About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I like my enchiladas with extra bitch, please
We’re in the midst of a bit of family drama. Ordinarily I wouldn’t air my undies but I’m hoping that by explaining it to you, my lovely and non-judging webwonderlings, it will help me to understand it, too. (Mmmyeah, cause drama is so—yawn, stretch—boring.)
Here goes. The down-and-dirty version:
Monday night I took Junior to have dinner with my cousin, Lauren, who is living with a major dickhead (I wish I was exaggerating, I really, really, really, really do). She says she wants kids; we’re all hoping Dickhead mysteriously disappears and Knight in Shining Armor swoops down, marries her, and puts a bun in her Easybake Oven.
Because Junior is 18 months old and likes to use his legs, we spent dinner shoveling in our food while chasing him around the restaurant (side note to bitchy father who was annoyed that Junior kept wanting to check out the light switch next to his booth: You’re also a dickhead).
To me it was a normal get-together: Cram food in mouth, chase toddler, talk with food in mouth, pop Tums, leave. To Lauren, who has yet to experience the wondrous bullshit that is trying to dine with a toddler, she went home and called her mother (a.k.a. my mother’s evil sister) and told her that after that experience with Junior, she wanted to have her tubes tied.
The next morning, the evil sister called my mother, Linda, and repeated this verbatim. Then my mother called me and shared the news with me.
An equation popped into my head; it looked like this:
Dinner + Junior = Longing for sterilization
Understandably I was hurt, pissed and jonesing for whiskey—I mean, answers. So I sent Lauren an email and asked her if my equation was right. She said no, she would never say she wanted to get her tubes tied. She had a lovely time at dinner. Blah, blah, blah.
I thought we had put the matter behind us, but Lauren called her mother and yelled at her for putting words in her mouth. Then her mother called Linda and ripped her a new one for spreading rumors and being “small.”
Another equation popped into my head; it looked like this:
Sister + sister + cousin + Junior + me = Longing for relocation to Oregon
So here we are. My aunt and mother are not speaking. Someone said something about tying tubes and it wasn’t the plumber. Lauren wants to “go out again soon! ;) ” And Chuck, that slimy bastard, he forgot to put my leftover chicken enchilada back in the fridge after he raked his germy fork through it, and I was really looking forward to eating it for lunch and now it's crawling with Salmonella. I mean, come on! Lesson #1 in my book Eating with a Toddler is that if you can’t enjoy it the first time, you at least get to reheat it and enjoy it a few days later in the tranquility of your own home.
Lord Almighty, can we all get on the same page?
Anyway, who’s right?
a) Me, me and me
c) Evil sister
f) Bitchy dad in restaurant booth
g) Chicken enchilada