Now, I have to admit, I am the biggest baby in the world when I'm sick. I have a good story about an old bastard at the doc-in-the-box who should've had M.F. behind his name instead of M.D. I was on the sprawled on the floor clutching the big metal waste can and couldn't stop throwing up. He took the opportunity to lecture me on the evils of Xanax. I screamed, "Just call 911" and he said, "Oh, no, young lady. I'm not admitting you." Then he gave me a shot of phenergan in my ass, which knocked me on my ass, but made the vomiting stop. Damn, here I go about vomit again. Three blog posts in a row.
Ok, back to Daddy. All of a sudden, he's the grown-up and I'm the child. I'm getting tired of it already. This morning, he marched into the den and asked me when Kiddo was coming home for spring break. I said this coming Sunday. He said, "You need to get his room cleared out." Then he came back dragging the huge cardboard box that had housed the big-ass TV I bought for his bedroom, after the 20th time Deb told me how much The D loved to lie in bed and watch TV. News flash, Deb. He sets the sleep timer for 30 minutes at night. When it goes off, he switches to talk radio. Here I go again, getting off-track.
So he wants to put the box out by the street. Call me irrational, but I live in fear of putting obvious evidence of recent purchases of expensive, theft-prone merchandise right in front of my house for the whole world to see. It wasn't worth the argument, though. Hey, maybe I should get him to show me how to load his 38 Special. He had it when he was in the military police. I might need it tonight. With my luck, I'd shoot him. Or Kiddo would surprise me by coming home early from college (a la the Hallmark commercial) and I'd shoot him. Actually, I have my wasp spray by my bed. According to a helpful email I received, that's the best deterrent for intruders. But then the bug man told me I could be sued by said intruder if his eyes were damaged. Fuck. There's never a sure thing, is there?
Sarita was here today and made lunch for The D. I got hungry around 4:00, so asked Daddy if he wanted to eat at Dixie Cafe. He did. We went. Had a nice dinner, complete with Early Bird Special. A whole frickin' dollar. But worth it because I didn't see anyone I knew. Why is it you always run into everyone you know when you look like crap? And always someone you haven't seen in at least five years? Or who dumped you six months earlier?
Ok, back to being 12 years old again. The D did his usual routine of telling me where to turn. Including onto my street. As if I don't know. It wears thin. He asked me what I was going to do with all the stuff in Kiddo's room. I bit my tongue and said I'd put Sarita on it. That seemed to satisfy him. A little while ago, I went to ask him if he wanted a milk shake (so I could sneak the golden ground flax seed into it), but he'd already helped himself to a Skinny Cow. He doesn't need me any more.
A good thing, right? Maybe I should take him for a driving test. If I bought him a white Cadillac or Lincoln Town Car, he'd be right at home on Poplar Avenue. Believe me, people may not pull over for emergency vehicles or stop for school busses, but if a big white land yacht is backing out of The Clock Shop or Gift & Art Shop on Poplar, everyone, and I mean everyone, yields the unofficial right of way.
Ok, this has been the most meandering post ever, but after the last two delightful posts, it's bound to pale by comparison.
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