I just groomed myself into a bloody nose.
(Not picking—blowing, people. Geez.) And FYI, that's something that will never, ever, EVER happen to my children...or even my dear husband, for that matter. Mostly they just wait for me to point, pull and pick out the things that shouldn't be sprouting from their faces. I have to admit, I'm happy to oblige.
Anyway, I just returned from my daughter's softball game which was apparently really crowded, because demons from Hell couldn't find an empty spot, so took the lawn chair next to me, making their thoughts my own the entire game. So like, for some reason, I became really annoyed with the woman sitting in front of me, violently rolling my eyeballs at her excessively large upper arms. I may have even named them TWINKIE ARMS, where instead of a bone, it was filled with FATTY LARD INNARDS. Yeah, that's right. That's the kind of mean and ugly I'm talking about. We won't go into my OWN Ding Dong abdominals— Geez, pot calling kettle black...
And then there was the less-than-stellar ball playing that I surely couldn't have done better, but for some reason, had NBL expectations of these 11-12 year old girls. Cussing and bemoaning under my breath, you'd have thought I had money riding on the outcome. Or, at the very least, that we were a highly competitive, recreationally vigorous family.
But such is not the case, friends. In fact, I had picked Julia up from swimming mere moments before arriving for the game—her hair in a dripping wet braid, makeup smeared under eyes and lo and behold, sauntering along in flip flops. Had to have Ster bring her tennis shoes before they yelled, "Play ball!" So you can see, it's not like I had much vested in the match—just decided to go all bat-shiz crazy about their perceived shortcomings.
Anyway, I was crawling out of my skin with irritation the entire time. And yes, they lost.
BEE AE DEE!
Probably because of old Twinkie Arms Mom up front—distracting the players with her Hostess aroma. But my point is this—I kept my thoughts to myself, people. No shouting matches with the Dump (dumb+ump=dump.) No "WE WANNA PITCHER, NOT A BELLY ITCHER" chanting from the sidelines. Not even spitting sunflower shells into the WAY TOO CURLY HAIR of the other woman sitting in front of me, who probably deserved to find some wayward nuts and debris when she returned home, simply because she had the misfortune of sitting in front of me.
None of that.
Because I have you—my BBFF's. I was able to keep it from the masses, because I knew I could come home and SPEW THIS TRIPE ALL OVER MY BLOG.
For which I apologize.
And thank you.
And lastly, say...
YOU'RE WELCOME.
NOW LET'S PLAY BALL!
