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So, I'm sitting here playing my millionth game of solitaire when "DING DONG!" the doorbell rings; dogs commence their frantic warning yaps; and girls begin giggling on the sidewalk.
"Is The Boy home?"
Sweetheart, aren't you cold in that tight little tank top with your boobies half hanging out?
Her friend, Tramp #2, is wearing a tasteful little cardigan and her hair and makeup are perfect. For whoring, perhaps, but let's not judge.
Why, yes he is. As a matter of fact he's in the shower, could you wait a moment, he'll be down in a bit.
I wondered why The Boy decided to take a shower at 8pm... after arguing with us about borrowing the car... and needing gas money... and... uh... damn it, I really should listen in on his phone calls.
I had intended to do a post about my weirdness-es, thanks to a friendly little tag from Kellie; however, at this time, I wish to focus on The Boy's issues instead. :-)
No - you may not take your car out, your headlight needs replaced.
No- you may not borrow dad's truck, he needs to go to his dart league.
No - you may not borrow my car either.
What do you mean you already made plans? You expect us to give you money for gas, keys to our car, and allow you to go to a DRIVE-IN? heh heh NO.
No - you can not go "pick them up, drive around, and take them back home".
By the way, who are they?
Oooohh, one of them is for your friend...
Whom they've never met...
The one who marinates in the rancid manly scented cologne-type stuff?
This goes on for about 30 minutes until he storms off, for bed I assumed. His TV is on, he is on the phone, I'm watching the Buccos, problem solved. There is much slamming of doors until he retires to the shower, and dad and I roll our eyes at each other.
And Then...
DING.DONG.
Rewind to the beginning of this saga.
Guess he figures, if he can't go to them, he'll have them sent here. Sort of like delivery, without the tip. As I open the door, a car drives away. Leaving the two lovely ladies standing on my stoop.
Whoa, wait a minute... was that your ride?
Yes.
Are they going to wait to see if you're safe?
Nope.
Was that one of your parents?
Nope.
Will they be back?
The Boy said he could take us home.
Well, who was that? Can you get them back?
My cousin's boyfriend's brother, or something. He brought us from downtown.
What were you doing downtown?
Waiting for The Boy. My mom dropped us off at the Y, and we caught a ride over here, isn't The Boy ready?
Ready for WHAT?
Now I'm stuck here, talking to these two delicate little women, while you-know-who is now in more trouble than ever, and I'm trying to figure out who these girls are, where do they live, how does he know them, why aren't their parents a little more careful, and what the hell am I supposed to do???
I seat them comfortably in the "sun room" - (that's what I like to call the piles-of-shoes-and-coats-and-dog-paraphernalia-and-various-other-assorted-crap storage room that leads in directly from outside); {hey, it has a couch}.
I stomp upstairs and tear into The Boy.
See, he's a little smarter than he looks.
By having them delivered over here, he then "gets to take them back home", and thus, gets.his.way.
WRONG.
BigBadDad takes them home.
Where there are no parents or any other adult present.
How do we know that is where they really live? We don't.
Does Josh know where they live? Nope. Why?
He met them at WalMart.
Yeah.
And I'm starting to feel just a little more white trash than I find acceptable.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
So, there are many issues at play here.
And a weekend full of lectures.
You simply DO NOT just give our address out to people you barely know - ESPECIALLY without obtaining permission from your parents, first.
When we tell you that you MAY NOT go somewhere, it is NOT acceptable to bring the party here, as an alternative.
We would PREFER that you DO NOT pick up strange girls at discount stores, thank you very much.
If you HAVE TO meet some chick that may be the love of your life, FIND OUT some background information on her FIRST, before having her delivered to our home.
DO NOT take candy from strangers.
DO NOT talk to strange women.
And for gosh sakes, DO NOT expect me to entertain your bubble-head blondie(s). I can't take the giggling.
And am I going to have to have "the talk" again?
Oh Mom! It's not LIKE that, jeez!
Yeah.
Jeez.
"Is The Boy home?"
Sweetheart, aren't you cold in that tight little tank top with your boobies half hanging out?
Her friend, Tramp #2, is wearing a tasteful little cardigan and her hair and makeup are perfect. For whoring, perhaps, but let's not judge.
Why, yes he is. As a matter of fact he's in the shower, could you wait a moment, he'll be down in a bit.
I wondered why The Boy decided to take a shower at 8pm... after arguing with us about borrowing the car... and needing gas money... and... uh... damn it, I really should listen in on his phone calls.
I had intended to do a post about my weirdness-es, thanks to a friendly little tag from Kellie; however, at this time, I wish to focus on The Boy's issues instead. :-)
No - you may not take your car out, your headlight needs replaced.
No- you may not borrow dad's truck, he needs to go to his dart league.
No - you may not borrow my car either.
What do you mean you already made plans? You expect us to give you money for gas, keys to our car, and allow you to go to a DRIVE-IN? heh heh NO.
No - you can not go "pick them up, drive around, and take them back home".
By the way, who are they?
Oooohh, one of them is for your friend...
Whom they've never met...
The one who marinates in the rancid manly scented cologne-type stuff?
This goes on for about 30 minutes until he storms off, for bed I assumed. His TV is on, he is on the phone, I'm watching the Buccos, problem solved. There is much slamming of doors until he retires to the shower, and dad and I roll our eyes at each other.
And Then...
DING.DONG.
Rewind to the beginning of this saga.
Guess he figures, if he can't go to them, he'll have them sent here. Sort of like delivery, without the tip. As I open the door, a car drives away. Leaving the two lovely ladies standing on my stoop.
Whoa, wait a minute... was that your ride?
Yes.
Are they going to wait to see if you're safe?
Nope.
Was that one of your parents?
Nope.
Will they be back?
The Boy said he could take us home.
Well, who was that? Can you get them back?
My cousin's boyfriend's brother, or something. He brought us from downtown.
What were you doing downtown?
Waiting for The Boy. My mom dropped us off at the Y, and we caught a ride over here, isn't The Boy ready?
Ready for WHAT?
Now I'm stuck here, talking to these two delicate little women, while you-know-who is now in more trouble than ever, and I'm trying to figure out who these girls are, where do they live, how does he know them, why aren't their parents a little more careful, and what the hell am I supposed to do???
I seat them comfortably in the "sun room" - (that's what I like to call the piles-of-shoes-and-coats-and-dog-paraphernalia-and-various-other-assorted-crap storage room that leads in directly from outside); {hey, it has a couch}.
I stomp upstairs and tear into The Boy.
See, he's a little smarter than he looks.
By having them delivered over here, he then "gets to take them back home", and thus, gets.his.way.
WRONG.
BigBadDad takes them home.
Where there are no parents or any other adult present.
How do we know that is where they really live? We don't.
Does Josh know where they live? Nope. Why?
He met them at WalMart.
Yeah.
And I'm starting to feel just a little more white trash than I find acceptable.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
So, there are many issues at play here.
And a weekend full of lectures.
You simply DO NOT just give our address out to people you barely know - ESPECIALLY without obtaining permission from your parents, first.
When we tell you that you MAY NOT go somewhere, it is NOT acceptable to bring the party here, as an alternative.
We would PREFER that you DO NOT pick up strange girls at discount stores, thank you very much.
If you HAVE TO meet some chick that may be the love of your life, FIND OUT some background information on her FIRST, before having her delivered to our home.
DO NOT take candy from strangers.
DO NOT talk to strange women.
And for gosh sakes, DO NOT expect me to entertain your bubble-head blondie(s). I can't take the giggling.
And am I going to have to have "the talk" again?
Oh Mom! It's not LIKE that, jeez!
Yeah.
Jeez.
posted by Julie at 10:30 PM
7 Comments:
oh my dear sweet Sassy pants. That post had me rolling on the floor. I pray to God in heaven above that Lucy will never be one of those trampy teens. That would be my own personal hell. Eek.
I can not hear these stories...
lalalalalalala...
I don't know that it's going to be horrible when Sam becomes a teenager.....
lalalalalalala...
May I join in with the lalalalalas?
Being the future parent (I hope NOT!) of the giggling blondes, I am scared!
I'm gonna start saving for for bars on the windows and deadlocks on the doors right away!
What you needed to do is go ahead and have The Talk...with all THREE of them in the sunroom...with flash cards.
OOooh he's good! Having them delivered, *I* wouldn't have thought of that!
if milo makes it out alive, i am locking him up until he's at least 40.
Oh boy, i am rolling on the floor. Yes, welcome to my house in a few years, i can see it already. He picked them up at *Walmart*!?
Re trampy girls -- yeah, i remember so wanting to be one...'but MOM, *Natalie* comes to school wearing nothing but lingerie from the thrift store, what's your problem!' 'But you are not Natalie. Go change your clothes.' These days i am a staunch proponent of dress codes....oh how we change as we age.
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