Picture Day: The Movie

[caption id="attachment_1117" align="alignleft" width="266" caption="You can get this in wallet size. . ."][/caption]

INT—MORNING—THE DEATH BY CHILDREN ESTATE.

Mr. Garlington comes down stairs in gym shorts and a stained t-shirt, his eyes rheumy and caked, his hair a riot. He’s had all of three and half hours of fitful sleep and looks it. He’s about to go wake his daughter.

SARAH: WHERE’S MY BRA!

DAD: Rhmbjkd hdygs?

SARAH: JESUS CHRIST! I SENT IT DOWN TO GET WASHED YESTERDAY!

DAD: Hrrrmgh phlammtgh . . .

SARAH: I NEED A BRA!

DAD: I did six loads of laundry yest—

SARAH: IT’S PICTURE DAY!

DAD: Ok, ok, put the knife down. I’ll go look.

Mr. Garlington descends into the pit, makes his way carefully through precariously piled hills of underwear and socks. He finds no bra. He rifles through the clothes he folded yesterday, unfolding them, leaving them askew. He climbs hip deep into the dryer to see if the bras in question might be hiding in the vents. He returns.

DAD: Honey, I don’t know—

SARAH: THIS SHIRT IS CRAP! LOOK! JESUS! WHAT THE !@$%#$! DO I HAVE TO DO?

DAD: I don’t—

SARAH: GET ME A BRA!

Mr. Garlington redescends into the pit. Small blurry things scurry into the shadowy depths of old sweaters and acid washed jeans. He lifts a stack of blankets to find two garish bikini tops. Perhaps they will do.

DAD: Sarah, these aren’t bras per se, but—

SARAH: THOSE ARE MY BRAS! JESUS!

DAD: This one is lime green and pink and this one is black with gold stripes. I thought they were bikinis.

SARAH: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

DAD: I . . .

SARAH: IT’S PICTURE DAY! JESUS!

The Princess is delivered to school. Mr. Garlington returns for the boy. He wakes the child who rolls out of his bed into a pair of jeans that are so dirty and caked they’re already drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. He pulls on a t-shirt that is clearly pro legalization. His hair looks like a frightened squirrel. They get into the car.

DAD: Isn’t it picture day?

SON: Yes.

DAD: (staring at the squirrel)

SON: What?

The new sick bell

[My Attorney] is sick. My daughter is sick. I'm sick. The only one who isn't sick is our family Typhoid Mary, the boy.

In days of yore, people who were confined to bed were allowed a little bell to ring. Some perky, healthy family member would walk dutifully upstairs and change their bedsheets or bring them tea or read quietly from the collected works of Walt Whitman.

In days of yours truly, there is no bell.

There's texting.

As [My Attorney] lay dying upstairs in the sick bed, she would find herself in need of a gatorade or a box of tissues or [insert 17,000 other things here].

Every five minutes: *ting!* [pls snd g-ade]; *ting!* [need tssues]; *ting!* [get the roof done].

Why am I so Awake at 2 am?

Because tomorrow is the day. If you're a parent in Chicago, tomorrow is the day of peace.

Tomorrow, I will send them off with hugs and kicks in the butt and then turn to my desolate house and sing hallelujahs.
I've had these ingrateful cafeeine freaks under my feet for three long months and I am RED DEE FOR THEM TO DISAPPEAR.

Does this make me bad? Does it mean I don't love them?

Derp.

I love them to death. But holy mother of God, if I hear one more bleat regarding TV remote ownership or dog politics I'm going to make the news.

Tomorrow: I will drink coffee and stare into the beautiful pastoral quaint that is my block (I live in the background of a Norman Rockwell painting); I will watch TV all by myself; I'll play an entire song on the oldies station (Bon Jovi? really?) without some arrogant, snobbish, knee-jerk redirect from a 13 year old music geek who's still processing the difficult concept of his pop attending the concerts of the bands he plays on Guitar Hero.

The world is not enough--field report

With the assistance of his attorney, my boy pushed the allowance of an x-box on our trip to THE WORLD'S FAVORITE THEME PARK because park hopper passes and wads of cash and total independence AND A FRIEND are just not enough.

At four in the morning on the day of the trip, I haul my carcass out to the rented Tahoe and secure the luggage to the top. Allow me to edumacate you on the dynamics of large scale SUV architecture: if you are, like your humble bloggist, of sub stewardess height, then for the love of god rent something short. I tried to yoga my fat ass into position to load luggage into the luggage bag onto of the three-story SUV. I looked like a junebug trying to doggy style a bowling ball.

The kid comes out dragging a suitcase you could use to smuggle a dwarf and yells at me, at 4:30 in the morning:

"Don't drop this this is very important do not let it fall!"

I swing the thing up and into the nano trunk (nice bailout usage, Chevy).

"What's in it?"

"My Xbox and some towels and a blanket or two)"

It takes up the entire microscopic trunk space. It's so big, Coldwell banker is trying to stake a sign in it.

My attorney arrives, unloads everything I've been loading for two hours, and repacks it using thaumaturgy and science and not only does it all fit, we have room for more. Except the xbox/blanket/towel trunk is repacked into a shopping bag which the boy insists should go on top of all the trunk stuff.

We drive to a Cracker Barrel in Kentucky, open the trunk, and he xbox slams into the asphalt like it was hurled by a trubuchet. There is a sickening crack. We all cringe, anticipating the hurricane of abuse he is about to unload on us .

He picks it all up, tosses it into the trunk like last year's news and shrugs.

"I don't know what the big deal is, I'm gonna be at firkin Disney the whole time."

The World is Not Enough

We're going to visit a major theme park. Its in Florida. Its reach, as a cultural meme, as a historical presence in the global funscape, as a generator of a continent's weight of awkward snapshots with suited mascots, is massive. Incalculable. Leviathanic.

And due to some serendipitous shake, we're able to allow the minions to bring a friend each.

Imagine the insane hella good time they are going to have with prepaid meal cards, passes to all of the various kingdoms of this major theme park, a little pocket change, their BEST FRIEND, and the one thing that really, really matters: a cell phone. They will, essentially, be free to roam.

Here's what the girl asks: does the place we're staying at have a pool?

Here's what the boy asks: can I bring my x-box?

This on the very day he arrives home from a week at computer camp at Northwestern University where he had a room in a greystone frat house with air conditioning and wifi, where he was taught the nuances of building online gaming word maps; this, after a summer of six flags, skateboards, and the Vans Warped Tour; this after we feed him.

Can I bring my x-box?

No, you unabashed, ungrateful little ponce, you may not bring your !@#$%^ X box.

And the Award goes to . . .

I cannot tell you how proud I am to accept the "One Lovely Blog" award from the inestimable Sarah Garb, bloggist extraordinaire over at sarahgarb.com. The cash prize was not terrifically impressive but let's face it, I live for recognition alone.

Top Five Euphemisims for You Know What.

5. I'm dropping the kids off at the pool . . .
4. I gotta manifest some destiny . . .
3. I'm parking a Buick . . .
2. I'm researching dark matter . . .
1. RELEASE THE KRAKEN!