Monday, May 10, 2010

Wrong Holiday, Dude.

Don't ask... Don't ask... Darn it. You just had to ask.

Mother's Day: Also known as "Didn't You Read The Memo?" Day.

It started really early in the morning. Like really early. When it was still dark out. And I woke up to this horrendous stench. Something that was so awful and foul... and I went walking down the hall towards the kitchen until I found it. And it wasn't hard to find. Because Satan the Dog had diarrhea. Lots of it. All over. So I woke V up and made him clean it. Satan did NOT read the memo.

Dotter did not read the memo, busting through the bedroom door at 7 o'clock on the dot with her tray of breakfast goodies. A bowl of Cheerios which had been soaking peacefully in the milk for what must have been at least thirty minutes based on their soggy factor, and a piece of chocolate cake. Because who doesn't love chocolate cake when you're shocked awake by an eight year old and the smell of dog poop is still in the air? Start eating, is what I say!

I hate breakfast foods to begin with. I abhor breakfast foods force fed to me before I can even focus and rub the sleep from my eyes. But like the good mommy I am, I gushed and gobbled and loved that girl like there was no tomorrow! (I should be expecting many more early morning breakfasts in the future from that child.)

With a full gut (and an urge to vomit) I had no choice really but to wander out to the living room with Dotter for Hannah Montana, the Early Edition.

The Bean wasn't aware there was a memo. I don't think she even understood there was a holiday, supported by Hallmark cards at the local WalMart, which was in honor of women who happen to be mothers, aptly named Mother's Day. If she had read the memo, she would have surely noticed the part where it said all eye rolls, stomping, insults and name calling is not allowed on the Day of Mothers.

Cletus the Used to be Fetus was the only one who read the memo. He shared his knowledge with Big V. They both slept soundly until just about 10am.

Big V had nothing planned. I know, because I asked him when he got up. By this point I was giddy with excitement waiting to see what fun was in store for me. He said he just figured he'd "talk to me about it" sometime during the day. Mentioned something about dinner and a movie. When? After his softball game.
See,  the league starts on Mother's Day each and every stinking year. His game this year was at 5pm, which meant he had to be at the ball field no later than 4pm (his rule). And since we live 47 seconds from the park, he had to start getting ready at 3:00pm (again, his rule). And by "getting ready" I mean proceeding for the next hour to primp like a prom queen trying to color-coordinate his yellow team t-shirt (with black writing) with every element of his outfit.

"Do you like these shorts with our shirts better? Or these?" They're both black with a little bit of yellow. Essentially they are the same pair.

"Check out this armband I got... see, it's black and has the D in yellow - that D is a logo for a certain type of bat." Thanks for the oversimplification. I had trouble connecting the dots, making the assumption, and - oh, yeah - CARING. Because it's MOTHER'S DAY not WEAR A GARANIMALS OUTFIT FOR BASEBALL DAY!

"Should I wear my hat forwards or backwards? I kind of like it backwards, only because I couldn't find a black and yellow hat I liked so I have to wear this one, and it's black and orange, and I don't think the orange with the yellow shirt looks that good." For the love....

Eventually he was able to dress himself and get down to the park. He was back five minutes later for the bats he forgot. Then he left again. I busied myself with doing all those pesky duties that Mother's are responsible for every other day of the flippin' year: cleaning Dotter's room, the bathroom, doing laundry, mopping the kitchen floor and ensuring Cletus wasn't repotting any of the plants in the house in the process. Around 7:30pm I summoned Big V with a telephone call that went something like this:

BIG V:  "Hello."

ME:  "You have been gone for three-and-a-half hours and this kid has not quit screaming since you left and I can't put him down and the girls need to be picked up from dance and I have twenty eight loads of laundry waiting to be folded and your dog keeps crapping and vomitting all over the damn floor and I still haven't made dinner and Cletus needs a bath and it stinks like ass in here and I haven't even peed yet and the bottles need to be washed and what the hell are you doing anyway?"

BIG V: "...well... a few of us wanted to watch the next game so we're having a couple beers...."


(That was me hanging up, see. Because it was MOTHER'S Day. Not FATHER'S Day. But don't worry. I'm already planning my outfit for Father's Day so I don't waste an hour trying to coordinate my clothing options before my much needed Father's Day departure from my family. And yes, I'll have a matching armband.)


Rebecca said...

Ouch! Looks like yours was even more lovely than mine - and I was sick in bed.

Phoenix Rising said...

I would've preferred illness.


I hate Mother's Day for this very reason, but that was bad. Really, really bad. Big V needs to make up for not getting the memo in a MAJOR way. Did you hear that I ate lunch at McDonalds with the smell of manure wafting over to my table? Lovely. What a flipping awesome holiday. NOT! (Yes. I'm bringing back the "NOT!")