Random Thoughts...

Martha Plimpton’s dog had diarrhea in the shower.  In the shower.  How did she get that dog to be so freaking considerate?  Mine jumped up on our bed in the middle of the night and squirted on my best comforter.  Martha, if you happen to read this, advice please.  (And congrats on the Emmy nomination.  You rock on Raising Hope.)

I can’t stand parents who brag on their teenaged math whiz.  Big deal.  My son cracked his first safe at the age of 16.  Top that.

My almost 7 year old granddaughter can beat most adults at Call of Duty.  She’s either a PS3 prodigy or we need to keep her away from guns when she gets older and her parents start to piss her off.

I was named after a ‘50s TV character.  Does that explain my addiction to television?

My newest grandson is finally home.  He's a cutie pie.  The first thing his mechanic father did was prop him up in a chair and put a tiny wrench in his hand for a photograph.  The kid never opened his eyes.  Photo to come later.

From the "Wait Until You Have Children Of Your Own" Files...

When I was a teenager and my mother threw that particular phrase at me, I swore up and down I would never, ever use it on my own children.  And sure enough, when they were very young and angelic, hubby and I never spoke those words and I actually  -  and oh so foolishly! - thought we'd never need to.  Then they became teenagers, making our lives a living hell, and we used the phrase every chance we got just to make them mad.  I totally sympathized with my mother, which didn’t happen very often.  Trust me.

Picture me saying this with an insane giggle; our oldest daughter is getting payback, and the grandchildren are only in the first grade.   Heheheheheh.

The time was Thanksgiving evening, long after the turkey had been demolished.  My daughter and my son-in-law were entertaining and sent the little girls to their room to play.  These are the granddaughters who had been at Nana's and PawPaw's earlier and impressed me with their wonderful behavior.  (PawPaw was sequestered in the bedroom with the 50 inch flatscreen TV, a turkey leg, and the football game.)

A little while later, my daughter noticed that things had gotten awfully quiet in the girls’ bedroom.  When you have children who are five and six, quiet equates trouble.  About the time she noticed the ominous silence, my younger granddaughter came running out yelling these unforgettable words:  “Mommy!  Mommy!  Katie’s trying to make me drink her pee!”  Sure enough, when my daughter went to investigate, somehow my older granddaughter had managed to, well, squat over a Beauty and the Beast teacup and offer it to Cammie as refreshment…maybe her own twist on an after-Thanksgiving-dinner aperitif.

I received a hysterical phone call from my daughter.  “Momma, what is wrong with these kids?” she wailed.  After I asked her what happened and got the whole story, I laughed so hard I almost gave myself a hernia.

Her father was thrilled.  “Lemme talk to her,” he said.  “I told you your behavior would come back to haunt you one day,” he crowed upon taking the receiver.  When he hung up, we high-fived each other and laughed like witches over a cauldron.  

My granddaughters are still young.  Wait until they’re teenagers. We are literally rubbing our hands together in gleeful anticipation.

Finding My Inner B...Witch

I was brought up to be genteel and well-behaved.  That included never talking back to my parents or any other authority figure, and during my early school years I certainly never talked while the teacher was out of the room.  In short, I was a boring goody-goody.   I’m embarrassed to say this went on for decades.

As an adult, I’ve always tried to be patient and considerate.  My biggest flaw is that I swear like a New York stevedore and my rationale for that is simple.  I don’t smoke cigarettes or pot (though lord knows I’ve been invited often enough by my progeny).  I don’t drink or take any recreational drugs, and I’ve cut back on the overeating.  Swearing is my outlet, so those who know me just have to deal with it, damn it.

That lead to today’s milestone.  I got flipped off while I was in line at the bank.  Yes, I’ve been flipped off before, but that was by family – either during the heat of battle with hubby, or in good-natured humor.  But not by a complete stranger because I pissed her off.

Part of being considerate is keeping your ATM transactions to a minimum while other drivers are waiting behind you.  Don’t check your balance, deposit checks, and get out money all at once while ten other cars are behind you, fuming and watching their gas gauge drift down toward the dreaded “E”.  When I go to the ATM, I get my money and drive off, period.  One minute is my limit.  Do I sound like a self-righteous snot?

This morning, I was the fourth car in line at the ATM.  A lady in a gold car was at the machine and taking her own sweet time, performing transaction after transaction.  Deposit a check, get a receipt.  Punch more numbers, get a receipt.  Get money, get a receipt.  The guy in front of me finally got disgusted and left.  (Because I AM so considerate, I had made sure I left plenty of room between my van and his Durango.) In the meantime, three more cars joined the line behind me.

And still gold Toyota lady kept right on.   I took a deep breath and muttered, “Oh, come on, bitch.” 

I didn’t duck my head.  I didn’t cover my mouth. Apparently she saw me in her sideview mirror even though I was two cars back because the next thing I knew, she raised her hand away from the ATM and lifted it high in the air, grandly flying me the bird.  She caught my eye in her mirror and I stared her right down.  Then I mentally started composing the lecture I would give her if she decided to go all redneck and circle around to confront me.

Nah.  Didn’t happen. She finished her tenth transaction, and the rest of us pulled up one at a time, got our money and left like decent human beings.

Oh, well, it's probably a good thing we didn't have that confrontation because she looked like the type who didn't mind participating in an ass-whipping, and then we'd both end up with our pictures in the local newspaper's gallery of weekly mug shots.  But I feel liberated anyhow.

The next time I see some little hoochie who is perfectly healthy park in a handicapped spot in front of the Food Lion, I’m taking her on.