I started to title this post "Flipping My Bean." And then somewhere in the dark, depraved recesses of my mind, I realized that this would probably come across as vulgar. So sure, in fact, that I'm not even going to UrbanDictionary.com to find out. Because they have every possible combination and permutation of slang.
Ok, here's where it gets weird. Deb brought The Daddler back from Genghis Grill. He loved it. If I'd taken him, he wouldn't have liked it. I swear.
I gathered everyone around to admire The D's cucumber crop. He laboriously picked one for Deb. He was hanging on to the little wire trellis thingie, teetering on the brink of a mud pit. Mud pit with what looked like a pile of fake snow. Deb asked what it was and I told her it was the paper she told me he loved to shred. I reminded her that she said it would make good mulch and the earthworms would love it. She told me I needed to stir it up. As if. I hope the ink doesn't poison the cucumbers.
Ok, my bean. I planted some green beans in the spring. I trained them up the wire trellis. They're exciting plants. If you look closely, you can almost see them growing. If you go out in the morning and look, and then again in the evening, you'll be amazed. Think Jack and the Beanstalk. Apparently, though, the beans are an afterthought. Because I've been watching my beanstalk. I've seen pretty little white flowers. No beans. Finally, yesterday I saw some pea-podish looking things. I checked on them this morning. Still there. I showed Deb and she said I might wind up with enough for a stir fry. Smart ass. I couldn't get The D to come look so I decided to sacrifice one in the interest of my need for affirmation. I picked a fetal bean. I gave it to Deb. She passed it to The Daddler.
You won't believe this. He scoffed at it. Suddenly, I was a prepubescent little girl with an emotionally distant father. Hello, Sigmund? Then, he placed it in the palm of his hand, flipped it into the shred pile, and smirked. They both had a good laugh. I didn't.
On the subject of mutilated appendages, Deb and I switched cars. She transferred the title for the one I signed over (I will probably never get around to mine). The D shook his head at me when I was trying to take the keys off the key chain to give to Deb. Same as when I backed into the house. Then we went outside to hand the keys over to Nephew. The D nearly stroked out trying to get the hood open. I told Deb to take over, and when she couldn't do it, it dawned on me that Nephew should know how to open his own hood. I have a story about Kiddo and the president of a very large Memphis company and a dead battery in that very car. Another post.
So Nephew sat on his ass and Deb popped the hood. She couldn't find the prop thing and The D pushed it up and knocked her aside and tried to explain that it stood up on its own. Deb said she wasn't comfortable with that. The D had his head positioned as if it were in a guillotine. He was reaching into the bottom of the windshield to take out dead leaves. I told him he could clean out the gutters next time. I told Deb we were going to plant cucumbers in the gutters next spring and she said we could put them on the windshield, too. I said, "Yeah, like the Christmas wreaths on the grill." Can you picture that?
I told The Daddler that if he decapitated his hand (I know that's the wrong word but I had a sudden attack of aphasia and couldn't come up with amputate) he could go live with the Emotional Vampire and that she'd put him in a nursing home. That was kinda mean, I know, but after all the angst, I wasn't myself. Plus, I need to keep the balance of power tipped just a little bit in my favor. Considering the sitch and all.
At this point, Deb shook her head and The D gave her a knowing grin. I don't scare him one little bit. Because he knows, as the Baptists would put it, Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt, that I'd never, ever, turn him over to the Vampire. Not because I'm so crazy about him, but he knows I'd never give her the satisfaction.
Whatever works...
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