Great Roaring Tales of Life On the Banks of the Pinchgut! Thrilling Yarns of Tepanyaki, Boobs, A Fancy Department Store, More Boobs, Blue Skies, Buzzards, Parade-of-Homes-Induced Backaches, MICE (Eek!), Happy Birthday to You, Oh No, Auburn's Gonna Lose Again, Inexorable Armadillo Invasion, Three Overtimes!?, Photographs with Carrot-Top, Spiritual Growth, and Boy Am I Tired.

Good morning, class! (Grumble-grumble)

Well, she was a good one this weekend, although I feel like I've been beat with a chain. Luckily, I am gainfully employed as a minor bureaucrat, allowing me time to sleep.

Alas, Friday night was not pizza night. Because we had a special surprise for Middle Girl's 10th birthday (surprising because I didn't find out about it until I got home) of a nice meal at Shogun Japanese Steakhouse over on the Old Florida Short Route (now know simply as "280" or "the Gateway to Childersburg.")

Got home, sit down, stand right back up and head out the door with squealing kids. Nothing like sitting inches away from a giant sheet of hot stainless steel as crazed foreigners with knives spray flaming cooking oil and throw bits of raw meat.

CLANGGGG!!Herrowevbody--wecookinwihgaznow--CLANGityCLangityCLANNGGCLANNG--tictictictic--OohhhhhhFIRE!!! There was us, and three buxom twenty-something chicks out for a night on the town. Baby Girl was right in the center, and of course had to see if the giant sheet of metal was really hot. Yes, it's hot. Jonathan and I were on the chef's left, the chicks were on his right, and Mom, Oldest and Middle Girls filled in the rest of the spots in between.

FIRE!!!!!!!!!Ahhhfryricegoodverygoodfryrice--buttahondahriceCLANNNGclangclangJapaneseCocaCorah--Youprettygirlsyoulikedefryrice?EVVVrybodylikemyfryrice!

He was good chef, and actually spoke good English, but you know, the customers expect a high level of Oriental wackiness, so... I had the scallops and chicken, which was really good and then it was time for the catching of the shrimp. As during the rest of the meal, the chef concentrated first on the night-out girls, who were pretty game about playing, and it is a credit to our cook that he did not make any off-color remarks when the blonde on the end kept saying "I've got my mouth open as wide as it'll go! Just get it in my mouth!" Rather, he concentrated on making sure the shrimp bits hit just a liiiiitle lower than chin level, trying for the three-pointer into the cleavage. I know this, because my shrimp came in nice and high and I caught it, no problem. I know if I had worn my bustier, things would have been different.

After I left half a day's pay in the nice little sleeve, we decided to go do a little shopping for birthday clothes back up the hill at the painfully twee Summit shopping center, home of the only Saks Fifth Avenue in Alabama, along with large dollops of over-the-Mountain attitude. (Fer cryin' out loud, folks, the place used to be called New Merkle!) --Anyway, we stopped by Parisian, which is also owned by the Saks folks, and I proceeded to try to find a place to sit down, knowing that Girl Shopping was beyond my ability to maintain my sanity. I took the three other kids over to the kid's shoe department while Mom took Rebecca. Sit down, almost get to a restful state and feel a little tap--"Daddy, I gots to go pee-pee." "Really?" I knew the answer--there IS no other answer. The only real question is if we will get there in time. Some smart person put the restrooms right by the kid department, so luckily we made it with time to spare. Then Boy had to go. Then Oldest decided SHE needed to go.

Freshly unladen, we trudged back around to the shoes and sat down once more, then Mom came by and said we were decamping to the juniors clothing over across the store. "Up kids!" We had to go past the restrooms, and this time it was Middle Girl who had to go. She goes in, Mom goes in. Baby Girl goes in..."Hey! You just went five minutes ago!" Wicked grin, "Yes, I knows that, but I has to go once more!" "Well, go on, then!" Then in goes Oldest.

I give up. I just flat GIVE! UP!

It is the stuff of cliche and wry witticisms, but dadgummit there really is some sort of primal woman thing that causes all of you to wanna go to the pot together! Were I an evolutionist, I would say that this trait has come down to us from some sort of defense mechanism from when we were hunting and gathering termites and berries, so that the women would not have to go off alone to pee and possibly be eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. 'Strength in numbers' and all; and if a tiger DID manage to come by, it could be efficiently killed and skinned and a nice wrap and handbag be made from its hide, along with a really cute tiger claw necklace (accessories really make the ensemble).

Meanwhile, the proto-men would stand around in the clearing, holding the bags of dead termites and past-ripe berries and talk sports and break wind. That's what Jonathan and I did.

"You excited about your game tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir."

Wait.

"What time is it?"

"8:15."

Wait. Wait.

"That's a neat picture."

"Yep. It's a daisy."

"Can I get a drink of water?"

"Yep."

Wait.

As we continue this incredible train of scintillating conversation, a statuesque brunette exits the restroom in full post-Oscar party get-up--tight black slacks, cruel shoes, embroidered silk halter top, and two monuments to the art of augmentation mammoplasty. Good grief, that's a lot of effort just to go shopping. She turned and flowed down the hallway to the service desk.

"Daddy."

"Yeah, buddy?"

::Sotto voce:: "She didn't have a bra on!"

"Yep; how 'bout that. D'ya think she mighta forgot and left it at home?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither, little friend."

Just then Reba and the rest of the gathering party came out of the restroom, and we started down the hallway, too. Reba was snickering and said, "I just saw the funniest thing--there was this girl in there with a halter top on, and as I walked up to wash my hands she reached her hand in the left side and 'Uhgh!" pushed that one up, and then, she reached over on the other side and 'Umph'ed that one up, too!"

"Yep, we saw her, too. Tell Mama what you said about her, bud." She laughed and laughed.

She and Rebecca went on to Juniors, and the rest of us found the chairs in the service department and flopped down like we were waiting for the next Greyhound. We waited and waited. Jonathan went to sleep. We waited some more, and Ashley closed her eyes and her mouth dropped open.

Catherine didn't have the decency to go to sleep, preferring instead to read each of the seven identical catalogs stacked on the shaky glass table beside our chairs. In addition to the catalogs, there was a five foot high dried stick arrangement in a tall glass jar full of colorful layers of seeds that shook and threatened to make a HUGE mess everytime the table was nudged. Did I mention who was sitting beside it? Up, down, touch table edge, get catalog, up, down, get catalog, touch tall glass vase, bounce chair, hit table. By the time the store FINALLY closed, I was exhausted from trying to keep this ugly mess of decorator crap off the floor. A couple of times there I seriously thought about just grabbing it and flinging it out toward the handbags just to get the torture over with. But, it managed to stay in one piece, and I still had at least one nerve left that wasn't frayed.

Finally the store called time and we paid the bill. What a huge, HUGE bill. That'll teach me. I'm not sure what, though. But it's hard to say anything when Mom was the one doing the picking, and it was for a sweet little daughter's birthday present. Cold old skinflint that I am, even I know better that to step over into that particular trap. We go all around the store like rats trying to get out of a maze and eventually make it to the van and load up for the trip home. Into the long line of cars heading down the hill, ready to turn to go to lovely sweet home. Wait, line moves a bit. Stops. Wait. Home, home homehomehome home. "Daddy I gots to go to th' potty agin! Really bad!"

That slight pinging sound you heard was the last nerve going away. What a funny sound they make!

We are in the far left lane. There is a service station up the hill to the right and...if...I...can...managgggge...to...wait...no one's comin...crap, they just pulled around...ahhhhhh...there's an open...dang...ahhh..."DADDY! I NEED TO GO!"..."Wait just A...Dut...Flom...Shoe...DOGGONE MINUTE! Daddy's trying his DEAD LEVEL best to GET OVER and this...BAD PERSON...in this...this...MUSTANG won't pull on down so I can get over in the lane to turn RIGHT and go up the...HILL...and take you to the FRESH...CLEAN...CHEVRONSTATIONDernit the light's green and I CAN'T GET OVER!"

We turn left and go on down the hill. ::sniff:: "Daddy, I really need to go potty." "I know, sugar, but those EVIL people didn't know that and we'll have to go right down here and try to find another place." We get to the interstate ramp and I look back and the little stump has GONE TO SLEEP! Less than five minutes after the last call, and no more than a half mile and she's off in dreamland--probably looking for the Magic Potty Forest--meaning we had a little bit of time before she found it and decided it was too good to pass up. Oh, yeah, we needed gasoline in the van, too, having used up everything in the tank except for the dribbles around the fuel pump. What a long night this has turned into.

But, we actually made it all the way to Trussville without running out of gas, or unintended whizzery. Gas, in the house, tinkle, off to bed for the kids, and time for Dad to get everything ready for soccer games the next day. Mom would have helped, except for the queasiness brought on by something she ate. It's just all some sort of Gift of the Magi type of a deal. Well, not really.

Anyway, she went on to bed, too, and I finally crawled in and set the alarm for sometime when it's still dark. I laid my big old head down and the stupid alarm clock went off. I looked at it quizzically. 6:00 am.

I rolled around tried to strangle myself with the sheets, then tried to hit my head on the headboard to knock myself back out, but neither worked so I got up and got dressed. Got Boy and Middle Girl up, go them dressed. Left, went by the store to get them some muffins and Gatorade and set out for the wilds of Pinson. Found the park with no trouble, other than the fact that we were about an hour early. Golly, that sure looked longer on the map. It was okay, though. I had forgotten what it was like to be early for something.

Finally folks started showing up and we got out onto the field. What a gorgeous day Saturday was. Clear, bright, just a bit of a chill, sky blue as...as...well, as the sky. Tiny puffs of clouds. Loudmouthed Yankee coach screaming at the kids. The Pinson team arrived in full force with about 16 kids, and we just barely had 11. Yep, we got our tails handed to us. Those kids were good, and had a couple of Hispanic kids who obviously had been playing soccer since birth.

Final score was 7-0, although we should have known something bad was going to happen when we saw the first buzzard circling off in the distance. Right at the last whistle about eight more squadroned past and joined up with the first bird. Odd. But appropriate. Jonathan didn't get to play a whole lot, and when he was out there he had to watch out for being swarmed by his own teammates going for the ball. He had fun, though.

We loaded up and went back down toward civilization, and to Rebecca's game down in Riverchase. At the very last possible moment, I decided I would run by our home park and see how Reba and Cat were doing at her game, and a lucky thing it turned out to be. We walked up (in the midst of Little Girl's team getting squashed once again) and found that Becca's game had been cancelled due to all the water from Isadore. Saved us hours of delay and many wasted miles, and made me have nice thoughts. Which meant that I needed to do penance.

Got home and noticed how incredibly productive the weeds had been. There was no use in putting it off any more. I told Reba that I guessed I better get the mower out. "Yeah, and you know the Parade of Homes is this weekend, and it really does look pretty weedy." The Parade of Homes is where the real estate sorts try to move THEIR merchandise, NOT ME! I really couldn't care less if my house looks nice for THEIR shindig!

Except, I do. I hate being the one house that looks like it's being used as a front for a meth lab.

So, out to the Large Plastic Playhouse that Is Not the Least Bit of a Storage Shed and open the door. Bird seed everywhere. Aw, CRAP! Now I know why the traps in the garage hadn't caught anything--all the mice decided to move out to the annex and have themselves a high old time and live in the bird seed bag! Little jerks. I rolled the mower out and underneath it was a big pile of grass. LITTLE JERKS built a nest in MY LAWNMOWER! I pulled the bag of seed out and sat it on the ground outside and all of a sudden--whish--one of the little varmints comes running out from under the mower. ALL RIGHT NOW! This is WAR! I turn over the mower and give it a good once over to find any more of his little varmint friends and set it back down, not finding any. Turds! I turn around to gas the mower up and--whish--ANOTHER one runs out of hiding and I'm trying to chase it and stomp on it and trip on the bag and the mower and yell at it to STOP and it doesn't and the STUPID thing runs right back into the shed DANGIT! Well, if there are any MORE in the mower, they're DEAD MEAT NOW! I primed it and pulled the cord, half expecting to hear the tell-tale high pitched sizzle and thump of victory. Nothing but the sweet sound of the Briggs and Stratton. Well, I guess that's all of the little meeses. I turn it around and start toward the front yard.

Whish!

I just hung my head.

Go started making my circuit and noticed that not only had the grass gotten high, it had also gotten very wide, growing way out onto the driveway and sidewalk. I looked up and down the street, and saw that once again, I was the last person on the block to edge the yard. ::heavy sigh::

I traipse back around and get out the edger. Edge yard. What a stinking mess. Go get shovel and rake and broom and garbage can to pick up the trimmings. Not very successfully. Go get blower. After no small amount of effort, the yard is neatly trimmed and the concrete free of dead weed piles. Back to cutting the grass. Took forever. Cut empty cut empty cut empty. Get through and see the little pots of mums. Do I? I really don't want to. "Are you going to finish putting out the poor little flowers?" Oh SURE! Anthropomorphize them! "Ahhhhuhhhhhhh. Yeah. I reckon, so." "They'll appreciate it, and I'll give you a big hug!"

The things I do for semiregular female companionship.

Put up edger, mower, shovel, rake, blower, power cord. Get out post hole diggers. Get about a quarter done, "Come on kids, supper! Do you want to eat?" I look around at the pots and the lengthening shadows. "No, go ahead and feed them and I'll be in after while." And I was! And our house looks good enough to sell! Except I don't have the energy to move.

Got in, ate supper, then up to help the kids get hair dried and ear wax cleaned out and toenails clipped. Popped in Cat's favorite CD, the soundtrack from "O Brother, Where Art Thou!" and did a duet with her of "I'll Be Somewhere (Working For My Lord)" and "Man of Constant Sorrow." We're going on the road as soon as she learns to play the mandolin. All of them finally got in the bed, got my shower and remembered that Auburn was supposed to be playing. I turned on the early news and it was 10-0 in favor of Syracuse! ARRGGHHH! I almost turned on the radio to listen to it, but as I predicted I wouldn't get to see or hear it, and since I was so stinking tired I couldn't see straight, I set the clock and went to bed.

And that stupid alarm clock went off again. Up, breakfast, find out Auburn won 37-34 in THREE OVERTIMES!, church clothes, stack of Bibles, teach class, sit down on the pew and can't even make it through the Lord's Supper before Catherine is wanting to leave. Go. Out. Now. Not to potty, just to go and plunder. Finally convince her to wait decent amount of time into the last song, and she can be restrained no longer. We go back to the back and she colors in her coloring book. Church over, nice lunch at Big Dragon, home of small buffet and Yet More Breasts, see our next door neighbors and the girls' cheerleading coach from last year, and run home to change into soccer clothes ONE MORE TIME for pictures. All afternoon. One of the photographers was a nice young lady who was very sweet and looked exactly like Carrot Top. All I can say is if you're gonna look like Carrot-Top, it's better to be a girl than a guy.

Then back home and change into church clothes ONE MORE TIME and head to the building ONE MORE TIME and find a startling thing on the road to Leeds. No, no sudden blinding light and voice from heaven, but an honest to goodness dead armadillo! It used to be that the armadillo line started south of Montgomery and now it seems like it's running northward like a runaway freight train. This nasty little critter was right at the little sliver of Trussville that juts into St. Clair County. Yuck. Makes it hard for the possums, that's for sure.

Anyway, to church, tried not to sleep during the sermon, back home for soup and sammiches, into bed, and that STUPID ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF AGAIN, so I came here and typed this.

So there, now. Pardon me while I snore loudly.

[Note to self--be sure to check the way the page looks when you string together a bunch of tepanyaki-chef banter, especially if you have the text justified. Sorry for the inconvenience--]
posted by Terry at 8:27:00 AM