I hate when people up north of the Mason Dixon line say, "I love fall! I love this cool weather! I'm wearing a sweater!" And I just want to yell, "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP." I actually want to yell other things but I've curbed my need/desire to expel expletives all over nature. I tried buying a "fall" decoration at Target one day. I think it was a turkey napkin holder? For Thanksgiving? Then I realized it was still 101 degrees outside in September, so I put it back. Pool weather doesn't really harken fall like decorating vibes. It does make me want to drink more red wine although the second night of the same bottle is awfully vinegary. I think I just need to drink more the first night to avoid the acrid aftertaste on the second night. Good theory. I should write this down.
Ben got his driver's permit. For real. He's licensed to drive a car with an adult over the age of 21 who didn't directly give birth to him. Teen drivers? TEEN DRIVERS? I...uhhhh...what was the question? Chris took Ben to the DPS/DMV to take the written portion of the permit test. He passed with an 87 and got the paper copy of his permit. There was great rejoicing in the waiting room. The attendants came and hugged him and balloons and confetti fell from the ceiling. All the smell-good waiting patrons hugged Ben and gave him $5 for a celebratory dinner. It was a lot like that only the attendants didn't care because the DPS/DMV environment has killed their will to live what with all the drab lighting and waiting room that doubles as a homeless shelter packed into 10 square feet of prison cell space. It's where hope goes to get euthanized.
How on earth am I old enough to have an offspring old enough to drive? It's oddly surreal to look at this large lumbering man-child and know that he came as such a HUGE HUGE HUGE shock in our baby years. We were babies when he was born. Now I know why it feels like we've been parents forever. BECAUSE WE HAVE BEEN. We weren't even out of the gate yet when parenthood arrived. But now here he is, no longer able to fit into my lap because he's larger than I am and he's now able to legally drive a car. Surprise! You're not kids anymore! And neither are your kids! News flash: You're just plain old. Now that he's permitted to drive, he's on his way to real driving and dating and then college and then marriage and then kids and it's all looking downhill from here.
I could have more kids, you know. Just to show you. I'm not sure what I'd be showing you. Who's the boss? That would be Tony Micelli. But I won't have more because I am so so tired. And kids are pricey what with all the haircuts and pizza slices and winter clothes.
In the midst of my 6 hour break from reality this evening, Penny the Dachshund selfishly took it upon herself to go throw up on Sadie's bed. Seriously. Of aaaaaalllllllllll the places we have in the house and the escape route she has to the back yard (i.e., doggy door), she chose the one place wherein the owner of said place would be the most livid. Seriously? You're interrupting my reruns of The Middle for puddles of foamy yellow vomit on a bed. Sadie's first reaction was to start crying about it. I guess that's better than yelling, "Effing EFF!" down the stairs. What? I would never do that. At least not in front of the children. So I cleaned it up, changed sheets, made the bed, calmed the girl. I'm like a modern day...I don't know. I live in the present, so that makes me modern just by default.
There you have it, Internet. Red wine, teen drivers, and dog puke. A trifecta of nonsense.