Sundays with Stretchy Pants

We’re just getting back and unpacked from our trip to Chesaning. I think I might have bitten my tongue off at certain points, but it grew back and the trip was still lots of fun. And my husband is proud of me for just shrugging, shaking my head, and hiding in the other room from time to time instead of shrieking, “ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS TERRORIST CRAP?” over and over. Because, really, I can handle most any other reason why a person doesn’t want to vote for Obama, but the terrorist stuff? That’s just ignorant.

A couple of times when he saw my face turn red and noticed the arch of my eybrows and the cock of my head that usually signifies the beginning of a verbal onslaught accompanied by The Tone, he had to squeeze my shoulder and whisper through clenched teeth, “Do not get involved. Promise me you will not get involved. Here, drink this! Drink it faster!” I don’t know what he was so afraid of.

For the record, there are lots of Obama supporters in the family on both sides, but it was still plenty disconcerting scary interesting to be around the very few McCain supporters. My dad accused me of brainwashing my children, so I had to tell him and his girlfriend that brainwashing wasn’t necessary, as my daughters are afraid Sarah Palin is coming for their uteruses, which made Maya say, “Does Sarah Palin want to take my uterus?” To which I replied very sweetly, “No honey, she just wants to be the boss of your uterus. But we know she’s not the boss of your uterus, right? Who’s the boss of your uterus?” And she very proudly pointed to herself and said, “JUST ME!” Good times. In fact, that visit was so fun and has me feeling so bipartisan-ish today that I’m going to post a “Women for McCain” video that my sister-in-law, Tracy sent me.

Don’t forget to vote tomorrow!

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And I have to admit that the whole time we were in West Virginia, I’m the only one who walked around affecting a southern accent and saying things like “Let’s get us some grits, ya’ll!” Berkeley Springs is only about 8 miles into WV, so it’s pretty much Maryland. Not that you couldn’t get yourself some grits, but still.

As promised, my brother and sister-in-law took us to see the Weber Brothers and they were fabulous with their 2 drum sets and their stand-up bass and their way cool original music plus Johnny Cash and Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen and stuff. They even invited my brother to go up and sing Sympathy for the Devil with them, which was nice because Mike knows how to do that kind of thing. Plus he’s their #1 groupie. I love them, love them, love them and I’m pretending they’re moving to Columbus to play every night at Victorians’ Midnight Cafe. Let’s start a letter-writing campaign. You won’t be sorry. They had 2 drum sets! And the one brother plays a stand-up bass! And the other one reminds me of Rufus Wainwright only way cooler! And they rock! And stand-up bass! I even love them when they’re playing songs I don’t know, which for me is kind of a big deal. If I can’t sing along, then I’m all, “This is too loud. Can’t they turn it down?” but not with the Weber Brothers. They could play Enya and I’m pretty sure I would drool.

They played at a place called the Troubadour, which was waaaayy out there on some narrow, winding, hilly roads that really looked like what you think West Virginia should look like. It’s the kind of place that has a sweet 72-year-old owner (Joltin’ Jim McCoy) and a barbecue grill in the shape of a six shooter. And they raffled off 10 pounds of bacon. Twice. Yes, they did. I bet it was good bacon, too, because my brother ordered a steak there and it was the best tasting steak I have ever had in a restaurant. It tasted like the cow had been killed that morning after a breakfast of grass grown by angels. I’m not kidding. I’m a beef snob and that was some good beef. I imagine the pork would be nothing less than heavenly. Not Jewish or Muslim heaven, obviously, but definitely one of the other ones. One little piece of advice just in case you city folk are ever thinking of visiting the Troubadour: Don’t think that just because it’s way out in the country that they’re going to let you get away with fast and loose behavior. The rules are posted and it says right there that you may not sleep in the booths or your vehicle. Got it, y’all? They will cut you off before you reach that point. For real.

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The gov’mint’s about ta give us a check, y’all!

We’re going to West Virginia unless our van costs a billion dollars to fix. Melissa, I know you’re worried about us getting accosted by some hilljack iff’n our van busts up on the way, but don’t worry. We’re taking precautions. First, we’re going to stop off at a gas station about an hour east of here where we’re sure to be able to find a Bush/Cheney ‘04 bumper sticker as well as any number of these awesome bumper stickers. If we break down in the hills, we’ll slap those puppies on real quick-like. Also, we’ve been watching Squidbillies enough so we will be able to affect a native accent and attitude if need be. And the most important thing that will keep us safe? The fact that Bryan and I could pass for brother and sister. Nothing puts a god-fearing hillbilly at ease like incest.

Typing all that makes me wonder how my brother and sister-in-law have survived there. Tracy, do the people know you volunteer for Hillary’s campaign? Watch yourself.

Happy birthday to lots of people today. I know 5 people IRL who have a birthday today, so I assume that most of you who read this have a birthday today, too. Happy birthday!

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It could be guacamole. God bless avocado season. I regularly pay $1.50 for avocadoes, so I’m in heaven when they’re 66 cents! Or it could be frosting from my birthday cake yesterday. My lovely husband and children baked me a white cake with chocolate frosting. My favorite. I’m special. I’m 33 now, which is how old Jesus was when he died, in case you were wondering. I could be at risk for crucifixion. I could be. You don’t know. I’m definitely at risk for leaving the house with frosting or guacamole on my face. That’s a given.

I had a good birthday until my stupid van started smoking. Effin’ machinery. Pontiac piece of crap. We’re supposed to go to West Virginia this weekend to visit my brother and his family and see The Weber Brothers
play. For free. They played at my brother’s wedding. I have a picture of them, but I can’t make it show up in my stupid blog. Effin’ blog. Do you hear me, Dawn? I say, I can’t get a picture to upload. I was yelling that, but I didn’t put it in all caps. Just trust me. So, we assume the mechanic will want to be paid for fixing the stupid van, which might mean no free Weber Brothers for us since we’ll have to spend the billion dollars of gas money that we were saving for the trip on fixing the stupid van. I hate budgets. Except for the part where they help us be debt-free, budgets suck. And they’re lame.

Now I want more guacamole and I’m going to have some because our budget allows for unlimited avocadoes when they’re 66 cents each.

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Happy Easter.

I have many friends. Rum is not one of them.

My mom is here for one more night, but my brother and sister-in-law and their 3 boys left earlier today after a couple of nights of proving that none of us are mature enough to be entrusted with housepets, let alone children. Bryan and I have so much fun with these people and we just lose our heads with the loveliness of it all and we can’t be trusted to just play cards and sip some wine like regular grown-ups. Here is a good rule to live by: When the wine is gone, you’ve had enough. Don’t go get your mom’s rum and decide that you think you can drink like a real drinker. You can’t. It will end badly. Sure, there will be lots of fun before it all goes badly (and during the part where it is going badly for you, your houseguests and husband might act like it’s the best part of the night. For they will still be laughing. And taking pictures of you going badly.)

Before it all started to go badly, though, I’m pretty sure that the 4 of us solved most, if not all, of the world’s problems. Pretty sure. We were so frickin’ smart last night! You don’t even know.
And the daylight hours were precious. The 6 kids (7 if you count my mom, which I do) played together well. We ate good food. We talked good talks. We drank good drinks. And as a bonus, we remembered to put the Easter baskets out. It was a happy Easter

To prepare for next year, I’m going Catholic and I’m giving up rum for Lent. I’m also going to start working on my dodge ball dodging because whenever my brother gets a ball in his hands, he insists on acting like he’s 13 and I’m 7 again. Yes, I took a soccer ball to the back of the head while we were at the park and then I had to listen to Mike cackle maniacally. Just a warning, old man, laughing that hard at your age is unattractive and unhealthy, so stop it.

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I don’t know if any of the godless heathens who read this blog are familiar with Veggie Tales or not, but they are animated vegetables that teach kids about values and whatnot. Christian-lite values. I met them back in 1995 when I was working in a Christian bookstore and you should’ve heard the people bitch about how they were too mainstream and not Christian enough. Their premiere video had a song in it called “God is Bigger than the Boogeyman,” which was deemed demonic by some of the customers. “I don’t want my kid listening to songs about demons!” *sigh* Those were fun times. I have lots of stories about how those customers chipped away at my soul and turned me into the cynic that I am today. Of course, those same customers would blame my current soul condition on the fact that I let Satan get hold of me by doing yoga. (That is most definitely *not* an exagerration. Those are real words spoken by a real customer.) Anyway, in the Veggie Tales show about the Good Samaritan, the veggies keep passing the guy that needs help and they’re all singing this song, “Busy, busy, dreadfully busy! You’ve no idea all I have to do. Busy, busy shockingly busy. Much, much too busy for you.” It has been years since I’ve heard that song in real life, but it is one of those stick-in-your-head-until-you-want-to-stab-yourself-in-the-eye songs. I still get it stuck in my head whenever I have a ton of crap to do, like today. We have dentist appointments, a hair cut, grocery shopping, house cleaning, and all manner of preparation for when my mom and my brother and his family come to stay with us this weekend for Easter. Our Easter celebration is all about food, booze and euchre. Who wouldn’t be excited about that? But before the fun, the busyness.

So this song is stuck in my head. I tried to find it on Youtube, but I could only find it with some moron lip-synching it. I don’t like to give morons any blog-time, but I’m linking to it anyway. Turn your monitor off and get infected by the melody, please. I don’t want to be alone in my suffering. And keep in mind that the vegetable who is singing it is Archibald Asparagus. He wears a monocle. You’re welcome.

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