Kid Sensation: Living dangerously

Hey, you guys!  I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie.  The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie.  My initial reaction was, “Of course not.  You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ”  Ignorant, I know.  But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato.  Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened.  One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years.  Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie.  Conclusion:  I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie.  I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans.  I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death.  And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl.  No.  This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together.  Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time.  Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks.  Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire.  However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation.  (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents.  I’m not gonna front though.  It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl.   The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.”  But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

ddbw
All day, every day.

 

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air.  We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA:  Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad.  But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself.  He hates repeating himself even more than I do.  Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border.  Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote:  “Okay, Okay.  Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here.  When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening.  No, maddening isn’t right.  It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red.  I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE!  NOW!”  It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself  from the room.  I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony.  I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out.  Living with Grandma?  No, she lives half a mile from here.  Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever.  He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys.  But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day.  I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask.  I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

Howareya?

Hey ya’ll.  I know I promised all sorts of things and I have not delivered.  What had happened was I wrote a few and I lost some of my work and then I blamed my blog.  So I stopped writing for a while.  Also, I’m pursuing an MFA in creative writing, so I’ve been writing (my own stuff) and editing (other people’s stuff) for that and then not wanting to even look at a keyboard or monitor after that.

Anyhoo, how have you been?  Yeah, yeah, now back to what’s important—me.  Just kidding, you know I love you guys.  But seriously, back to me.

One, Wondergirl is eleven.  Or as I prefer to call it:  Eleventeen.  Wondergirl has never been easy, but good gravy, you guys, this chick is acting brand new.  Like she has never met me or the Big Man before.  Well, in the words of Kevin Hart, “She gon’ learn today.”

So she’s stomping around here, slamming doors and such, when finally, the Big Man has had it.  Now, the petty stuff he lets me handle—I enjoy being petty.  I really do.  I will argue with a seven-year-old and fight a baby.  (BTW, shout out to Birdie for teaching me how to fight a baby.  It’s an art, you know.)  Apparently, however, door slamming isn’t petty.  From what I surmise, it’s tantamount to property damage and the Big Man ain’t having it.

He looks at me and says, “I warned her.”  And in all fairness, he did.

Okay, so a few weeks ago, she was acting all stompy and mean and door-slammy.  The Big Man was not cool with this, so he called her down to his almighty recliner and told her:

“Look.  If you ever slam that door again, it’s coming off.” And then he went back to watching Miami Vice.  The show, not the terrible, terrible movie.  Colin Farell? Really?

Anyway, I guess Wondergirl forgot.  I forgot too, but then, I’m not the one running around slamming doors.  (Sidenote:  I used to be the Door Slam Empress.  But then one time my dad had enough of my reign and decided to overthrow me with the Bust-the-Door-Open-So-Hard-It-Put-a-Hole-in-the-Wall technique.) The Big Man did not forget and he had had it up to hyeah (“here”, for those not familiar with parental grammar).  So he looks at me and says, “It’s coming off.”

At first I thought he meant his calm demeanor and that he was planning on hulking out, which I wasn’t cool with.  But he saw the confused and ready-to-argue look and my face and says, “I mean her door.  Everything isn’t comics, Veeds.”  He’s wrong about that, but I’m just glad he meant her door.

So he goes and gets all these dramatic tools from the garage and trudges upstairs like he’s walking the Green Mile.  Wondergirl suspects nothing.  I am profoundly grateful for this, because I really don’t want K street to fall victim to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object.  (I do know that this is supposed to be physically impossible; this would be the first time people–I PROMISE. It would destroy mathematical academia as we know it.)

So maybe this? Except I'm not there.  I'm making ice cream.
So maybe this? Except I’m not there. I’m making ice cream.

You know that time Roseanne took down Darlene’s door?  This was nothing like that.  The Big Man removed the door and Wondergirl said nothing.  Nothing.  She just looked at him.  Then she cried a little bit and continued to say nothing. And then cleaned her room in silence.

Y’all ain’t hearing me though.

Background:  I have to BEG Wondergirl to clean her room.  BEG.  So now, after punishment, she does it voluntarily?  I’m not buying it. It seems like she’s getting her affairs in order so she can assume a different identity. You know, like after committing a horrific crime.

I’m a coward, though, so I didn’t say anything.  I’m just acting nervous around her and offering lots of ice cream.  Who knows? Maybe being a widow won’t be so bad.

Oh. OH.  Remember I was telling you guys about Omega Prime?  This kid is so awesome I can’t even. So just wait a bit.  It’ll happen.

Bad Wife! Bad, bad, wife!

Okay, so let me say this: I love my husband. Love, love, LOVE the Big Man. However, sometimes I do think things that I do not say. Oh, and after discussing this with a couple of my friends (who shall remain nameless) I know that I’m not the only one. Check this out:

Shutupshutupshutupshutup SHUT. UP.

I decided to stand over here where you are not standing. Why did you follow me?

Is his life insurance paid up? Cause I could live very well on that kind of cash.

What? What do you want now?

If I close my eyes and breathe really deep, maybe he’ll think I’m sleeping.

I don’t really have a headache. I’m not interested in sexytimes with you because I’m still turned off by that horrific garlic fart you cut after dinner.

So the only reason you’re upset is because I’m upset? I know we’re supposed to be one flesh and all, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

Maybe if I don’t say anything, he won’t repeat that.  Oh, well. Guess I was wrong.

How can you be this cheap? How?

No, I don’t want to share my special snack with you.

When someone eats my special snack...
When someone eats my special snack…

We have lived in the same place for years. YEARS. How is it that you don’t know where anything is?

Yes, because grocery shopping is my idea of a good time. Wheeee!

This is what I get for marrying for love.

I’m not PMSing. I’m just telling you that so I can be horrible for the next few days. (I didn’t say this one, but by golly I might just do it.)

I’d run away but I have nowhere to go.

What the barnacles is that smell?

Because I think this show is stupid! I just watch it to hang out with you, but it’s really, really stupid and my eyes are actually rolling themselves.

Oh, you want me to stop reading and pay attention to you? I guess I can do that. (Ok, this one is me.)

Of course we love our significant others. Which is why we don’t say most of this out loud. Well, maybe I do, sometimes. Not the point. The point is, I dunno, love and such.

Did I miss any? Do share.

Why can’t I be Bruce Wayne?

Okay, so I you read my blog on a regular basis (and I know you do, because it’s just that entertaining) then you know that I love me some superheroes. Marvel, DC, Justice League, Avengers, all of it. I’ve already done a post about which super powers I would like to have.  Now I’m going to do this one about which superheroes the people in my life actually are.  I mean, if you think about it, we all have people in our lives that have traits of certain mutants or aliens.  Like, my sister Birdie and I have mutual acquaintance that would be Rogue because she sucks the life out of everyone.  Like that.

Of course, I would be Batman. Wait–The Destroyer has just informed me that I am not Batman.  He is insane.

“Of course I’m Batman.  I’m fabulous all day and then I lurk around all night fighting dirt and crime.  Mostly dirt. Also, I always wear black.” Not sure if Batman wears black because it’s slimming, but whatever.

“Yeah, but Batman carries out his threats.”

“Not the point, look, I’m trying to type here–”

“You’re actually the Punisher.  You just go around busting up everyone’s fun.”

What?  I thought I was fun, not the fun-buster.

“No, it’s just that being the fun-buster is fun for you. That’s why you smile when you do it.”  (Note:  This is not why.  I just have this weird quirk where I smile when I’m angry.  Don’t ask me why, I wish I looked fierce and scary and intimidating.)

“You shut up and let me be Batman before I punch the air out of your lungs.”

He laughed, said “Punisher” and went to eat all the food out of the refrigerator.

I have previously called the Big Man my own personal Hulk.  But now that I think about it, that’s not quite right.  He has no Bruce Banner side to him;  he always just walks around being huge and intense.  He’s the Juggernaut. Like this:

He does that several times a day.

Wondergirl is Captain America.  She doesn’t make the rules, but she sure will enforce them.  With violence.  Sweet, sweet, justified violence.

The Destroyer.  He’s Beast.  No, he’s not blue, and he’s not even really hairy yet.  But he does run around on all fours (not joking)  and can physically do some pretty amazing crap. He’s also pretty smart when he feels like it.

Kid Sensation.  I almost put Kid Sensation down as Iron Man, because of how good he is with technology. But Iron Man talks too much.  So I gave him Cyborg.  I would ask him what he thinks of that, but he won’t say anything, anyway–he’s on the computer trying to buy something behind my back.  Haha, Kid, there’s no money in that account.  There’s no money in any account.  Joke’s on–well, all of us, I guess.

Birdie is Storm.  She’s usually the voice of reason, until she gets mad.  Then it’s lightening bolts and tornadoes for everyone.

Yay!  Family dinner!
Yay! Family dinner!

Ah yes, Supermom.  No, she is not Superman, she is Darkseid.  I’m dead serious.

What about the folks you know?  Who are you?

They also smell.

I just read an article about if it’s okay to call kids jerks.

Real talk, you guys, I didn’t know people didn’t call kids jerks.

Because kids.  Are.  Jerks.

Now, I’m not suggesting that people call kids jerks out loud to their faces. (Even though I do.  All three of my kids are old enough to know when they’re being jerks.) What I’m saying is that kids do stuff that jerks do. Stuff that would make adults unfriend or unfollow or whatever it is people do these days.

Like:

1.)  Correct your speech.  I hate this. You know why?  It’s not like they’re correcting your grammar or anything–they’re correcting you about crap that is completely irrelevant. Kid Sensation is good for it.  I was talking to Kid Sensation about a dvd we got from the library.  “Make sure you have that Blue’s Clues dvd in the case.”  He says, “You mean, Blue’s room.”  Listen, pal, I don’t give a flying fish stick what it’s called, just make sure it’s in the case so we don’t have to pay for it!  Or the time I told him that something he wanted to do was impossible.  He says, “You mean unpossible”.  No, I didn’t, because I can’t mean something that isn’t a word.  That is jerk stuff, right there.

2.) Question you.  I don’t mean ask questions.  I mean question me–two totally different things. When I give specific instructions, I don’t need to hear “why do I have to do it that way? It’s just as good if I do it the sloppy way I want to do it that is destined to fail”.  I obviously have reasons for telling you how to do something a certain way, or maybe I don’t.  Point is, you live here rent-free and you are wearing clothes that I didn’t steal off a bum as well as horrendously overpriced shoes.  If I want the towels folded into thirds, so be it.

3.) Ignore you.  This is grade-A jerk stuff because you know for a fact that they can hear you.  Kid Sensation is also really good at this.  The other day, I asked him to clean up all his Thomas crap.  Nothing.  So I repeated my request.  He didn’t even turn his head.  I raised my voice a bit (a lot) to make sure he could hear me.  Bupkis. So then I said, almost whispering, “Guess I’m gonna have to eat this ice cream all by myself.”  Guess what?  I get, “Ice cream? What ice cream?”  Uh huh.   “No ice cream, I already ate it by myself. Now pick up your Thomas crap.”  Take that, jerk.

4.)Try to go over your head.  This right here is so infuriating, I can’t even.  When I say no, going to the Big Man to plead your case isn’t going to work.  Odds are, he’s going to tell you to ask your mother, anyway.  Oh and being extra sweet and sitting on his lap won’t work either, Wondergirl.  I’ve tried that.

5.) Ask you the same thing repeatedly.  This is going nuclear in the jerk-being department in my book.  I will, never, ever, ever in this life change the answer to a question just because you ask me 546,687 times.  If I said no then,  I promise I will say no the 546,688th time. I guaran-freaking-tee it.

And then I do this.
And then I do this.

I don’t know.  Like I said, my parenting skills are iffy, at best.  What about those of you that are good parents?  Are your kids jerks?

Headed to Match.com

I was doing laundry today, and I was thinking about how much I hate doing laundry.  I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if I could hire someone to do this for me?’

When I was doing the dishes, I thought about how nice it would be to have a maid.

Then it dawned on me.  I don’t need a maid.  I need a wife.

Hear me out on this.

Whether you’re a SAHM or you work, there are certain things that most women do.  ( At least the ones that I have regular contact with.) Yeah, it may be sexist, but really, a lot of us do the cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc.  And a lot of the male partners that I know, when they do this stuff, they call it “helping out.” Which infuriates me almost as much as when they are home with their own children and call it “babysitting.” Like, mad-enough-to-wonder-what-widowhood-is-going-to-be-like infuriating.

My husband has never asked me to help him with the dishes.  Because it’s unspoken that dishes are what I do.  Or order the kids to do.

Here’s how a friend of mine who’s the primary breadwinner in her household put it (they both work, though):  “I have never referred to his job as “helping” me pay the bills.  It’s assumed that it’s both of our responsibility.  That would sound so awful to me if I said ‘Hey honey, thanks for helping me with the water bill this month.’ So why if he folds two towels, does he need me to acknowledge his “help”?  That should just be both of our responsibility as well.  I just want to scream at him: YOU LIVE HERE TOO!” She’s got one heckuva point.

And, yes I have read about how much money it would cost to pay someone to do everything I do.  But the Big Man doesn’t pay me.  (Oh, he’ll make some smart remark in the comments about this.  He’ll be wrong, as usual.) So, since the pay is lousy at my current gig, I need to do what the Big Man did to get some help around here.

I need to get me a wife.

I need someone who will run this house because she loves us and doesn’t want CPS sniffing around even though Kid Sensation still ends up looking homeless half the time. She’ll cook tasty, nutritious meals according to the tastes of the family but within a budget tighter than two pairs of Spanx.  She might even finish the laundry, so she’ll be a better wife than I am.  Note to self:  Make sure you’re prettier than new wife.

Sooo....not her.  We look too much alike, anyway.  #lies.
Sooo….not her. We look too much alike, anyway. #lies #ifIlookedlikethisI’dneverwearclothes

What will I do?  Oh, I’ll “help” her out, of course.  I might meander by every once in a while and you guys I just realized that I can’t think of anything housework-related that the Big Man does.  So maybe I don’t have to help at all. Yeah, I know Big man, you pay the bills around here.  Putting your shoes away would still be kind of awesome, though.

Okay, I’m through griping.  My family is pretty great.  I’m just saying a wife would be pretty great, too.

Absolute Good.

I was having a discussion with Birdie a while back about things that are an “absolute good”–meaning that there is no down side, or that they are good enough that the down side is negligible. Of course, the first thing that comes to everyone’s mind is bacon.  Here’s a few more:

1) Breakfast.  Because it is the meal most associated with bacon, I have to say that breakfast in and of itself is an absolute good.  You can pretty much have whatever you want for breakfast, and at anytime of day.  I have heard people say they don’t eat breakfast, meaning they don’t eat a meal in the morning, but I have never heard anyone say they don’t eat breakfast food.  That’s because everyone on earth has a breakfast food they enjoy.  Eggs–they can be cooked any way you want them.  Cereal–uhh, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, anyone? Pancakes–all yum, all the time. Croissants? Flaky, buttery horn-shaped heaven.  I dare you to say there’s not at least one breakfast food that you like.  I dare you.

2.) Sleeping.  It’s fun, it’s free and it passes the time.  You even have entertainment while you do it–they’re called dreams.  You can pretty much sleep anywhere that you’re not operating machinery or driving (although that self driving car definitely has some possibilities).  Also, when you’re sleeping and someone wants to bother you, a lot of the time they’ll whisper an apology and back out of the room.  Unless their name is Kid Sensation.

3.) Batman.  I have never heard of anyone who doesn’t like Batman.  I’m not talking Batman movies,  mean the Batman.  He doesn’t have any superpowers, he could just be some rich cornhole who just goes around spending astronomical amounts of his money like some jerk named Richard Branson.  But no, he fights crime and despite all his money continues live in crime-infested Gotham instead of moving to the Gotham suburbs.  If you don’t like Batman, I’m not sure I want to know you because you’re obviously some type of hardened criminal who specializes in swindling old people.

I'm not calling him a jerk.  I'm just saying look at the guy.
I’m not calling him a jerk. I’m just saying look at the guy.

4.)  Denzel Washington.  See also:  Leonardo Dicaprio.

5.)  The Empire Strikes Back.  If you don’t love this movie you parents failed you somewhere.  I’m looking at you, Big Man.

6.)  T-Shirts.  They’re comfy, they come in colors, they stretch (handy if you’re boobs have their own area code, like mine do), you can dress them up, and when the sad, sad day that is the end of a t-shirt’s wearable life comes, it becomes an awesome rag. The Big Man’s T-shirts make great curtains.  Oh, t-shirt, is there anything you can’t do?

7.) Thriller.  Not the video that traumatized me as kid, but the album.  I know the entire Beat It dance.  I know all the words to every song on that album–and so does everyone I know.  Including people under 10 that do not live here.

8.)  Prayer.  Cause sometimes you have to talk to someone without anyone else around.

So give it up!  What’s your absolute good?

Tuesday Musings

So I was kinda bored today and I decided to keep track of my random thoughts.  Although, upon reading them back to myself, this may be a horrible idea.  Dah well, I got nothing else going on. Keep in mind this is the stuff that doesn’t make it out of my mouth–which isn’t much.  Enjoy:

I hate Adam Levine.  There, I said it.

They’re all gonna pay. ( I have no idea what this was about.)

I should fill up the kids pool, play in it, and let all the water out before they get home.  They won’t be able to prove a thing.

You know what, I didn’t make this mess, and I refuse to clean it up.

I am having a really good butt day.  (Twerks in the mirror.)

We should make dinner together tonight.  The kids will like that.

I JUST washed a bunch of his socks.  Where the green beans did they go?

At first I thought this was kinda funny.  Now I find the idea of sentient hobo socks a bit terrifying.
At first I thought this was kinda funny. Now I find the idea of sentient hobo socks a bit terrifying.

Oh wow! Viola Davis looks amazing.  (She’s on the cover of Essence.)

Somebody shut that dog up. (It was our dog.)

I should really vacuum now.  Or maybe in a few minutes. 

(Looking at the neighbor) Where is she going–zomygod I forgot about the kids!

JAYSUS that’s an ugly dog. I mean, GOOD LORD somebody get that thing off the streets.

I’m raising a genius! (About the Destroyer.)

I’m raising an idiot! (Again, about The Destroyer)

Can you not tell from my one-word answers that I don’t want to talk right now?

NOW who’s screaming?

I am surrounded by idi–oh wait, that was my bad. 

Kid Sensation is making weird noises in the other room.  Best not to get involved.

What are you lookin at? (To the dog.  He then comes and licks my face.  He knows I can’t stand him; yet he refuses to care.)

I am ash-shee. (But the lotion is upstairs. The olive oil is down here though…)

Did both knees just crack when I stood up?

Taraji P. Henson irritates me.  Oh no, will they let me stay Black?

What is Kid Sensation running from?  Best not to get involved.

Why should I be the one to drive away and never come back? They should be the ones to go! (I don’t really think this.  Most of the time.)

Why am I poor?  (Looking at boots for fall.)

Oh yeah, Big Man?  Well If I was like my mother, my house would be clean.

I heard a crash and a lot of shushing and whispered apologies.  I should stay out of it.

This was all by four p.m.  You guys, I may need to see a professional.

 

 

I’m not Beyonce, but I woke up like this.

Have you ever woken up irritated? Like so irritated that you knew you were going to be an awful human being that day and no one was going to want to be within 50 feet of you and the thought of it made you GLAD? No? You think you’re better than me? Huh?

Let me backtrack. We’ve gotten through the first week of school. You know that week where you’ve already spent god knows how much money and yet the kids seem to have nothing so you have to spend more money that you don’t have? Yeah, that week.

It’s also the week that you find out exactly the toll having your spawn home all summer has taken on your house, and so everything has fallen apart at exactly the same time. So now you have to do a bootleg job of holding your furniture together with duct tape, string, and a few paperclips. And staples. I’ve gotten to where I can’t relax when I sit in our recliner because I’m waiting for it to collapse under me and I want to be able to spring off of it like cat so I don’t have a recliner-related death.

I will look exactly like this.
I will look exactly like this.

The dishwasher keeps thinking it’s cleaned dishes that it hasn’t. That blinking “clean” light is actually the dishwasher laughing at me. So I’m washing dishes by hand like I live in a third-world country.

We now have a gopher razing our yard to the ground. I don’t have Bill Murray’s number. If you do, please tell him to contact me about a rodent and some dynamite.

My kids’ stomachs are actually black holes—infinite and unfillable. Of course, the Big Man is quite confident he can give me ten bucks to feed the family for the week and is astonished when I come home with potatoes and ramen instead of steak and asparagus. I kid, I kid. We can’t afford ramen after buying shoes for the Destroyer. Or after paying for school lunch.

Kid Sensation fell into a depression because he couldn’t wear his new school jeans and sweatshirt in 90-degree heat. He told me his summer clothes looked raggedy. I told him they look a heckuva lot better than heatstroke.

Good news: Wondergirl save her first altercation for the second day of school. Baby steps.

So after all that, Friday rolls around and I woke up irritated. And I plan to be pretty terrible today. At least until wine time.

 

 

 

 

 

Unreal, huh?

So you guys, I’m not usually one for political commentary. Let me rephrase that. I am a full time mother that is on the go from morning-til-night and am so involved in my family, friends, and spirituality that jumping on the interwebs with my opinion usually just doesn’t register. I may discuss things here or there with my inner circle (that term makes me feel so special), but that’s about it.

But I had to share this.

I was having a discussion with Optimus Prime’s mom last week about the Mike Brown case. And she was appropriately outraged. She was so upset that things like this still happened, that inequality in police treatment still exist. I was shocked that she was unaware of that fact. So I related the following story:

I have been in the car when a boyfriend of mine that happened to be black was pulled over for no apparent reason. Several times. I have been in the car when said boyfriend asked to step out of car and searched for no apparent reason. Fortunately, I was not in the car the time he got fed up, cussed the officer out, and was arrested.

However, there was a time when I was in the car.

The time the Big Man got pulled over.

This was when we were first dating. Keep in mind, the Big Man was the first White guy I had ever dated, so at this point, all of my police experiences were the same.

So he’s taking me home in his big lifted Ford pickup. He’s rolling at about 67 in a 60 mph zone. No big, right? Welp, he gets pulled over by an unmarked car. I begin rummaging around for his registration and proof of insurance in the glove compartment.

Officer says: “You know how fast you were going?”

Big Man: “This is bulls—t.”

Um, what did he just say?

Officer: “What was that?”

Big Man: “I said, this is bulls—t”

Oh, god.

Big Man: “I wasn’t going that fast and you f—king know it.”

Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. We’re going to jail. I can’t go to jail. I’m not tough; I like Star Wars and think May the Fourth should be a day off. I am not a ride or die chick. I’m a stay home and live chick.

Officer: “Sir—“

Sir?

Officer: “—you were going 67 in a 60—“

Big Man: “That’s bulls—t and I’m not paying for a f—king ticket.

At this point my eyes are bugging out of  and my hands are shaking with the registration and proof of insurance. I know for a fact that if this officer asks the Big Man to get out of this vehicle the cop will get scared because of his size and then there will be shootout. This man is going to be killed right in front of me and then I’m (for some reason) going to jail. My parents can’t afford bail. I’ll be forced to share a cell with some chick name Brandii who used to strip and got caught selling bootleg DVD’s out of her trunk.

This was what was happening in my head.
This was what was happening in my head.

I hand over the papers. Officer Scary looks at them. He looks at me, hands the papers back to the Big Man.

Officer: “Slow down, next time.” And then he walks the green beans away. Just like that. I. Am. Stupefied.

Me: “What just happened?”

Big Man: “He was trying to give me some bulls—t ticket and I wasn’t having it.”

Me: “What do you mean, you weren’t having it? What choice do you have?”

He didn’t understand the question. He really didn’t. Not having a choice never even occurred to him. Being in danger never occurred to him. The possibility of getting arrested never occurred to him. Getting shot wasn’t even a passing thought for him. He believed, still believes, that he has the absolute right to disagree with an officer of the law. What’s even more telling: I still don’t believe that that right really exists. Not for me, anyway.  And I tell my kids that they’d better not even think about it. 

At the end of my story, Optimus Prime’s mom’s eyes were wide. She sat in complete disbelief. But, really, there was nothing she could say.

And I didn’t know what else to tell her. So we starting talking about our boys and internet porn.  I’ll have to tell you about that someday.