A houseful of teenagers prevented me from going to the NRA convention in Indy for an opportunity of a lifetime. Beat me. Teenagers are all democrats. I kid you KNOT.
I learned this weekend that my child has reached the disconnect shared by so many yoots of today because their peers allow them to express themselves, which is a democrat thingy.
An example of disconnect:
Many times I would tell her something or call out to her (nicely) and she would ignore me, or pretend to. She was playing a husband. Once she got thwacked by a friend, and told her mother was talking to her, she would go..."Whah?"
Yeah. She was bustin' my balls.
They didn't talk to each other. It was quiet. I looked in the TV room.
I asked them if they were psychic and stared each other in the eye to read their thoughts. They pretty much thought I was losing it.
They were quiet again. So I peeked in. They were texting each other. Beat me.
They later said they were bored. What can we do, Mrs. Fargo? I wanted to dive into the largest bottle of wine and take a beer bath.
Yard games? No.
Board games? No.
Candy store? No.
Teenagers are also food persnickety. They think eating at home has a choice like a restaurant menu.What do you do? Punt.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fargo, I don't like pepperoni pizza."
Enter Chuckie. Not really. I put the knife down.
I already made the pizza and was serving it out when this statement was expressed by more than one. Before I realized it, they were throwing pepperonis across the room at each other. Animal House re-runs minus John Belushi. Gah!
"Oh, I am sorry. You don't like pepperoni pizza? Huh. Whodathunk? I will make some hamburgers."
"No. I don't like hamburgers."
I made cookies!
I felt like a defeated June Cleaver who gourmeted all day for the Beavs and Eddie Haskell pissed on the cake. Only Eddie Haskell was nice to the parents and a shit to the other kids so no disrespectin' adults was had back then. It was like I was stuck in Leave It To Beaver in reverse, and it was call Skin the Beaver, or something.
Record Scratch. That sounds pornographic or dirty. The Beaver was not skinned, shaved, or waxed. Wait! This is when my life took a turn in The Mountain Men. Like when they beheaded that dude head and rode the horses and shit.
So then I tried to be hip. The girls were talking about music and brought up the following:
Bug went on and on about R5.
"Oh, I love R5! So cute!"
I said, "R2D2! R2D2! Yay! It's really R2D2, honey. So cute."
"MOM, YOU ARE AN IDIOT! It's R5! Who is R2D2? Geesh. You're embarrassing me."
I should have thrown my child through a sheet rock wall, but I didn't.
Instead, I pointed my finger at her and said, "You don't know who R2D2 is? Bam!" Then I did the loser sign over my forehead, shouted, "LOSAH!" and stomped off, shaking my booty.
Oh yeah, later, I told that was not cool to call her mom an idiot when she was upstairs and I told her in a non-cool parent way...like calm, collected, and did not yell. She cried. Mission accomplished. Big Momma tactics when it was a time to bring in Madea.
Retreating outdoors after serving up a smorgasbord, I was mowing my lawn on the George Jones, which had a beer cup holder that was empty and I so needed a beer! I was in my groove when I looked up to see brown. It was not brown grass. It was a brown uniform. Sheriff's brown-that is.
I was pretty sure he doubled as the Terminix man.
"Mam, hi. We got a 911 call here. We called back and spoke to someone and they said everything was OK. Uh. Do you live here?"
"Yes, I do." I said this with gritted teeth, wanting to flick some teenagers on the forehead Fargo style. They had gone to the nearby park to play basketball. Miffed, I was.
What was more painful was listening to the deputy lecture me on how the 911 system works and that no matter what they have to send someone out to check. Enter weak smile and lots of nods. I was in a freakin' parade. Seriously, it was Oz.
I thanked him for his service and told him I was very sorry, I would talk to the girls.
He told me it was no big deal.
I looked at him like a crazed lunatic now overcome with thoughts of life lessons to teenagers in my head and said, "No. Hogwarts does not have fake 911 calls. If I call 911, you better come guns-a-blazing."
"Um, mam. It's really no big deal. It's Ok. Glad everything is Ok."
This interruption caused my mower to die and smoke big smoke bombs. I had to run all the bad gas out of it and recharge the battery. Funny how it was working fine until the deputy rudely interrupted me.
Guess what? When the teenagers got back from the park? They all denied it. It was like Bill Clinton trying to shine through the cigar only brushed his lips and wasn't shoved up an intern's vagina trick.
Yes. I did pull the Cop 101 thing and "let's look at your phones."
GRRRRRR. And after the damn lecture about how 911 is important that I gave out to all the yahoos in Casper, Wyoming over 5,000 times...they didn't get it.
When all the teenagers were gone, thank you, baby Jesus, we went trap shooting today at the gun club after church. God and Guns. It should be a book title or a movie.
I got my Clint Eastwood on.
It was great to be surrounded by Republicans.