A fact of life. A truism, if you will. A word (or 500) of advice:
If, say, you decide to dress up as static electricity for your kid’s school’s Hallowe’en sock hop and you, therefore, tease and back-comb your hair with approximately half a full can of the modern-day equivalent to the Aquanet™ of the 80s to make said hair stand completely on end all static-electricity-ish, and if, say, the next morning you take your visiting father out running errands, including looking for a Lebanese food wholesaler that he SWEARS was just around the corner on Kempt Road in that strip mall thingee but when, after several minutes of staring at and driving around said strip mall, you call your spouse (who took him there last visit) and are told it was at the OTHER end of Kempt Road1, and if, say, after you find the store and take a look around you then decide to stop at a grocery store for a fruit tray for your kid’s CLASS Hallowe’en party (yes, the day after the SCHOOL sock hop that you stayed till 10 pm to help clean up after) because they want frigging healthy snacks2, and if, say, you’re waiting for the shuttle to pick up your Dad to take him back home and you decide, in all of your infinite wisdom, to cut the fruit up into smaller pieces and skewer them on little pirate sword swizzle sticks since the fruit kabobs went so quickly at the school sock hop canteen you volunteered at last night and, also, PRESENTATION IS IMPORTANT TO YOU3, and if, say, the shuttle ends up being a half hour late because the driver got confused because all the streets parallel to yours have a 5537 too4, and if, say, you realize you no longer have time to shower before flying over to your kid’s school to drop off the God-forsaken healthy snacks but, so you don’t look like a complete and utter moron and/or idiot, you drag a comb through the half-can-of-hairspray-teased-and-back-combed-within-an-inch-of-its-life and now slept-on and pulled-out (see note 1) hair and scrub futilely at the cheap Hallowe’en makeup that now looks like dirt and darker-than-usual bags under your eyes, and if, say, your reckless, hasty and sad excuse for hygiene falls woefully, WOEFULLY short of the desired result of not looking like a complete and utter moron and/or idiot, then I can GUARANTEE you, my friends, that you WILL, in fact, run smack-dab, face-first into at least one person5 that you really, really, REALLY don’t want to see you looking like a crack-ho after a long hard night without crack.
Not that that would EVER happen to me. No.
If this ever happens to you, however, I beseech you—plunk your parent in front of Murder She Wrote, drop the stupid swizzle sticks and GET THEE INTO THE FRIGGING SHOWER BEFORE YOU LEAVE YOUR HOUSE.
Jodi, who appears to be having a passionate affair with the run-on sentence this week. So wrong, but so fun...
1. As we drove down from the “wrong” end of Kempt Road, Dad kept saying, “I don’t remember this—when he took me we just turned the corner and it was right there!” Me: “I know Dad, you were coming from the other end.” Dad: “But I can’t remember any of this—he just turned onto the street and it was right there. I don’t remember seeing this when we came before!” Me: “That’s because you came the other way—you DIDN’T see this last time.” Dad: “IT MUST BE THE NEXUS OF THE UNIVERSE!” Me: “DAD—STAY ALIVE! I WILL FIND YOU!” (Luckily, Kempt Road is not long, and, in an effort not to blog myself out of the will, I’ll leave it at that.)
2. It’s frigging Hallowe’en for frigg’s* sake. I am so much better at gifting with sugar than wholesomeness. Ugh.
*My Dad says frigg a lot. It takes a few days for me to stop saying it myself and to switch back to the “f” word that my mother and I vastly prefer. (Sorry Mom—I promise I won’t out you on the booze and crack! xo)
3. And that, Ms. Morissette, is the true meaning of IRONY. (Just keep reading.)
4. NO JOKE—TRUE! TRUE! TRUE! I SWEAR! Ask my Dad!
5. Potential employer, ex’s perfect girlfriend, priest, crush, archenemy—pick your poison...