Why Ask Emma?

Carol will be posting about a subject soon that drives both of us to a level of insanity that only our children should be able to do.  I want to add my two cents before she posts, because if I don't, I'll forget what I wanted to say.  Common occurrence now.  I will immediately interrupt you while you are talking, if a thought comes to my mind that I need to share.  I know it's horribly rude.  It's something I've lectured my children on for the past 20 years.  Let's just say, age has taken over and politeness has been vanquished.

Beerhound is a master at The Interruption but we give him space because he's ADD.  Around here, we'll call out, "Hey ADD boy, we get it." "Okay, ADD boy, (snap, snap) stay with us man." "Looky, looky, shiny thing. Jeez what an ADD boy."  We're a very vicious family.  I admit it.  I'm going to blame it on my mother because at the moment that is Bonnie's basis for all of life's failures including her own.  I feel I should have the same excuse.  I resent and blame my mother and Bonnie gets to resent and blame me.  Me, me, me.  It's all about me.   Normally that would make me happy.  Being the center of the universe always does give me a little thrill but, in this particular instance, I'm not throwing rose petals and kisses.

I am the Wonder Woman of Destruction in her life. I'm the reason her world is adrift in a sea of confusion.  Yesterday, she even blamed me for making her blond which she no longer wants to be because "it's the only thing anyone ever notices" and her hair, unless she's life-guarding and out in the sun, tends to turn a very light brown at the root.  This means she has to keep her roots colored because frankly it looks weird to have dark roots with long blond hair.  Oh, don't get me wrong, her hair is blond.  It grows out blond.  Strangest thing you have ever seen and evidently, that is my fault.  She's had genetics.  I'm not going to bother trying to explain DNA to her.  She'd just look at me, with those green eyes, and that face (if you have a 19/20 year old, you know what I mean) and say, rather pointedly, "Don't you have a degree in History or something."  What a little shit.

I'm going to be my mother/father for a moment.  This is truly scary for me so don't throw it back in my face.  I honestly never had any desire to emulate either one of them.  "I can't wait until she has kids of her own.  I hope I'm around to see it.  I'm going to laugh my fucking ass off."

Wow, I think all the blood in my head just pooled at the bottom of my toes.

I do have a point, as always.

Carol is going to write about boys who insist on wearing their pants around their knees, belted no less, with their ass showing, or rather boxers.  I think it's a great subject. "Go for it Carol", I said.  "You could even talk to Emma because for the life of me I don't see what the attraction is.  Emma's sensible.  She'll give you the down home truth about how her and her friends just laugh at those boys and consider them idiots."

At this point, I should of remembered, that Emma is a curiosity to our family.  None of us really understand her or how she thinks.  Being with Emma is like being blind and living in the same house for 16 years but every day someone changes the furniture around.  Yelps of pain are heard and one is in a constant state of minor bodily bruising, especially stubbed toes.  Given their incredibly ugly appearance, you don't really appreciate toes until you can't use them.  Let's just give them a big "Toot, toot."

 

***Yup, I was there Saturday morning, tweeting away.  If you don't get it, don't worry.  Let's just say, eating like that, even growing up, is why I'm headed to the cardiologist this month to take care of a minor blockage at the age of 49.  Not to mention my father, who had a quadruple bypass at 52.  And no, we're not the 6000 pound people who can't get out of their house.  A word to the wise, you don't have to be anywhere near obese to have a heart attack.  Toot, toot.***

 

As Emma and I were driving home the other day, we passed a boy who has lived on our street for as long as we can remember.  Nice kid.  Bonnie's age.  He was out taking care of his mom's lawn.  Are you asking where his pants were located? No. I'll tell you anyway.  Down around his knees with his belt buckled.  What is it with plaid boxers?  I immediately began telling Emma about Carol's post and how we wanted her to give us the teenage girls viewpoint so that maybe these boys would wise up.  No, you're not attracting teenager girls, you doofus.

Emma, looked right at me, and said, "What? I think he's really cute.  Did you see that chest? Wow!"

Cars are no texting or talking on cell phone zones.  They are not, keep your eyes on the road even though your daughter has just completely blind sided you and if asked by Carol to talk about the idiocy of boys wearing pants around their knees, intends to stab you in the back while doing a pirouette, zones.  I. Ran. Over. The. Curb.  (Luckily it was my curb).

"But what about his pants, Emma?" I asked, quite incredulously.

"What? His pants are kind of cute."

She's looking back at him while she's talking, the traitor.

"Fucking A, Emma, (sorry folks, I've been known to say that word in front of my kids. Live with it.  They do.  And they're still pretty good kids) do you mean his pants or his boxers?"

"Well, both I guess.  Although I don't really like the color of his boxers.  I would of picked something in a blue."

I'm signing her up for Women's studies classes as I write.  I'm a feminazi for god's sake.  I thought I raised strong competent daughters who looked down on men, as it should be.  I was wrong.

I'm giving up.  Between Bonnie and Emma, I can no longer hold my head up high.  Thank you girls, thank you very much, you little viperous traitors.  What is that you wanted for your birthday?  Tell me again?  Did I hear a trip to Chuck E. Cheese and a shirt that I've picked out?

Carol, scratch Emma.  She's a lost cause.

P.S. She took the weekend to figure out how to do plumbing in her bathroom because she wants to change the faucets.  Has stopped reading Nietzsche and has moved on to the speeches of Frederick Douglas.  I want you all to know, he was a woman hater.

I'm going to go have some vodka now.

Susan

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