the Bahamas,” Cro Magnon coos.

“But you’d need a passport. And you don’t have a passport,” he says.

I nod in agreement. Because I don’t feel like doing the paperwork that involves getting a passport. Got enough on my plate without having one more thing. To do.

“We could stay in the country. Go to Key West,” I say helpfully.

Cro Magnon nods. “Mmhm.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I drove down to Miami?” he asks.

I tell him no. So Cro Magnon tells me about the time he drove down to Miami.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I drove cross country?” he asks me.

“No.”

“Well I did,” he says. “It was worth it. It was beautiful. I remember this one time on my way back. I was driving through blah, blah, blah and I got tired so I pulled over and took a nap. Next thing I know there’s this Indian guy knocking on the window, asking me if I was alright. So I tell him, yeah, I’m alright, just taking a nap. Well I looked around and the sun was just starting to come up in the Painted Desert. All these colors. It was wild.”

I’m thoughtful for a moment. And then.

“Did somebody paint it or were the rocks just formed that way?” I ask. Helpfully.

Cro Magnon just looks at me.

I still think it’s a legitimate question. I’d never heard of Painted Desert. And you never know.

Right?

I later looked it up on Google. Painted Desert is part of the badlands in AZ. Now if he said badlands, I would know.

I saw Thelma & Louise.

 

I’m stuck at middle school

Last week, Cro Magnon called me “sh– for brains.”

And I can’t complain.

Because I earned that title.

First earning: Last Tuesday night. 10-yo had a chorus concert at the middle school. I get to the school five minutes before concert starts. The parking lot is full.

So I’m going to be smart, I think. I’m going to park “outside the box.” Which means, just off the road leading to the middle school parking lot. I turn, ease down a slight embankment and get stuck. In the mud. I put the car in reverse. Spin. Spin. Spin. Mud flies. Sh–.

I put the car in forward. Spin. Spin. Spin. Mud flies. Again. Sh–. Sh–.

I’m stuck in the mud. But I still keep trying. And those that aren’t sh– for brains know that I am spinning myself deeper and deeper into the mud.

I get out, look at the mud caked around the tires, grateful that all the other smart parents are in the school, ready to watch the concert, with cars parked the way they’re supposed to be.

I get out, slam the door and march inside the school. All pissed off.

I have to stand because 1- I’m late and all seats are taken, 2- I’m too peeved to sit. Not far from me is the perpetually tan and smiling superintendent of the schools. I don’t smile back at her. I also notice a police officer standing just outside the hall. I want to ask for his help. But I keep this sh– to myself. He’d probably laugh. And tell some other parents.

So I stand. At the concert. Peeved because I’m stuck. In middle school. And the concert starts. The kids start singing about fish in water. I’m never getting out of here.

One hour later after making rain sounds with our hands and listening to more songs about water (ha ha, very funny), I collect my 10-yo and tell her, “The car is stuck.”

She just looks at me.

We get in the car. We watch all the other cars that parked sooo smartly in the lot, pass us by.

“C’mon,” I tell her, “We’re walking.”

“That’s great, Mom,” she tells me.

But I allow that, because I have it coming.

Along the way, we look at the stars as the smart people whizz by us in BMWs and Lincoln Escalades. F—ers.

“You know Mom,” 10- yo tells me, “This is kind of nice,”she says looking up at the night sky.

I mumble something she can’t hear.

When we get home, Cro Magnon is sitting in front of the tv. “How come you’re so late?”

I tell him and he just sighs. “Let’s go. Grab some towels, cat litter.” I tell the kids we’ll be right back. We have to get mommy’s car.

When we get to mommy’s car, Cro Magnon says, “That doesn’t look so bad.”

But it is. He pushes. I spin.

But then, (cue Hallelujah Chorus) the fire department comes by in a mini pumper. “Need some assistance?”

“Yes!” I scream. Elated.

“How’d she get here?”

Oh, here it comes.

Cro Magnon tells them I was here for my daughter’s concert. That I got stuck in the mud. And that’s it. That’s all he says.

Two or three rocks from three or four of these guys and I’m out. “Oh thank you soooo much,” I squeal.

“Welcome.” Is all they say.

Heroes. Really. I know it’s a little thing, but you gotta love these guys.

So we get home and Cro Magnon still hasn’t said much.

Until we sit down.

“You know, not for anything, but you’ve got sh– for brains.”

I put my head down. “I know.”

“Sh– for brains.”

“Yup.”

And that’s it. I’m not going to dispute it. Or complain. Because I had it coming.

This little piggy went wee wee wee…

My little sister cracks me up. The other day we were talking on the phone. She tells me the latest on her hub’s latest medical emergency. If you don’t remember, he’s the subject of the post, “Did you hear about the one with the ladder and the chainsaw?” (see July 2013). 

“Wait’ll you hear this,” she says. “He’s got arthritis. In his big toe.”

It takes a while for this to, heh, kick in, so I say, “Just his big toe? What about his middle toe?” Snicker. “What about his baby toe?”

This makes me laugh. Because I’m a b—-. Little sister laughs too. Because the husbands – they have it coming. 

“He couldn’t even walk on it,” she says. “Then he pulled off his sock and showed me. It’s all warped and crooked.”

“Ugh. Gross.” I tell her Cro Magnon has something like that. A crooked big toe. Like a bone that’s sort of decided to grow on the outside of his foot. How ridiculous. 

“Every time he has an emergency it’s something stupid. Remember his belly button?”

“What’s wrong with his belly button?” Snicker. “Did he break it?” Snort.

I’m mean.

“He had an umbilical hernia. Remember that one? He had surgery. On his belly button.”

“That’s gross,” I say helpfully. 

Little sister is on a roll. “And then there was his thumb. Remember that? Remember When he cut his thumb on a piece of glass? And had to have surgery? You know how much that cost? For his thumb? It’s like really? You can’t just put a band-aid on it? But no – because he cut it so deep, it hit a nerve. Who does that?”

I’m laughing. I’m laughing so hard. I’m snorting. Again. But the nerve thing kind of sceeves me out. 

“The doctor told him he might not get full feeling back in his thumb…” she adds.

So he couldn’t give the thumbs up sign. I’m laughing so hard I’m not making any sound.

Let’s see, belly button, thumb, big toe. There might be more but I can’t remember. 

If Cro Magnon ever comes up with something like that, I’ll have years of material.

I’m not worried. I’m sure he’ll come up with something.