BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

On any given day my life could be a sitcom. Or a soap opera. I guess it just depends on the day. Personally, I prefer the sitcom days because I don’t do drama. I laugh at drama. I shoot spitwads at the llama. But I don’t do drama. I even send friends packing when they bring their drama to my home.

Rule number 1437.5 – If you bring drama to my house, leave it in the car with your llama.

But, sometimes drama sneaks in the back door when someone leaves it open, and you have to chase it out with a broom. Been there, done that. But let’s run around a different block. As I said, I prefer the sitcom days, and I have way more of them than I have accidental soap opera days.

Now, if you follow me on Facebook (there we go with The Zuckman’s social network again… talk about drama…whewww…) Anywho, if you follow me over there you hear me mention E S. No, not E K… E S. No, E S is not Evil Stephanie, EKay’s heretofore unknown half-sister just announced on national TV. (How’s that for a gratuitous Oprah reference?)… But back to the story – E S stands for Ethical Society.

Yes Virginia (Fred, Joe, Sandy, Arlene, Bob, Carol, Ted, Alice, etc…) I am a Secular Humanist. Thought I was Pagan didn’t you? Not for quite a long, long time now… I have my reasons, but that’s another blog. Suffice it to say, I’m not anti-pagan, just like I’m NOT anti-Christian, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, etc. I’m good with all of ’em, but I’m not any of them either.

But, like I said, different blog.

So, anyway, the O-spring has friends at E S, as do Her Supreme Evilness and I. And we hang out at E S on Sunday’s, and even at other times. Like recently. Right after that foot of snow dropped on us. We even had some more falling from the sky to top it off a bit. Get where I’m heading? Good, because I don’t either.

Wait… Maybe I do. You see, after E S this past Sunday, the O-spring went home with one of her friends so they could hang out and do tween o-spring stuff. What with all the snow they did sledding and all that general wintry fun crap we used to do when we were young enough to be able to get back up off the ground after slamming into a snowbank at the bottom of the hill. Anyhow, as will happen they ended up snow covered, and as the snow melts the coat, etc ends up wet.

Fast forward to that evening. This is actually where the sitcom moment comes in. The Redhead and I hop into the Evil Mobile and head over to retrieve our kid. We arrive, business as usual, our friend – we’ll call her Alison because I promised I wouldn’t use her real name –  invites us in and calls the girls down from upstairs. While we wait for the kids to actually make it to the main floor, what with them being tweens and all, we stood around in the sitting room – yeah, I know – chit chatting.

Alison eventually says, “I’d better get o-spring’s boots. They were wet so I’ve been drying them out over here.”

The Hottest Thing In Kids Shoes

She takes a step over to the fireplace and when she turns back around she is holding a suede girls boot. Nothing terribly odd about this, except that smoke is rolling out of and off of it. Literally. In fact, it looks just like one of those smoking shoes that is left behind after Larry, Moe, Curly, or Shemp is blown out of his socks…

We all looked at it. No drama. No excitement. No nothing.

After a moment of us all staring at the smoking boot, in a calm, even voice Alison said, “I think I burned it.”

I replied, just as calmly, “Burned? Actually I think it’s still burning.”

It was. Smoke was still rolling off of it. Out of it. Around it. There even appeared to be some glowing embers spreading along the side around what used to be a buckle. And the rubberized sole was looking just a bit drippy.

The smell of a tire fire was beginning to permeate the room.

We all looked at it again. Calmly. No exclamations. No hurry. Just standing there staring at the hottest thing in fashion footwear for kids, so to speak.

“Yep,” E K finally said with a nod. “It’s definitely on fire.”

Alison said, “I think I’d better put it out.”

“Well, at least the kid’s feet will be warm on the way home,” I offered.

“Well, the other one didn’t burn,” Alison said as she headed out of the room with the smoking shoe with no more urgency than if she were just going to  grab a drink. Over her should she added, “Just this one.”

I shrugged. “I guess we need to move it closer to the fire then.”

I guess that makes me a bad parent.

Moral of the story? There isn’t one really. The kid ended up with a new pair of boots, and I ended up with a story. Of course, I guess I need to remember to ask Alison the next time I see her if the house still smells like someone tossed a steel belted radial into the fireplace.

More to come…

Murv

First she steals my heart…

Then she steals my freedom…

Next she steals my French fries… (right off my plate)

And then she steals my virginity… Wait… No… That was already gone.

Thing is, now she’s stealing my schtick.

Yeah, I know, Richard Castle is already doing that, but I can’t say too much about that. Last time I did I pissed off the fan club shill.

But, even with everything else, now E K – Her Supreme Evil Redheaded Goddess Techno MILF – is taking my schtick. No, not that schtick… She got that one even before we were married, and she doesn’t even let me see it, much less play with it anymore.

I’m talking about the part where I’m funny.

Okay, stop laughing, I am too funny.

Seriously. Enough.

All right then… So, there I was, engaged in my morning routine. You know, the one that starts at 5:30 AM where I get the coffee going, then give her Eebilness a back massage, followed by setting out her breakfast stuff, yadda yadda…

And that’s when it happened.

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, standing in the kitchen in her sheer black negligee and stiletto heeled mules, as she does every single morning, looking like she had just stepped out of the pages of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog…

Wait… That was while I was still asleep. Let’s fast forward a bit…

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, fiery hair sticking out at all sorts of odd angles, one eye shut, clad in sweats and a fuzzy bathrobe. How’s that for truth in advertising?

Anyway, she was standing at the counter peering into a fresh box of Raisin Bran. If you remember my previous blog entries, you know that E K must have Raisin Bran every morning, otherwise people suffer – namely me. I came around the corner just in time to see her eyeball the contents, then eyeball the bowl she had just filled. She did this a couple of times, then closed the top on the box and began to shake it in a most violent fashion. She bounced it up and down, rattled it, beat it on the counter, slung it around in a circle, then shook it some more.

Then she opened it, eyeballed it, eyeballed the bowl, and then did it all over again.

Unable to take it any longer I asked, “Ummmm… What in the world are you doing?”

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins,” she mumbled. You have to understand, when she’s half asleep she speaks the same language she does when she’s drunk (See: Gimme Mai Shooz…)

“What?” I asked.

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins.”

“What?” I asked again, because that’s what I say when I don’t understand someone. Truth is I’ve been saying that a lot lately.

With an exasperated sigh, she cocked her head, put a hand on her hip, drew in a breath and half yelled, “I’m redistributing the raisins!”

“Oh, okay…” I replied. I stood and watched her in silence for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

She pointed at the bowl and said, “Two scoops in every box and I’ve got one of ’em right here.”

I love you honey. I even obey you and try not to complain too much when you beat me severely, use me as a doormat, and steal my French fries…

But now you’re crossing the line. Observational Satire and the associated witty commentary are MY things. You need to stick with being unbelievably smokin’ hot and incredibly evil. It works for you.

Me, on the other hand, humor is all I’ve got.

More to come…

Murv