6. Lab Notes~ How many of you think I would help build a meth lab in the neighbor's garage? Okay, now everybody who raised their hand-- FUCK YOU. I did, however, help build a brewery in the neighbor's garage. (Let's be honest-- I didn't "help" do a damn thing. I sat and drank vodka with my buddy M, while her husband, D, and Blaker brewed beer. It should be finished fermenting in about another week. After the vodka, we moved on to wine and delicious Mexican food. BEST SATURDAY PLANS EVER.) The point is, I WAS THERE. I WAS PRESENT WHILE IT HAPPENED. And it LOOKED like a meth lab (or, at least, what I imagine a meth lab to look like, which is probably nothing like what it REALLY looks like). Sadly, M and D and their super cute kids and their faux meth lab are moving to Japan in a few months, and I am left (weeping) to pick up the pieces while B reminisces about his Beer-Brewing-Bromance with D. I have a feeling the break-up will be hard as they appear to still be in the honeymoon phase.
(Side note: All of you in Tennessee are reading this and saying, "What the hell ever. I live in the meth capital of the fucking WORLD. You can't impress me with your fake meth labs and your homegrown beer brewing." This is true. I will not argue with you. But if you're going to be that way, please quit reading my blog, assholes.)
Where was I?
7. My Son Doesn't Need To Learn Jazz Hands~ Every year the kids' school has PTA meetings where a different grade performs a song and dance number post-meeting. It's a hyped-up super trick to get people to the meetings, and the kids rehearse for weeks. I THINK THIS IS BULLSHIT. I don't want to go sit through a damn PTA meeting then watch my kids do sing some stupid song while wearing a stupid costume and doing a stupid dance, during which you can tell they are at the UTMOST HEIGHT OF MISERY EVER REACHED THUS FAR IN THEIR SHORT LITTLE LIVES. That's ridiculous. I suffer enough just raising the little hellions. Bellamy participated her kindergarten year (I skipped it-- MOM OF THE FUCKING YEAR. I made her Daddy go in my place. Yes, I AM also Wife of the Fucking Year.) and has since declined to be a part of the performance every year since. Sutt, being the precocious little man that he is, caught on early and opted out before ever participating at all. (That's my boy!) I thought we were in the clear until Sutt came home on Monday declaring that his music teacher, Mr. Gibson, told him that even if he didn't perform at the PTA meeting, he still had to perform in front of the student body, so I had better get my ass in gear and make him a Junk Food Costume (how fucking stupid is THAT?) pronto.
EXCUSE ME? Costume making and parental participation? I DON'T FUCKING THINK SO.
I was cooking dinner (spaghetti) when Sutt passed this tidbit along to me, so I said to him, sweetly, "You tell Mr. Gibson Mommy said to suck it." Then I continued on with my meat-browning and garlic-chopping.
SO, last night (Wednesday) Sutt was sitting (once again) at dinner when he suddenly piped up and said, "I told Mr. Gibson that my Mommy said if he wanted her to make me a Junk Food costume he could suck it."
THAT'S. MY. BOY. I love him. High Five.
Although I don't particularly care for the number 7 any longer as it has negative connotations from my past (don't ask-- and for the record, I also do not like 4 or 8) I plan to stop here with my numbering to discuss how quickly time has flown these past months. Last Fall I found out that all my friends were moving away this summer-- LITERALLY, ALL OF MY FRIENDS. Now the time is nearly here for me to send them off. This makes me feel sad because they are going to miss me so damn much. SO DAMN MUCH (just go with it.) But though my mind wanders, it is Minion Bedtime, so that is a blog for another time.
I'm going to have to write an epic Send Off Blog for them all.