It's been a busy weekend. So busy that I will be glad to go back to work so I can get some freaking rest.
On Thursday night, Joey totally surprised me by lining up a babysitter so we could go on an honest-to-goodness DATE on Friday night. Thumbs up, big guy! So we promenaded down to Morton's where we ate like kings and still got home at a reasonable hour so our babysitter could go out. I never grew up anywhere where there were things to do after 10:30 PM, but I'm glad she can do it because then I live vicariously through her.
Saturday was a busy-ass day. We had tae kwan do, haircuts for the boys, errands to run, and then at the last minute we had David and Yvonne come over with their daughter - we cooked out on the grill and watched our beloved Hokies be emasculated on national television. I'm just happy they scored once and it wasn't a total blowout. Joey, on the other hand, was almost despondent by halftime which is when David and Yvonne escaped and I went on up to bed and left him in the Man Cave to wallow in his own misery.
So this morning, we woke up kind of late (for us) and we decided that pancakes would be a most excellent way to start the day. And as we were sitting at IHOP chowing down, suddenly Joey got this really odd look on his face.
"Oh shit!" he said, "Tomorrow is my mother's birthday."
Well, anyone that knows me well (or knows a lot about my marriage) knows a few things. First, Joey is notorious for forgetting his parents' birthdays. Second, it always results in a crisis of the highest magnitude because his family takes birthdays and holidays seriously. Very seriously. Like the one year he forgot to send his mom a card and his father didn't speak to him for months. (Best few months of my marriage, but I digress.) Third, somehow I always end up getting dragged into the entire fiasco and having to help save his ass from certain doom.
But not today. You know why? Because I had a DAR meeting. Not that it was any better than seeing my in-laws, but I'll get to that in a second.
Years ago, my dad was the president of our state geneaological society. He was really into it and at that time, he did all the research necessary to get the proper documentation that qualified my sister and I to be members of Daughters of the American Revolution. It's not easy - you have to have concrete proof, and not just one thing - you have to have pretty concrete evidence that your great-great-great-howevermany-grandfather served in the American Revolutionary War. And once he did that, he signed both of us up.
Now my sister is really into it. Well, let's face facts - she doesn't work and volunteer gigs are her thing. I think it was 2 years ago that she was head of our chapter, and this year she actually has a state chairmanship. Personally, I think she's crazy as hell.
Me, well, I think the whole thing is really kind of not my bag. Yes, I'm very flattered that my dad did all that work and stuff and I would never resign my membership for fear of hurting his feelings, but it's just not me. For one thing, our chapter is geared solely to the rich blue-bloods who can attend meetings at 10 AM on the third Friday of the month and host meetings at their palatial estates complete with maids that wear aprons. Okay, maybe that's exaggerating slightly, because the place we had it at today didn't have a maid. But whatever.
Each September, there is a tea at a member's house where they have a cute little program from the Children of the American Revolution (who all have to do little presentations and you can tell they'd rather be playing with their Polly Pockets and Pokemon cards). This is usually one of the two meetings each year that I make - and the members who aren't friends of my sister's always say to me, "So, you're a guest? Who did you come with?" and then I have to explain for the umpteenth time - No, I'm not a guest, Yes, I'm a member, No, I don't come to the meetings, Yes, I work on Fridays to which I usually get the "poor dear" tsk-tsk thing. Gah.
This year was a little more disconcerting than usual because my sister wasn't there - she is probably at the airport right now bringing our parents home from a trip to Ohio. Add to that the fact that I had to stand up and give a little presentation and you can pretty much tell that I was just not a happy camper at all. See, I got drafted by the junior membership chairperson to take over the fundraiser for that committee - which is basically selling wrapping paper and chocolates which is done every freaking year and no one ever buys anything. Oh, joy. But I drafted up a little flyer, got the sales packages ready, and traipsed on up to the northern part of town to the meeting.
One thing about our city, which I probably haven't mentioned before, is that in some circles there is a certain stigma attached to whatever area you live in. We live in what they call "south side" which is south of the river. My sister and most of the cronies in our DAR chapter live in the "west end" of the city. Well, the river creates a mental barrier that most of the west-enders can't seem to grasp...it's like I live in a totally foreign country. Gah, and I work too. My life is over!
As it turned out, the meeting was held at this house up on one of the wealthiest streets in the city - I've driven by this house a zillion times and always thought how cool it was. Well, it was pretty cool. I pulled up the driveway and was met by two ladies who were directing parking - one was a younger lady of probably 40-something, the other lady was wearing an obnoxious pink hat and was probably in her late 60's (and I'm being kind here).
"And who are YOU?" snarked Ms. Obnoxious Pink Hat
"I'm Liz, how are you?"
"Are you a MEMBER?"
"Why yes, I am, it's a pleasure to meet you. Where should I park?"
So she gave me some directions that were difficult to understand - something about a birdhouse and a tree and a car so I asked for clarification of exactly where in the yard she wanted me to pull up...and before I could even get my window rolled back up, she turned and fucking ROLLED HER EYES at the other lady standing there.
Oh no she didn't.
Oh no. I'm going to have to kick some old lady's ass.
So I parked the car and I got my box-o-crap out of the trunk and teetered my way up the tree-lined lawn and approached Pink Hat Bitch so I could ask her where we needed to go in - so she sort of gave me this dismissive wave toward the backyard so I hauled the box-o-crap back there to find out where to go.
I hate, hate, hate going to things where I don't know anyone. So what I do, usually, is find something to do.
And today, I was the Punch Bitch. I made punch, I stirred punch, I served punch.
It was good. I got to be in the shade and I got to meet a lot of really nice ladies. I also had a lot of nice compliments about my sister.
So as I was helping the hostess put out the punch cups, here came Pink Hat Bitch. And this time, she had a name tag on. And guess what her title was?
So then she started barking out orders about how to make the punch. You know, because taking lime sherbert, a can of frozen limeade, and two 2-liter bottles of ginger ale in a bowl is so complicated that you need at least five people involved to do it. Not to mention that it's like, the most top-secret punch recipe in the world and she keeps it under lock and key so that the Taliban doesn't get a hold of it, because imagine if they tasted that limey goodness? Oh my.
I smiled sweetly. I stirred. And I wanted to shove that silver ladle down her throat.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "So who ARE you?"
"I am a member here, I know you know my sister Kathie..."
"Kathie? Is your sister? Hmmm, now I think I remember you. You used to be fat."
I smiled again. "Yes, I did."
"You've lost a lot of weight," she snarled as she eyed me up and down.
"Yes, I did." And I stirred, and gripped the ladle so hard that it cut into my palm.
"Huh." And she walked away.
Some hospitality chairperson.
So my little presentation went well, but it was so damn hot out there (and only 10 chairs for 50 people so the old ladies were dropping like flies) that as soon as the meeting was over people hauled ass outta there and no one picked up a sales brochure. Not one. I am so screwed.
I packed up my box-o-crap and teetered back out toward my car where a man was sitting in his Suburban - he looked to be in his mid-40's and was probably there picking up his mom or grandmother or something.
He jumped out of his truck. "Hi, can I help you carry that?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine. Thank you for offering, though, it's the nicest thing anyone has said to me since I got here."
"I know. I've helped my mom out when she's hosted one of these things years ago and all I remember is what a bunch of mean old bitches some of them can be. Well, you have a good day!"
And as I pulled out of my parking spot, I saw who he was there to pick up.
Pink Hat Bitch.
Oh, sweet irony.