Andy, the guy is telling you to stop.
There is a horse in the road, Andy, that guy isn’t waving, he is saying stop your car.
ANDY STOP THE CAR.
Christ, I am pretty sure holding his hand up to you from the middle of the road in front of a giant horse is the international sign for stop.
Well maybe I need fucking contacts then, Jesus.
Well, first of all, he does need contacts. But Andy never goes to the doctor. I have no idea why he grew up with the mindset that you don’t need frivolous things like doctors, ophthalmologists or dentists, but I swear to God, when he is is blind with gout and a set of wooden teeth, I’m divorcing him.
Secondly, when Andy swears, it scares the shit out of me. Because he never swears. Even when we fight and I poke and poke and poke to get him to explode, so I don’t look like the only crazy person in the house, he never breaks. He is the Teller to my Penn. The George Harrison to my Ringo Starr. The Maurice Gibb to my Barry.
I swear constantly, almost without thought, so when I heard the words leave his mouth, my only reaction was to immediately start to cry.
We were driving home from the park after spending the afternoon hiking to the sand dunes, which was the worst idea ever because it’s the time of year in Ohio where 9 billion caterpillars fall from the sky onto the ground, and by the time you reach your destination, your shoes are covered in bright yellow caterpillar guts and you look like a full body burn victim because you’ve itched your skin off. I swear to God, something is fucking crawling on me!
The kids were past their nap and screaming in the backseat because we even though we promised they could play at the playground area after the hike, it was packed, and I can only take so much of parenting other people’s children before I explode and pass out vasectomy referral cards to all the parents.
Hi, your kid pushed my kid off the top of the slide while you were texting. You aren’t allowed to reproduce anymore.
Hey, so we took a vote, and everyone in the entire playground can see the shit running out of that droopy diaper your kid has sporting for the past 30 minutes. She smells and is covered in flies. I know you are busy talking really loudly on the phone about your brother’s affair, but we’d also like you not to have anymore babies come out of your vagina.
We had a bad weekend.
Andy worked…a lot. He was promoted again recently, and while that is wonderful, it’s stressful. I may or may not be examining his hairline while he sleeps. I’m not confident he could pull off a bald spot.
So in response to the constant working and absence, we did the worst thing possible.
Forced family fun time.
You may have seen those PSA’s about eating dinner together at the table or having family game nights in an effort to reconnect despite today’s busy lifestyles, but I am here to tell you it’s a giant crock of shit.
Sometimes absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Sometimes it’s not an awesome idea to make up for long work hours by dragging your kids to the zoo on the nicest Saturday of the year when OMG WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT SEALS LET’S RIDE THE TRAIN 800000000 MORE TIMES,OH AND I WANT PLUSH VERSIONS OF ALL THE ANIMALS I HAVE NO INTEREST IN SEEING, ALSO A SNOW CONE PLEASE, I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE $600 YOU SPENT AT PANERA LOADING THE STUPID PICNIC BASKET SOME MORON BOUGHT YOU AS A WEDDING GIFT BUT NEVER USE BECAUSE, OH YEAH, YOU AREN’T ANNE OF GREEN GABLES AND SONIC HAS A DRIVE-THROUGHHHHHH.
I am paraphrasing, but it went about like that.
So by Sunday, Andy was at his limit.
He said fucking out loud in his mean voice, one normally reserved for his parents or people who piss him off in airports.
And we were all quiet…except for me, but it’s because it’s impossible for me to cry quietly. I’m a hiccuper.
He must have felt super bad, because the time we got home and I schlepped everything inside, he had announced that he would take us all out to Pizza Hut for a fun filled night-before-school-starts (again) dinner.
My brain was like, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO haven’t learned your lesson!?
But mouth was all, they serve beer there, right?
(They do, it’s on the menu under the 12 hours of heartburn and rabid bouts of stuffed crust diarrhea.)