Wednesday, August 17, 2011

I Can Turn Anything Into A Conversation About Dicks

Captain Carl: Hello?
Me: Hey.
Captain Carl: Yes?
Me: What?
Captain Carl: You called me.
Me: I know I called you. I mean, I dialed the phone. Obviously I know that I called you.
Captain Carl: Did you need something?
Me: Not really.
Captain Carl: *silence*
Me: *yawn*
Captain Carl: So…
Me: Ohmygod, Islands In The Stream just came on Pandora!
Captain Carl: *sigh*
Me: *singing* Islands in the stream. That is what we are. Hmmm hmmm hmm between. How can we be wrong?
Captain Carl: Okay so, I’m gonna go.
Me: Wait! Did you remember to water the trees like I asked this morning?
Captain Carl: Yes. I’m still watering them.
Me: Still? It’s like 2:30 now!
Captain Carl: I know. I’m watering them slowly.
Me: How slowly?
Captain Carl: Slowly. Like I said.
Me: Do you have any idea how water bills work? You can’t run the hose all day.
Captain Carl: Calm down. There’s barely any water coming out.
Me: How much?
Captain Carl: Like just a bit.
Me: How am I supposed to know what a bit means to you?
Captain Carl: Okay, a trickle then. More like a pre-trickle. Not much at all.
Me: A pre-trickle? That is not a unit of measurement I’m familiar with.
Captain Carl: Fine, it’s barely more than what a soaker hose puts out. Jesus.
Me: Wasn’t there a race car driver named Trickle?
Co-worker listening to my conversation: Yes. His name is Dick Trickle.
Me: No way.
Co-worker: Yep, I just googled it.
Me: Heh heh, I made you google Dick Trickle on your work computer.
Other co-worker listening in: Whatever you do, don’t google
Me: OMG, do it!!
Captain Carl: Hello?
Me: Hey babe, quit Dick Trickling my trees. *laughs hysterically* *bangs fist on desk*
Captain Carl: I’m hanging up now.
Me: Okay. Dick Trickle you later!
Captain Carl: Really?
Me: I’ll be Dick Trickling you!
Captain Carl: *mumbling swear words*
Me: You’re like the Dick Trickle of landscape irrigation. I can do this all day, honey.
Captain Carl: I know. Which is why I’m doing this. *click*

He’s totally jealous of my dick joke skills.

Monday, August 8, 2011

My Feet Have Been Sticky For Two Straight Months

So yeah. It's hot outside. I know just about everyone is having a rough summer. But it's particularly bad in the Dallas area because a) we've had more than a month straight of over 100 degree days and b) I live here so therefore it's worse than anywhere else.

I spend all my time running from my house, to my car, to my office, back to my car and back to my house. I only go outside in the early morning or late evening, and only for like 10 minutes at a time. And then I spend an hour bitching about how fucking sweaty I am. My grass is brown and my skin is white.

The good news is that I am going home to Minnesota in less than three weeks, where I will promptly begin working on my tan. Nobody believes that I live in Texas when I go up there because I'm so pale. It's just too hot to be outside here. I mean, the fucking train tracks are warping, people.

Okay, so the Kiddo came home for the summer after his first year in college. I haven't been blogging about him lately on account of some issues he's been having that I don't really want to discuss here. Let's just say it involves a bong in the shape of a skull and mandatory drug testing.

Turns out it's hard when your kid comes home from college. Because he's been gone for 9 months doing stupid shit and feeling all adult and totally the boss of himself and then he comes home in June and doesn't get why his parents make him follow rules. Rules like, "hey, how about you don't treat your bedroom like a trash dump?" and "just because you're 19 doesn't mean you don't have to empty the dishwasher anymore." and my favorite, "maybe don't forget to take your house key with you when you go out on a Tuesday night and then when you come home drunk at 1:30am, don't climb on my roof trying to break into your bedroom and then yell at me when I hear you and call your cell to ask why in the hell you're up there. ASSHOLE."

Please God, don't let him get suspended from college. Or quit. Or whatever. Because I don't think I can handle him living here all year.

And to make things even more special, the Kiddo asked us in June if his buddy could rent one of our bedrooms for the summer. His friend...let's call him Huey...had decided he didn't want to live at home anymore because...guess why? His mom had too many rules. Hot damn, I hope I wasn't this ridiculous when I was 19. I probably was, right? I need to call my mom and apologize.

Me: I don't know about this.
Captain Carl: Oh, it won't be so bad.
Me: Yes it will.
Captain Carl: Nah, it'll be fine.
Me: It'll be a never ending cycle of bad decisions, dirty socks and weird smells.
Captain Carl: He's a nice boy, I feel bad for him.
Me: I feel bad too. For his mother.
Captain Carl: It's only for a couple of months. And we could use the extra cash.

And so I let the Captain talk me into it. I agreed to let Huey rent a room with us on a weekly basis. I was pretty sure it was a bad idea that I would live to regret.

But surprisingly, I've really enjoyed having Huey around. He's a big, dumb, sweet kid. And he's not my kid, so it's easier to deal with his stupidity somehow. And he just might be staying after the summer is over. Which makes me a little nervous, since this means he will be alone in our house while we're in another state for a week. I'm envisioning wild parties...Huey filling my house with slutty girls and booze and my cat cowering in the laundry room behind her litter box.

This is the part where the Captain rolls his eyes and tells me I'm being overly dramatic.

And this is the part where I tell him to shut his face.

At the very least, my floors are gonna be soooo dirty when we get home. Because not one single day goes by where I don't walk through the house and step into something sticky. Seriously, what is it about boys and spilling shit? Yesterday there was a trail from the kitchen table to the other side of the house. And they both stood there staring blankly at me and saying "It wasn't me." No shit. It wasn't me. If I had squinted my eyes, I would have sworn I was talking to 3 year olds.


I should never have let them bring that giant can of Country Time Lemonade mix into the house.