Eventually I will post a picture that corresponds to this particular post. You will find that it is a picture of me sprawled across a fantastic double-chaise lounge, which I have coveted for approximately two summer seasons now.
I first saw it in the Pottery Barn Catalog, posed and propped up invitingly in front of a $70,000 pool, potted ferns and baskets of spa towels nestled all around it, Conde Naste’ magazines spread open and sprawled across the beautiful European double-cushion. (for an additional $275, thank you very much - ) Nestled compactly and brilliantly underneath this sexy hunk of lounging equipment are slide-out compartments, upon which portrays refreshing mojitos with icy chunks, fat lime wedges, authentic Mexican brown sugar lumps and sprays of fresh mint -- and I am not embellishing this scene one bit.
I became mesmerized, eventually obsessed. For two years, I visualized (CEO terminology) myself lounging on that thing, under my pool umbrellas, wearing a ridiculous pair of designer sunglasses, a floppy linen sunhat, my own potted ferns and my own icy mojito.
Exactly…like…that…page.
Except there was a big problem. That sexy rig was priced at around $1,200. Well, excuse me. Even I have limitations. (sigh)
So for years I have gazed half-heartedly at the Spring/Summer PB catalog, that thing making me a tad emotional, so I would flip on by, wipe the drool from my quivering lips.
By accident one day a couple weeks ago, I ended up on Wal-Mart’s outdoor furniture website. And there it was! My gosh! For $299, including the cushion. That had to be a goof. I was stunned. So I immediately…procrastinated but came to my senses the next day. I went back to order and… OUT OF STOCK. Wha!!!!!!!! I felt like sticking my head in the toilet and flushing. Really. Every day I went back to the WM website to keep an eye on the stocking situation. I was steadfast. Approximately 10 days later, there it was again! IN STOCK! It took several tries to make my * quivering fingers tap in the information, because I just knew that I was racing against “them”, those “other cyberists” that could potentially rip that baby out of my grasp. Once the order was finally submitted, I think I heard my little credit card squeaking in protest. Praise God, got it past the approval process. Pay dirt!
Since I had settled for Walmartonline's version of my outdoor fantasy, my swirling little mind readied me for “faux” teak, non-stainless steel hardware, inferior craftsmanship and had fully walked myself through the steps needed to “pimp my chaise lounger”. You know… lubing the joints, coating the hardware, Minwaxing the “teak”, reinforcing the “free” double cushion.
To my great astonishment, the thing was teak, and it was a beauty. It was identical to the Pottery Barn catalog lounger. The only mistake made (by the beautiful Chinese children who put the thing together) was they had augered in the screw holes but in the wrong location for the slide-out beverage shelves. No problemo. Being a good East Texas girl, I go to the garage and fix that situation with my cordless drill and a couple of wood screws. Voile. Problem solved. I now have an icy beverage platform.
I didn’t exactly tell my husband that I had placed an order for “the object of my outdoor living desires”, and of course he heard aaalll about that thing for two summers, but he wasn’t buying any excuse I was selling about that furniture. In fact he wasn’t budging. I pitched it in all creative ways….investment furniture, good for his bad back…look, a place to put our beer. (sigh)
Imagine his surprise, after another difficult day at work, to come home and see all of that beauty; that piece of furniture that had plagued his financial nightmares for two years. He just said “Oh Hell No”, and turned and walked inside. “Wait!” I quickly gushed out the whole long story… where it came from…how I lost it once…got it back later…fixed the drink holder. I asked him to please sit on it. The first thing he did was bitch about how uncomfortable it was. I pulled out the slide-outs and fetched him a beer. I sat down with him, with the laptop, and went to Wal-Mart’s site, opened up to the lounger (it said out of stock again!), then I split the screen and went to Pottery Barn’s website, to the exact…same…thing, except Pottery Barn probably uses a swanky Tahitian sweatshop instead of Wal-Mart’s Chinese one. I reminded him of my iron resolve to not buy the PB one (like I could afford that), also explained to him my weeks of earnest monitoring and swore a blood oath that the dogs would…absolutely…not…so much as…get near the thing.
His sphincter relaxed just a tad as he soaked in this overload of information, rubbed at his perplexed, frowning brow and began sipping at one of my fancy, designer beers.
I have learned over the years that if I cannot convince him, I will confuse him -- and the outcome will be equally satisfying. Cheers.
Notice in this (eventual) photo how much the dogs are enjoying my new lounger. If you look closely at that wonderful drink platform, one corner has already been chewed on, as well as the front wooden axle. Also, look closely also at the WHITE double cushion -- and all of the muddy paw prints!?! Also notice how incredibly hairy all three of our armpits are.
Shame! Where is the shame in this room? My husband has always told me…you can take a girl out of East Texas but you can’t take the East Texas out of the girl. Well, touche’.
Within the last two weeks, at least ten people have been killed by freakish storms in Texas. Last night we had a doozy. My station here, the NBC affiliate -- KPRC, covers them all over the state, live from the scene of the catastrophe. 99.9% of the scenes typically look like the same, worn-out stage prop: A mangled, 50-year-old trailer house. Another typical feature in this sad drama is that 99.9% of the survivors above the age of 14 all typically have Marlboros dangling from their mouths. But to their credit, I think if my home had just gotten smashed, I’d be looking for something a little stronger than a Marlboro, wouldn’t you? Heh, pass the tequila bottle, thank you very much.
Yesterday afternoon I did something really nice for myself. I baked myself a homemade batch of Toll House cookies. For me… All for me. Because I was having “a craving.“ I am typically one of great reserve when it comes to things that thicken my thighs, but a craving is a craving, dammit. So I culled out just enough dough to get me through last night and my coffee break this morning ( about six cookies) and I froze the rest for the weekend. I always look like a hero when we’re watching a movie and the kids and hubby are like, “Mom, can we please have something (anything!) besides Butter-Lite popcorn and Nonfat Bluebell?” Then I sneak in there and bake up a batch of those things. Heroic.
So I baked my six cookies and put them on a cooling rack to cool. I had a couple, then bagged the rest up for the next day. Mom always claimed that you and I had antenna for that sort of sneakery, and so do my children for that matter. And it is absolutely infuriating. With a capital I, I tell you!
Today I put on a steaming pot of brew, stretched out on my dog-smeared chaise lounge and intentionally did not allow myself to go in have a cookie until after the coffee was poured. It was all good…until I went inside, poured the coffee, went to my secret chocolate hiding spot, and found….absolutely nothing but a gawdam empty Gladbag with mounds of crumbs strewn everywhere.
^$%^&*(%$%^&*()&^%$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$%^&*(
At least …. can’t the little CRIMINALS be neat and tidy about their thievery??! I could have followed those delicious crumbs upstairs to the gameroom if I had wanted to, but why bother? Dammit. The whole situation lends itself to a theory…raising kids is just a big Toll House Analogy -- bake yourself a whopping batch of delicious Toll House cookies (because you certainly deserve it), hide them, and the children are sure to loot your special secret chocolate hiding spot …every...damn...time... And you’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about it, because it was the children, after all.
Heinous little bitches…
I’ve said my peace and I’m done with it, yet what I’ve said a thousand times, please allow me the 1001: “The older my kids get, the more I appreciate my dogs.” A mantra worth clinging to.
So I am lounging here, cookie-less, lukewarm coffee, on my filthy, fancy-pants lounger, cuddling my newest “intern” of my corporation. It is a teeny 1.25 pound rat terrier mix that fits in a coffee cup perfectly and looks exactly like a Curious George Beanie Baby. Got it from Randy and Mellony. I’ll save that story for later, other than to say…my husband acts as though my new little cowgirl is invisible. It must be a defense mechanism of some sort that a husband, whose wife has gone nuts, has had to develop in order to stay married to her. My poor husband. When the teeny little baby pees on the floor…invisible. The teeny baby poops…invisible. The teeny baby chews on an electric wire, I glimpse a wistful, hopeful expression cloud his face, then he glazes over again. Invisible.
I am starting to become sensitive to the fact that my husband believes that I am becoming gross in my old age, so I will just, in verbatim, describe a current situation that we are dealing with regarding one of our dogs (Darcy.)
“Mrs. P., your dog has a * milimeter tumor growing on her anus, which will soon be interfering with the nerves in her sphincter, so it is vital to have it surgically removed this week. Will that be cash, credit card or a convenient monthly installment plan?”
Whuuu? I suppose we’ll have to put off having the house painted and the trip to Sea World in order to have our eldest dog’s anus put right. I can’t imagine a more miserable way to fritter away hard-earned dollars.
Tonight is The Big Prom Event. Yet again, my daughter has managed to breeze in after school, in a panic, and blather together one rather disjointed run-on sentence containing “last minute nail appointment,” “empty gas tank” “ill-fitting shoes.” In short order, I found myself handing over my debit card…yet again. She came home sporting new solar nails -- and solar toes! (an additional indulgence I’ve never given in to) Some expensive looking jewelry and a bag (stuffed full) from Target (?!?) Next she informs me that she would be taking a nap, and to wake her at 3 p.m. sharp so that I would have enough time to roll her hair.
Throughout the week I have managed to intercept vague dispatches on disturbing prom-related topics (directly affecting my budget) ranging from a “really nice steak restaurant,” a “party at someone’s house,” and a “campout at Lake Sommerville,” (the ugliest, flattest, most featureless lake in Texas, good for only one thing: Drunk teen-dangers.) I can only pray that the ugly, featureless lake will only be two feet deep. Probably not though. I feel myself resisting.
If she cannot convince me, she will confuse me, and the result will be a equally satisfying for Mere'. Also, she is now 18 -- a so-called adult. (ahem)
After all, they are only Seniors once…
My husband is out of town this week because Ali is competing in the Big State golf tournament. Yay! The kids and I have been alone, working hard (me), so a couple of nights ago I suggested taking them out for a treat -- to Chili’s for queso, a meal and dessert. Maybe pick up a video at Hollywood Rental. I should have known better when they started in on the hissing. Like…what else do you two goofs have planned on a Thursday night? Momma ain’t cooking, the cupboard is bare. They proceeded to “place their takeout order” for me to run fetch. Wha?? I encouraged them to “load up” assuring them that we would have a lovely time. I even put on a skirt! We had the appearance of a lovely family going out for a meal -- except for the venom dripping out of the corners of their smart little mouths.
Right off the bat, while the waitress was giving the spiel, my son began talking over her -- ordering me to get him a strawberry lemonade. I had been rather patient, but at that point I completely lost my shit and threatened to pop him in the mouth if he interrupted another adult again that night. He started in with the pouting and defensive blubbering. I don’t even remember… and I ended up calling him a spoiled little baby. His sister jumps in with, “He’s having a bad day -- and you are making it worse, Mother -- can’t you see?” He then crawls over my lap and heads for the front door, turns around and yells something unintelligible at me. I am floored. The only thing I could figure at that point was that I was just being a Mom who finally “lost her shit“, my son is being a smarty-pants, my daughter is being a serious over-stepper.
Gawd… I asked the waitress to bag up the whole damn thing and walked out on a full $9 glass of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. That…is…just…wrong. We drove home in silence. I was scratching my head, just trying to figure out what in the heck had just happened. Turns out, my son had a really disappointing progress report at home in his backpack and was wanting desperately to fire off one last round of World of Warcraft on his Xbox Live before I confiscated the thing -- and our trip to Chili‘s was eating into that time; my daughter wanted to stay home and …I dunno…wax the hair from her entire body, or some such ridiculousness. Turns out, I had gotten my ass completely kicked just because I had thrown a kink into their stingy plans…(sigh)
(*** the next day, my daughter ended up apologizing profusely. She is not a big one for apologies, and I’m not accustomed to getting them from her, so it washed over me like powerful voodoo . I vaguely remembering asking her if she needed my bank card some more --- which…as it turned out, the next day she took me up on that offer.
Tonight is Friday night, and I’m feeling a little lost without my husband. Spiderman 3 made its big debut last night, and maybe the boy and I will go see that in 3D. But it will be a madhouse. Edwards Cinema is a chaotic playground where preps, jocks, debutantes of all ethnicities, plus gun-toting gangs (of all ethnicities) intermingle, so maybe I’ll just cool my jets on that plan, stay home and play Xbox with him. Wait a minute here! He’s grounded, isn’t he? He’s refused to hand over the offending progress report, so technically there’s no proof . Hey! This isn’t a legal proceeding, is it? (Mom-buddy-mom-buddy-mom-buddy....??) Okay. I’m starting to get confused. Moving along…
But wait! There is a perfectly funny-good reason I brought up the Spiderman 3 debut. Last night at midnight, all of the full-on costumed Spidey wannabe freaks were all lined up at the Edwards Cinema in order to be the first dorks through the door to see the big opening. During the pre-game frivolities, a shirtless (and in pretty good shape) pretty-boy had been body painted (!) red and blue, as Spiderman. He also sported blue ballet-style tights with a huge, huge….huge “athletic” supporter. Well, while the news cameras were capturing the entire circus, they honed in on pretty boy as he goes-a-sashaying out in the big middle of it all, like it was the damn St. Patrick’s Pride Parade or some such. (And I could hear the vintage glee club music start up in my head…Spiderman, Spiderman, he can do what spiders can…) And all of a sudden, out of the side of the camera angle, rushes in some big-ass douchekateer that tackles the painted Spidey, taking him down hard. They go sliding across the mezzanine, popcorn flying, fists flailing. It was all simply perfect!
I feel somewhat comforted, knowing that Gay-Spidey and I both got our sashaying little asses kicked on the same day.
Perhaps I need to call it a day here, make sure I took my medication this morning…because I’m starting to wonder…
Rebellious, spoiled teens, gay superheros, Toll House cookie rants, my rapidly accumulating dog family… (are your eyes bleeding yet??)
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