Bellicose Woman, or…

Of course you know, this means war. Well, now, before I get all started on this—good morning! Springtime is busting out everywhere and the past three days have been absolutely gorgeous. Now then, enough Mr. Nice Guy!

[Warning. The post below contains a gratutious negative stereotype of members of the legal profession. Readers should use caution when consuming this product.]

Well, wait a minute—not quite so fast. Since the first part of this story is actually the telling of my wife, I have to stop here and pay her a compliment of sorts. First, I love her. And I like her a whole lot, too. However, sometimes my mind has a tendency to wander, and she happens to be a very verbal person. In telling me of Important Things, she has a tendency to add in small, tiny bits of material that, although Quite Interesting and probably Necessary, to my feeble acorn-sized brain they contribute nothing to keeping my attention. I will admit right now (out of sheer terror) that this is ENTIRELY a character flaw in my own constitution. My inability to stay with the telling of What Terry Needs To Get At The Store (for example) is clouded by my own disinterest about the color of the package, why we need more than one, what her co-worker’s recipe turned out like, the friend of the co-worker who is getting married, the type of veil she picked out, the location of the reception, oh—and get a loaf of bread, the last time someone had a reception and the menu of it, the nubby texture of the napkins, etc., etc. Information, I will freely admit, which must be of some interest but I am too impatient to find out what.

As you can understand, occasional prompting on my part is required to get the list completed and get back from the store, but that is really minor compared to a week later when I am expected to remember the name of the co-worker’s friend’s husband. “Don’t you remember? I told you about him last week!” Uh. No. It is my fault, and I accept that.

Another artifact of my short (although, at least to me, rather normal) attention span is that CRUCIAL information is often delayed—in telling of supposed insults and slights to the honor of my kith and kin, I often leap toward conclusions, which, were I to patiently consume all that is being told me (including information about various sales on garden items and the telephone message that was a wrong number) would turn out to be only inconsequential. I am then scolded for being such a hothead—“Just let me tell you what happens and don’t get so mad!” “BUT!!…” “Let me finish…” Okay. Then I am left to wonder if it was no big deal, why was it prefaced with, “Don’t get mad.” Yes, I know—best not to question such things.

IN ANY EVENT, the reason for my own verbosity is to stand as an example of the stark difference in the way Miss Reba usually conducts her conversation, and the way in which she told her story of Friday. The story itself is one of ANGER and BETRAYAL, and it was told to me with a fury and directness that left me no time to grow angry or interrupt or ask that the subject be returned to. My weakness of attention was obliterated with sharp, deft verbal jabs that kept me fully involved and in the end applauding and cheering for more.

The point being—screwing around with my kids is the surest way to bring down a load of highly focused estrogen on top of you. After it’s over, don’t be surprised to wake up like Sisera, with Jael standing over you with a hammer and your head nailed to the ground.

ONWARDS, then. As you recall, I was gloating Friday about teaching Little Boy the finer points of capitalism. I got in the car and headed home, ready for another long but too short weekend. Got in the back door and met up with a Very Angry Reba coming out of the den. Oldest was in there on the computer, and I figured something had gone amiss, but got the following:

“Went to pick up the kids, and Jonathan said two boys had come up to him in the amphitheater and took his box of pins, and when he got it back, all of his money was gone.”

Rebecca had been there the day before to help cut down on such foolishness, but wasn’t with him Friday. She told us that one day a bunch of money had gone missing in the office, too, and the suspicion was a couple of kids who knew where it was scooped it up. Anyway, as I said, this is usually where I start flying off the handle, but I didn’t even get a second…

“So, I asked him what they looked like and couldn’t really get a good answer, so I left them all there in the gym and I went right up there to the office. The custodian was there and I told him I wanted to speak to someone right now. He called around the corner to the assistant principal—‘Ms. --, you have a PARENT out here!’ She came out and I told her my son had been selling the rest of his pins and two boys had taken his money and I wanted to know what was going to be done about it. I told her that we didn’t send our kids up there to be picked on and have their money taken and that I wanted that money back NOW. She asked if I knew who took it and I told her I didn’t, and Jonathan didn’t know who they were either, but if we had to get every kid in afterschool care to line up, we were gonna do it.”

Wow. She’s on a roll!

“She said she would find out what was going on and wondered if it could have been some of the other RLC students, and I told her that I didn’t know, but for her to fix it and get him his money back. So, I got them all back in the car, and got home, and the phone rang and it was his RLC teacher.”

Now, this is where is really gets good…

“So she says she heard Jonathan had a problem, and I told her yes, that some boys had taken all of his money out of his box, and you know what she said? ‘Oh, those were some of my boys. I had them go around and collect everyone’s money.’ And I told her that Jonathan didn’t MAKE any money, that he had a loss, and that the $16 in his box was our money. She wanted to know how much we had spent and I told her nearly $30, and she had this funny little ‘oh’, and said something like, ‘oh, I guess he didn’t make any money,’ and I said, ‘You’re doggone right he didn’t and I want that money back on Monday.’ She said she had already deposited it in their account, which I KNOW is a bunch of BS, but I told her that I guessed she could get it right back out and anything else that he made that afternoon, too, and send it home with him.”

She was in full swing now and ready to daintily yank a certain teacher’s head off and crap down her neck hole.

“And THEN you know what?”

I shook my head no.

“Then she said something about trying to help him sell more by marking the prices down!! He wasn’t making anything to begin with, and then she comes in and marks them down so he’ll make even less, and THEN comes in there like she’s not only going to take the profits, BUT ALL THE MONEY! It’s bad enough that they want ALL the profits, but they want to take EVERYTHING! Well, they never had to deal with ME. You don’t mess with my boy!”

As I said Friday, I was gloating about that they needed to look at the show biz model and ask for a cut of the gross. They bypassed THAT completely and just started grabbing cash like a bunch of …SHOW BIZNESS LAWYERS!! Eeek! Anyway, by this time I had moved past how mad I was at this Commie ne’er-do-well teacher, and had gone on to admiring the beautiful blue of my wife’s flashing eyes, and the touch of color upon her cheeks. And the sincere relief that I was on her side.

“There now, I didn’t give you a chance to interrupt. How’d you like THAT!”

Quite well, m’dear. Quite well, indeed.

More weekend stuff to come, but right now I have to go have lunch with My Friend Jeff™ and swap car magazines. See you in a bit.
posted by Terry at 11:23:00 AM