Because the nice girl from Kentucky never had an opinion on anything.
I've heard from another one. One of those people who thinks I've gone all soft since I stopped blogging about political things. Says they miss the rants of the old days. Oh yeah? Well stick around because you're in for a rant and a half. And I'll squeeze politics into it even if it's awkward and hurty.
First of all, while I'm sitting here typing this, The Dancer is just yapping the fuck away at me. Does she not see that I'm typing? I swear to you, she is sitting here telling me about all sorts of things including the cat shit she stepped in as she walked in the door just now. She just got home from the studio where the annual orgy of taking company and recital pictures was taking place. It's the kind of thing that used to make me wish I'd never taken her to that first dance class. Now that she can drive, I don't have to stand around the studio all damned night, but I did make the mistake of staying up until she got home.
And now she's talking to me about how she gets hot at night while she's sleeping and and and I can still her voice, but I can't make any sense of it. It's 12:14 a.m. and I'm seeking peace and quiet and this brilliant child is not reading my body language that says "see these Les Nessman walls? see me typing here? what does that tell you?" I hate it when she's a teenager and she wants me to be a mom after midnight.
As if I didn't do enough for this kid today. I worked from home to attend the awards program at Garbo's school so I was available to drive Garbo and The Actor to school this morning while The Dancer slept in. Hence her alertness after midnight and so it's my own fucking fault that she's sitting here talking to me right now.
The Dancer and I left skid marks getting out of that stupid elementary school awards (citizenship award? artistic award? most creative award? most creative thinker award?) I had to rush The Dancer to her school for an afternoon chorus class. When I dropped her off she mentioned that I should pick her up at 3:30., but she would text me if she got done sooner. Fine. I drove the 14 miles home in her car with the clutch that hates me.
All the while, I was exchanging texts with The Actor who was making a case for skipping school the last two days of this week. I finally did what any good parent does in that situation. "I'll discuss with Dad and let you know." Ah, yes, the old stalling method. Why carry that monkey on my back alone?
I was home just long enough to open up my favorite porn site when I got a one word text from The Dancer. "Done." To which I responded "R U Fucking Kidding me?" I closed my porn window, wiped out my internet history, zipped up my slacks and made the 14 mile trip back to The Dancer's school to pick her up.
On my way, I saw Garbo getting off the school bus. Good thing I wasn't looking at porn after all. She waved me down and asked to ride along. I got to spend the next 15 minutes listening to her tearful lamentations that she should have gotten the artistic award instead of the penmanship award and sniffle, whine, something something.
I was trying to drive the car with the clutch that hates me, maintain my sanity and still not make her feel badly about the whole thing. Finally, I could take it no more. "Those awards are just bullshit, Garbo. They're subjective and stupid and unquantifiable and who cares? You know what you're good at, where you excel. Now stop whining about it before I wreck this car and kill us both."
My pronouncement of bullshit was quickly followed by my typical disclaimers that she need not go to school the next day and explain the world according to Lisa. The last thing I want is a call from the principal asking me to expand on what I mean by calling the awards "bullshit." Although, I'd be more than happy to tell her exactly what I mean.
Helper award, indeed.
On our way home from picking up The Dancer, Garbo, who is very locust like when she comes home from school, announced that she was starving. My empty stomach growled in agreement. We decided that we'd stop at the hot dog joint that serves Vienna Beef dogs. It was 3:13 p.m. When we got to the door, we were met by some guy who was not the owner. He explained that "she" was closing down. He jerked his head in the direction of the counter which we couldn't see because it's blocked by a center island that runs from floor to ceiling.
I eyed the good ole boy suspiciously, but Garbo, The Dancer and I left, grumbling. The sign says they are open until 3:30 p.m. for goodness sake. A bit later, it occurred to me that I should have raised a stink about it or at least grabbed a menu by the door so I could call the place to complain. I mean, what if the guy who said they were closed was actually robbing the woman behind the counter and that was a great way to get us out of there. Of course I know that's not the case, but it did make me think that I should question more of the petty nonsense in life just in case.
MathMan just came into the room carrying his laptop, wearing nothing but his underwear. He was half asleep so he didn't process that The Dancer was sitting on the floor grinding on my last nerve with every little petty grievance from her evening. When last I saw our hero, he was breathing loudly and doing school work late into the evening. Finally, he'd had enough, grabbing his laptop, announcing that he was going to go watch Dick Van Dyke on Hulu, he shuffled off to the bedroom where he watched the opening credits and promptly fell asleep.
Well, there's a fine how do you do. I go to the trouble of entertaining him with my version of Zip-a-dee-doo-dah in as many voices as I can manage AND by accidentally squirting Reddi Wip up my nose when I missed my mouth and he has the nerve to skip out and leave me to listen to The Dancer's tales of woe?
And so another busy day comes to a close (
Oh and not to mention all those blogs I'd opened in Firefox tabs only to have firefox crash so the feed was gone and the window closed so I don't know which blogs to go back to.
So if I want to sit on my ass and blog and read blogs and laugh at funny things instead of grinding my teeth at the news of the day or just fuck around all evening seeing how much I don't know about my facebook friends or watching youtube videos of nothing in particular, well then, I hope some of you will understand. I don't ask much of you, do I?
Oh, yes - the political. Here you go......somehow all of this is the fault of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney. I just know it. In fact, let's just say it's the fault of Monsieur Le Torture himself, Dick Cheney. He's cleverly disguised torture as parenting and he must think that I'm part of an Al Qaeda sleeper cell sitting right here in the middle of nowhere Georgia, plotting an attack on the American Way of Life.
Thank goodness for Dick*. He's keeping us safe one over-programmed child at a time................
*You heard me.