Go go go, Go Granny Racer

I don't like airing my marital problems online but I just can't let this go. It ruin a really awesome weekend because its stewed in my brain. Bobby said something to me that is just untrue, unforgivable,  and just cruel.

 

Without this "incident" I couldn't have planned a more enjoyable weekend. We drove to Dallas Friday. Went to Six Flags Saturday with friends. Did the Easter thing Sunday. And came back Monday.

 

Six Flags was a total blast. Bobby went under silent protest. He suffers from "chosen amnesia" He can have a blast anywhere but he forgets. it took 3 rides for him to stop staring at me like we were at the dentist. by Saturday night he was talking season passes and staying longer. Next time I suggest going, he'll look at me like I'm an alien freak. Because he'll honestly swear he thinks he hates theme parks. But I do thank him for being cooperative, that is until…

 

So we are driving back to Bobby's mom and we're playing what was your favorite part of the day. Nicholas loved the water rides. Bobby enjoyed riding Mr. Freeze Rollercoaster. And as lame as it sounds I just enjoyed the beautiful-not-to-hot day with wonderful company.

 

Speaking strictly from the rides aspect, I loved the go-carts. And that's saying a lot because the go-carts cost extra and anytime I ride go-carts I get the "look" from all the workers. The "I don't think you can even wipe your own ass please don't drive my go-carts" look. I pretend to ignore them as Bobby puts me in the cart.

 

Light turns green and I take off. And I'm feeling good. Wind in my hair. Adrenaline flowing. B52's in stereo in my head. It was such a gorgeous day. I was absolutely high on life. The go-cart boys even started to smile at me as I went round and round. Bobby asked if I needed a cigarette as my fantasy thrilled ride ended.

 

What a perfect day. Within minutes of driving back to mom's Nicholas was out cold. Feeling good, I wanted to playfully flirt with my adorable husband. "Next time you have to be my passenger in the go-carts."

 

All that good-Samaritan-shit bob built up all day, exploded in his face in that millisecond. I was ready for all kinds of comebacks like you're a crazy driver… you drive to fast… anything. But what he said hurt to the core… he said "You drive like a granny."

 

Excuse me? Oh no he didn't. first of all, that's just wrong… And… Mean… And… Mean… Mean Bobby.  Maybe something's wrong with my old man's bifocals. Because I was kicking it. Maybe I was going so fast that I was caught in a slow motion earth time warp.

 

I had the pedal to the medal. I had the accelerator to the floor baby… on the straight-a-ways I was led foot… I might have been a little cautious around the curves but… it's not my fault that the track was mostly curves… Damnit.

 

But I looked good? Right? Sigh… giggle giggle giggle, A legend in my own mind...

The Talking Scissors

I caught myself acting strangely yesterday, ok stranger than usual. And it really bugged me.

 

Nicholas, our seven year old son, told me he lost his scissors at school. No big shocker. If its not permanently attached to his body, he will inevitable lose it. Without asking, he digs through our junk drawer, pulls out a pair, silently looks at me, asking for permission as he sticks the scissors in he pack back, and goes about his day. 

 

Sol I’m alone in my leaving room, and the scissors start talking to me. “better put me in a envelope.” Ok, no biggie. I get a envelope. I put the scissors in, I put the envelope in the pack back, zip it, and throw it on the chair. There. I feel better.

 

About 5 minutes later the scissors call to me again. I look around thinking this is weird even for me. Sure I talk to an occasional spirit every now and then and the peanut gallery in my head, but I’ve never have formed a relationship with scissors. “You forgot to seal the envelope.”

 

This is crazy. I’m not going across the room, get Nicholas back pack to seal a perfectly good envelope. I got up, got a fresh coke and went back to my desk. As I tried to answer a email, the orders of the scissors echo in my head. 3 minutes later I’m on the floor pack back ripped open with the disgusting taste of envelope glue on my tongue.

 

“Happy?” I mumbled, maybe a little too loud. “Not really, do I really have to write my spelling words five times?” my son with bionic ears answered from his room. He assumed I was talking to him. I didn’t correct him… He’s too young to know mommy has officially gone mental. “You really do…” I yelled to him, believing my little episode with the scissors was over.

 

I sighed, but before I could stretch, again scissors. “You need to write a note for Nicholas to take me to school.” I laughed. The scissors are talking to me more than my husband did the entire last week. I wonder if the scissors would buy me coffee and talk to me about Sex, Politics, and Religion. Just a thought…

 

Ok, this has gone from weirdly amusing to border rubber room obsessive compulsive. Stop Theriot. Get a grip. Bobby will be home soon and he can slap you back into reality.

 

He gets home. And I carefully explained that Nicholas needed a new pair of scissors at school and I was afraid to let them take them to school because I wasn’t sure the definition of zero-tolerance. If I know Nicholas he would take the scissors out on the bus to cut out dinosaurs and get expelled. I kinda left out the talking scissors. Bobby might have gotten jealous.

 

Then I wait for that look from Bobby. That “I adore you but you’re really a dipsy blonde at heart ain’t ya?” look. “You should called his teacher tomorrow and ask if we have to drop them off.” He was dead serious. My paranoia is spreading. How cool is that?

 

I don’t like discussing politics because I can always see the other side. I just think it odd to worry about my sweet seven year old son being expelled for taking a pair of scissors to school. If that what it takes to keep Nicholas safe, I’ll do it. And I will always ber a little sad that kids are losing their innocence at such a young age.

 

Bowling: skill or attitude

Bowling. We used to go a lot when we lived in San Antonio. I'm not sure why we stopped?

 

Saturday I was inspired to take my boys bowling despite their rolling eyes. I figured Nicholas was old enough and it might be a good rainy day / hot day non-electronic family activity.

 

So we get there. I go first and I knock down eight pins. I'm satisfied. A strike would be better but I could live with eight. Nicholas bowls next. As expected he rolls a gutter ball. We cheer the parent cheer and he sits in my lap, still very hopeful.

 

Bobby's next. First roll, 3 pins, second 6… And I'm ready to howl. I'm ready to talk some smack. Bobby is an above-the average bowler. So this wasn't his best turn, and he did this bizarre thing that made him look like his feet were glued to the floor. I open my mouth, ready to heckle him shamelessly, but before I could…

 

"Oh daddy, you were great, you got nine." Nicholas screamed running to his daddy as if he had just saved the world. Bob hugged him, while staring at me, silently daring me to talk some crap. "Wasn't daddy great?" Nicholas asked me. "Yup." I said, hoping my head wouldn't explode.

 

At that moment, I had a revelation. In San Antonio, we did go bowling with friends a lot. However, our priorities may not have been totally focused on bowling. We ate. We chatted. We sang badly to the loud rock-and-bowl music. And tried to remember what ordered we bowled in so we wouldn't be smacked upside the head by the next in line after us.

 

Of course strikes were great but when you get right down to it, it didn't matter whether it was a spare or a gutter ball, it was all in the attitude.

 

Right or wrong, I have a very "do what I say, not what I do" parenting philosophy. I'm stressing hard science in school and when playing games its about having fun yada yada bs bs.

 

I estimate maybe I've bowled 50 games with Bobby through the years. You know how many he's won? 49. That's right. I won one. I won Saturdays first game by two freaking points. But could I do my happy-eat-my-dust-dance? No. And Bobby just ate it up. I had an eye twitch the rest of the day.

 

Of course Bobby found his rhythm and stomped my ass the second game. We also decided to use the bumper rails and Nicholas entertained himself, enjoying the later game much more.

 

Because I'm stupidly stubborn and can't stop even when I know it'd be a hell of a lot easier, we agreed that bowling may be our family thing for a while. Not only am I forced to keep my attitude positive while playing. I have to face one of my most puzzling mysteries, when I bowl I use a bowling rail. Simple concept, place ball on rail, aim rail, shove ball off. Hypothetically, I'm thinking, it might take three rolls to find the "sweet spot", than you should rolls strikes from then on. The variables are far less then a normal bowler… Reality, not so easy, and that's driving me crazy.

 

So I guess the days of smack bowling are over… At least until I can teach Nicholas the fine line between trash talk and obnoxiousness. I know… I know…  but what's that saying, those who can't teach…I was thinking, to keep games interesting, Bobby & I ought to play for stuff.

 

I issue a challenge to my husband. Museum or Toy Tank day. Best 4 outa 7 games. Bring it on. I slap your face with a white glove. Saturday high noon. Be there. If your not, you forfeit :p

 

Do I really wanna play seven games? Naw but he's got skill, but I got the attitude and stamina