Clint has been out of town. See? You didn’t know that because I didn’t whine about it. I’m not big into broadcasting when he leaves town for a while. It used to be because I didn’t want anyone to know that I was alone with the kids. Of course, now that I have a Doberman who will eat your face off if you come near any of us, I feel much safer. (I think he made the pizza delivery dude soil his pants on Thursday night. I tried not to laugh, but it was seriously funny.) This time I didn’t say anything about it because I have been too busy and too damn tired to post ANYTHING. Murphy and his friggin law have been all over us the past few days. For those of you who are thinking that I have matured enough to not whine about it, get real. You know I am going to spew my whiney bile all over you!
Shall we start with Friday. (Thursday was just the possible law suit waiting to happen from the pizza dude who crossed himself as he left my house. It’s not like he was bitten. Just really, really scared. And it didn’t help that I had an extra kid in the house for 3 days. I mean, why wouldn’t they laugh at him? Like I said…seriously funny.) So on Friday I plan on having a casual lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in ages and then pick up Clint’s pay check. Across town. Driving on 2 tollways and a freeway to get there. Major sacrifice, but I can totally be bought. Access to his check when he is out of town and he works adjacent to A MALL? Oh, hell, yes, honey I will pick up your check.
Except the check was no where to be found. Which I discovered as I got there. I turn around and go back home on my freeway and 2 tollways. Just in time to hear my sister’s panic phone call to me asking me why Brandon was calling my parent’s house asking for me. My son Brandon. In Plano. Calling Houston. Wha-huh? It was a child asking for me. By name. By my married name, not my maiden name. A huge and very strange mystery. Was it you? Tell me. Obsessive compulsive people don’t like these kinds of mysteries.
But never fear, Clint’s boss called back and they found the check. I was so very happy to be able to jump back in my car, race down the 2 tollways and freeway to pick it up. Only this time it was too late to go shopping. There was SOCCER to be played.
Did I mention my car was trying to die on me this whole entire time? Sputtering and acting like an old man with emphysema. What’s a girl to do? I cannot have 3 kids on a soccer tournament weekend without a car. So I did what I always do when there is problem with the car and Clint is not around. I added fluids to the car. Gas. Transmission fluid. Oil. Windshield wiper fluid. (One cannot be too careful.) It totally worked.
Until I started the car and tried to drive it. Still acting up, but if I turn the radio up and don’t drive between 40-45 or 60-65, it sputters less. Works for me until I can go without a car long enough to have someone look at it. (Car-men, quit slapping your forehead. Just be happy I am not yours to take care of.)
But wait! It gets so much better! Remember that soccer tournament. The one where they play a gazillion games all crammed into one weekend of tournament hell? I got to do that with all the kids, too. I actually love soccer, so that part of it wasn’t so bad. The game after game after game back and forth crap got old, but you do what you have to do, right? But you see, when it comes to the game itself, I am not a calm “sit-in-your-chair-and-watch-the-game” mom. I am a pacing, cheering, “don’t-talk-smack-or-I’ll-show-you-smack” kind of mom. Hey! I am the goalie’s mom. It is in our genes to be freaks. Especially when an idiot official makes an awful call (SO BAD I KNEW IT WAS BAD!) which results in a hard kick to my goalie which caused him GREAT PAIN. Do I really need to explain my level of freaktitude when a bad call resulted in my kid getting hurt? There are no FCC censors on the sidelines, people.
But trooper that he is, Zarek would not come out of the game. He wanted to see it through. We won. (Go team!) But his thumb hurt. Not so much that he wouldn’t play that night. Through the tears. And the swelling. Let’s just say we celebrated our loss with a trip to the e.r.
Zarek is now a walking “Gig ‘em Aggies” ad. Poor guy. Of course, when I called Clint to tell him we are going to the e.r., he asked me how the CAR was doing. THE. CAR. Let me see. On the way to the e.r. with his son. How is the car? On the way to the E.R…..car okay? He did not get hung up on, but he did get some serious attitude. (Yes, I understand what he was saying and why he asked etc. Shut up. It made me mad and I am spewing my whiney bile, remember?)
But all’s well that ends well. Meaning, he had another soccer game this morning that we could all drag our sorry, exhausted “at the e.r. too late to be dealing with this crap” butts to at 9:30am. (No soccer for Zarek, but we were still there. Go team. Rah rah blah!)
We still have one more obligation to attend tonight. Just one more. But don’t worry. There will be alcohol served, so I will be just fine. (In case you were worried.)
So, after all of that verbal vomit, let me ask you a question.
Raise your hand if you wish YOU were in Clint’s shoes when he gets home this afternoon.
Yeah. Smart move.
Dear Reader~ I am too worn out, exhausted, not to mention my give-a-damn is broken to proof read this. Feel free to ignore typos and misspellings. I will edit later. Thanks ever so much.~ The Management