I have a heat rash.
Outside, a million degrees.
Dog shat on the floor.
This year the husband was recruited to coach J’s Tee-ball team. He agreed with great enthusiasm. The Guy In Charge, however, made the unilateral decision to move J from the Tee-ball team up a level to “coach pitch”.
I assume this change occurred because of my child’s pronounced aptitude – nay, prowess for the sport, but this change put the husband in the unenviable position of playing team pitcher as well as coach. My first thought was that a full grown man really ought to be able to, not only, pull his weight on a team full of first and second graders, but also to beat those little shits into the ground with a skill set full of coordination and motor skills that they will not acquire for years, and then take a victory lap around their tiny bases with his VIP trophy. I mean, these are little kids. Some of them still aren’t 100% on what a ball is.
The husband was not as psyched. He pointed out that although he, an adult, will be the team pitcher, so will all the other grown-up coaches and it’s probable that they will all be better at it than he is.
He had a valid point.
After two very educational, informative and short practices, the kids
ran out of time were ready to take the field.
I dressed for the weather, which was supposed to be nice. In fact, I spent two hours digging around for my (extensive) collection of flip flops because during the great washer replacement of ’14 the husband moved them. He put them somewhere safe.
I never found them, but I did find two that sort of looked alike and called it close enough. At least I had both a right and a left. I’d have settled for less. I told all the other Moms they came from that store that sells mismatching socks (because I’m trendy). They did not appear to believe me.
I set up camping chairs for K and myself behind the batters box, where I could see J on the field as well as the bench. I don’t know why they even have a bench. J’s tiny ass might graze it once when he’s tired towards the end of the game, but otherwise he spends his bench time, along with the rest of the team, in orbit around the bench, climbing the fence, or over by the batting cage, where the three kids next up swing metal bats freely in an enclosed area.
It’s beginning to get cold.
J’s team is at home, so they’re out in the field first. Now that J plays Little League instead of Tee-Ball, a new position has been added to the line-up.
Catcher is, by far, the shittiest position in Little League. The poor wretched soul chosen as “catcher” is dressed in all the trappings of an adult catcher, but has neither the motor skills necessary to do the job nor a willingness to catch the ball. The padding and helmet are heavy, which, on the upside, reminds the doomed child to squat, but the catchers mask is too large for most of them to see or hear while it rests upon their tiny heads. So they sit there, completely mute, with their gloves stuck out in front of them and positively no idea what’s happening.
Consequently, Madison, the little girl playing catcher today, is beaten like a rented mule. Every pitch just kind of bonks off her little body and falls sadly to the ground, whereupon we all watch while she scrambles around, twisting the mask this way and that in a vain attempt to lay eyes on the elusive ball.
J is stationed deep out in right field, diligently picking his nose. I assume that’s why he is stationed deep out in right field.
During the second inning, it gets windy. By the time J’s team is up again, K and I are huddled together for warmth. I begin to regret seriously my choice of mismatched flip-flops.
A bug flies up my nose. It does not come out.
As with all of J’s games, immediately preceding the first (and therefore most important) time that my son has his turn at bat, K announces that she has to pee, can absolutely not wait until we get home, and we better go now… Or else. Our only option is The Port-a-Potty.
A place so foul, so disgusting, so utterly loathsome that it could, and maybe has been, weaponized by the government. It’s covered top to bottom in gonorrhea, so K is understandably excited to smear her bare flesh all over it’s filthy surfaces. I wonder if the CDC knows about this place. There is no TP. There is no soap or hand sanitizer. There is no light, so I have to use one of my flip flops to hold the door (a “door” only in the very loosest sense of the word, it’s more like a thin plastic petri dish) open.
Her pants are down in a flash, and I catch her just before she climbs onto the repellant blue and brown hole head first. I spy something moving in a dark corner and pray for a swift and painless death.
I wonder, just for a moment, what I’d do if she fell in, but the thought is gone as quickly as it enters my mind. I’m a mother, I’ll do what I have to.
I’ve got another one to take care of me in my old age. She’s on her own.
I lift her onto the pot. Immediately she touches everything moist within her reach and tries to stick her hands in her mouth.
I snort the bug further up my nose. Whatever, it’s the least of my problems now.
Hopefully, the dirt and sand K has ground into her hands from running around the playground before the game will somehow decontaminate whatever nightmare port a potty disease is waiting to infect us all.
In situations like these I find it’s best to make up your own science.
K and I get back to the camp chairs and J’s team is up at bat again. The husband is pitching. K marvels at how many bugs are flying around my head. The husband throws a super shitty pitch.
My jaw drops. Everything moves in slow motion.
The ball is headed directly for the cranium of Sydney, the smallest of all the small children on J’s team. The husband is gesturing wildly and yelling:
“Mmmooooovvve” (in that really deep slow-mo voice)
The child stares back at him blankly, wondering; I’m sure, just what in all hell these new antics could be.
I have just enough time to wonder whether the team is required to sign a legal waiver before the baseball collides with her cheek. Spit flies from her tiny mouth as her head twists slowly towards me from the force of impact. The other team’s catcher sits there with his glove out, completely unaware of the goings-on.
The husband takes off running (in slo-mo, of course – Chariots of Fire should have been playing in the background) for the batters box. The parents (except me because I’m a horrible person- I’d have a box of popcorn on my lap if I’d thought to bring it) turn away in horror, and Sydney just stands there for a moment looking shocked. Then, she lets out a scream so shrill that only dogs can hear, because we most certainly can not. All hands on deck.
They do sign waivers, don’t they?
Sydney is benched and iced. At least we don’t have to worry about keeping the ice cold. It’s so cold we could have just sat her down in the wind. The official ruling is “accidental boo-boo” and the game goes on. No reconstructive surgery, no foul.
J’s team is in the field again. The batters on the opposing team are continually hitting pop fly’s. All of our little fielders have the best of intentions – they get under the ball, they call it. They wait for it with their little gloves open… And then… when the ball gets to be 20… 10 feet away, they cringe, cover their heads with their gloves and run away. It’s like a really cold Monty Python skit.
On the whole, this strategy seems to be prolonging our game. I start to think about burning my flip flops for warmth.
Finally, we make it to the bottom of the sixth. My ass is frozen to the camp chair, and I’ve done away with my flip flops in favor of extra baseball gloves on my frostbitten feet. The little fat kid (Oh come on– all teams have one) is up to bat. The husband throws the pitch. Everything seems okay; I see no bloodshed in our immediate future. The little fat kid gets ready to swing but checks it instead.
It’s a one in a million shot.
The ball hit the bat and careens directly into little fat kid’s eye.
Little fat kid drops to his fat little knees and starts to cry.
We are so getting sued.
In case you needed another reason, this is why all the other Moms hate me:
When the ball hit the little fat kid in the eye, I snort laughed. I couldn’t stop it – it was snort laughed out into the atmosphere before I had time to mask my amusement. I understand that I’m a terrible person, I live with it, but I do my best to try and conceal it from all the other moms (most of whom are snort-laughing on the inside).
Little fat kid should have a nice shiner by morning and, mercifully, the next kid struck out and ended the game. It was a miserable loss for my son’s team (not that we keep score). Little fat kid was soon placated by what was already looking to be a glorious battle scar and the after game snack; little chocolate donuts and “juice” (which may or may not contain actual juice) pouches.
What I learned today is that little chocolate donuts cover a multitude of sins. All the children were happy. Madison, pummeled by the ball for the whole game was smiling and chasing her teammates despite her bruised and broken little body. Sydney, even with tears and the ice pack frozen solid to her tiny face, was smiling as she received her little chocolate donuts. J ate his snack and then pushed the car home (with us inside) and slept very well. Even K got a package, and happily crunched away on the dirt, sand, and diphtheria deposited upon her little chocolate donuts by her revolting port-a-potty hands (before I could get over to her and take them away. Tears. Lots of tears).
On to the first away game!
a change in my weekend plans, bile geyser, child vomit, life, mom and dad sick, ride the regurgitation, salad shooter, sick kids, spraying puree, Stomach virus, the call of the walrus, throwing it into reverse, Up the down chute, writing
This post is from last year ’round this time. Since I have it readily available, I don’t feel it necessary to write a new post, as the account of my life two weeks ago is almost precisely the same as what you’ll read here, with one exception.
This year K is older and wiser.
We tried to teach her how to use the hurl bucket, so she was no longer upchucking all over the house (and us). After I gave her instructions, the bucket, and she was horizontal on the couch watching Dora, I went into the kitchen for… Whatever I went into the kitchen for… And heard the telltale sound of the wretched wretching. I walked back to the couch and found K; still on her back, but spewing spectacularly into the bucket, which she was holding upside-down on top of her face. The puke was dripping everywhere, her hair was soaked in green chunks, and K was genuinely shocked at how miserably wrong my directions had been pertaining to the use of the hurl bucket.
Enjoy Throwback Thursday.
Last week on Wednesday morning, K started having (This is the point where you decide whether or not you want to keep reading. This post is not for the faint of heart.)
diarrhea. There. I said it.
She was fine otherwise and running around like usual, so we went on with our lives. Naturally, when the preschool informed me on Wednesday afternoon that K had had a shitty, shitty, day, (literally, not figuratively) I pretended to be insanely surprised.
Although the Pedialyte in her lunchbox may have given me away.
K got sick first, a full day before the rest of us; blowing chunks like an automatic lawn sprinkler at dawn.
The walls, the floor, dripping down out of the tiny cracks in the ceiling, she was straight out of the exorcist.
It sucked, but we managed, as we had not yet begun our own appointments in the Oval Office.
It was… My time. I try to take a zen approach when reviewing the menu. I watch TV (preferably old sitcoms) while meditating and chanting:
“I will not puke tonight I will not puke tonight I will not puke tonight.” Sometimes it even works.
The husband fell next, 2am, and judging from the sounds I heard coming from the bathroom, Uncle Ralph had called on the big white telephone, and the husband had answered.
I was extremely busy not barfing in the living room. Any small move on my part would have resulted in the immediate jettison of all chunky cargo, but the husband was retched out. I nominated him to clean up the child and the upchuck in J’s room, which he did. This is especially impressive since there was still a vomit comet as well as a shart ejecting itself from J’s orifices (orifii?) during the time the husband was working. STILL, somehow, the husband managed to get the child clean and settled on the couch before he went back to the bathroom to drive the porcelain bus himself. He deserves some kind of award for that.
Like a Pukey or something.
Maybe I’ll get him a statuette.
K slept. I suppose she had done her time.
We divvied up the buckets and watched “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” because our only other option was food related and… Not three, not two, but only one payment of 19.95. Plus, the TV remote wasn’t immediately available, and there weren’t any volunteers to go look for it.
We were lepers. We were pariahs in our own families and community. If they could’ve, the neighbors would have draped plastic over our house and piped o2 in and out. As is, I’m pretty sure I saw a hazmat suit as I dragged my unwilling body out to the car to get Gatorade and crackers.
Why would I go, you ask?
Well, relatively early in the day we had begun to speak of the unspeakable – one of us would have to go out for supplies. I submitted that in the interest of myself, the husband should go. His suggestion was almost identical.
Throughout the day, we played ginger ale and crackers survivor. We began to hoard Pepto Bismol and Immodium. We had a staring contest. Eventually, someone had to help J with his acid chowder, and since I was up anyhow, what’s another 5 miles?
I gathered my strength, got my keys and swore to myself that I would NOT:
de-eat in the car, blow my groceries in the store, fertilize the bushes or shart. That’s the big one. No sharts. I had no spare pants, and I had no choice but to go to the closest grocery store (where like Cheers, everybody knows your name). I’d never get over a public sharting. I can’t even pee in a public restroom without a complete fortress of solitude, so I made a plan; just in case.
Should I shart at the grocery store:
1. Back away casually from the cart.
2. Place the super saver circular casually over the affected area.
3. Casually back out of the grocery store.
4. Abort! Abort! Abort! Drive home with super saver circular between shart and leather seat.
5. Never go there again. Ever. Even if I have to drive three hours each way for a loaf of bread. Never.
At the grocery store, I might as well have been walking around asking people if I could eat their brains. I was given a fifty foot berth in every direction (a good thing, really, since the realistic probability of a shart was way higher than I would admit at the time). Luckily, neither yak nor shart came for me then.
The shart cart (all part of my plan) ended up serving a dual purpose; as face plant happened to be a real risk on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, in my half-conscious grab for sick people food, I accidentally came home with onion flavored Ritz crackers. The mere sight of those crackers caused all of us to nearly jazz up the carpet (it was a very close call) again, which would’ve totally blown all my hard work. They still haven’t forgiven me. I don’t blame them.
Why do those crackers even exist? Good God, why? Why???
I’m gagging even now just thinking about it.
The rest of the day was spent nibbling crackers (non-onion) and then watching as the crackers took the short cut out anyhow. Good times.
Better. Fewer sharts. (The majority of actual sharts have been left out of this post to protect the innocent. Just know I argued to include them) On Sunday, nobody went for the ol’ second chew.
Things were getting better, thank you to the good and gracious immune system. Someone turned on the food network at some point; retribution was swift and severe.
To any of you out there that know us personally: Sorry.
If it makes it any better, we’re healthy now.
It probably won’t, though.
This morning, while K is watching a cartoon.
K: Mom, move over. I can’t see the TV.
(I say: Oh, so sorry that my cleaning, cooking, chauffeuring, and other various and sundry Mom duties have taken precious seconds away from your television time. My bad. I’ll know better for next time.
K hears: ………………………………… Television…………)
TWO MINUTES LATER
K: Mom, I need a tissue (the box of tissues sits immediately to her left)
Me: Then get a tissue.
K: I can’t. (She stares at the TV as her
mine cart finger begins its slow ascent towards gold her nose.)
Me: K, I have seen you extend BOTH of your arms in the past. Occasionally at the same time. Therefore, I’m absolutely positive that you can work but one of those pretty arms, right now, in order to get yourself a tissue.
K: I can’t (her finger is now dangerously close to her booger bearer)
Me: They’re right there.
K: I can’t get it. (Finger now beginning proboscis probe)
Me: Fine. Here. (I hand her a tissue just before the nudging of nose nuggets begins in earnest.)
ONE MINUTE LATER
K: Mom, here. (holds out her hand with nasty used tissue in it.)
Me: Throw it away, please. And wash your hands.
K: J, here (extends previously unusable arm, holding nasty used tissue, to her brother.)
Me: No, K. Your tissue has germs all over it. When we use a tissue, we throw it in the garbage ourselves.
K: (puts nasty used tissue in her lap) Ok, I did.
Me: No you didn’t, it’s still sitting in your lap.
K: No, I threw it away. (tissue still sitting in her lap)
Either my child’s lying proficiency is way below benchmark, or she really thinks the cheese has slid off my cracker.
I don’t know which is worse.
Of all the 365 days that it takes for our Earth to revolve around the sun, I own the number one shittiest day upon which to be born. That day– that birthday— shittiest of all– is December 26th.
Or as I like to call it, National Sleep It Off Day.
The day of my birth is so shitty, in fact, that when I was a child, my parents (the very people to blame for my shitty birthday) suggested to me that we pretend that I was born sometime better, like in the spring or summer.
You know you’ve got a shitty birthday when your own parents are in league to change it.
I gave the idea it’s due ponder… as well as any small child could, but in the end I said no.
No, said I, bearing a martyrs load of first world problems at far too young an age, I was born on this shitty, shitty, day, and to celebrate the day upon which I made my grand entrance at any other time would be a great untruth.
No, I would keep my shitty birthday, because shitty or not, it’s mine.
Often when I tell people my birth date, they tilt their heads just so, and look up at me with the same pity you’d address someone who’d just told you they’d contracted some devastating disease.
“Wow” they say “that’s a pretty shitty birthday”.
And yet, they do not understand the layers and depths of shit to which my particular birthday falls. Most group my birthday along with all the other shitty holiday birthdays, those born on Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, New Years Eve or New years Day, and although all those birthdays are shitty in their own respects, they don’t even begin to smoosh the fecal yule log that my birthday serves up for supper every year.
People say things like:
“You must hate those combo gifts, or people wishing you a “Merry Birthmas”, or “Happy Chrisday” (Just an FYI for all of you out there with good birthdays, when addressing someone with a shitty birthday, you should understand that it’s not about the presents. People with shitty birthdays get used to combo presents by the time they’re old enough to pronounce “presents”).
And then they clap me on the shoulder, give me a quick, quiet, smile that says that they alone understand my plight, and go on to say something like:
“It could be worse. You could have been born on Christmas”
Yes, it must be shitty to have been born on Christmas Day, and for people born on Christmas Day or Christmas eve, I do feel your pain. However, you should all take heart; for unto you, born these days, is given a birthday worlds less shitty than mine. Because even though you have to share your birthday with another important calendar day, and that sucks, your birthday falls at a time when everyone is happy, and celebrating. There’s togetherness and love. Peace on Earth, goodwill to men, and all that good shit. You, your family and friends have spent weeks, possibly months, preparing for the celebration that is (in part… in very small part, believe me I get it) your birthday.
For me, not so much. If I’m very lucky, some family or friend has made it through the festivities with little or no hangover, manages to wake up before the 27th, and remembers to call.
Probably not, though.
Sometimes people remember my birthday on Christmas Day, and although that’s extremely nice of them to go out of their way like that, it’s kind of like a premature ejaculation of good tidings, making the next day just a little more cold and depressing.
Hell, even I’m exhausted the day after Christmas. Since the kids came along, I don’t even give a crap about my shitty birthday. Happy birthday to me, there are plenty of leftovers, so I don’t have to cook dinner. Get out the candles and cake. Or don’t. You probably won’t, anyway.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
K has developed a superpower. She is:
Disrobing faster than a speeding bullet, able to perform the most advanced naked couch yoga, and immune to even the coldest, nipple hardening, draft.
In this episode of Naked Girl, our hero tries to convince The Evil Momster to let her go to preschool bare assed. We join our hero as she sits at the breakfast table… Eating breakfast. The Evil Momster turns
and walks five steps to the sink. When the Evil Momster turns back, Naked Girl is wearing nothing but a smile. And so the battle begins:
Naked Girl: Mom, my pants are wet.
The Evil Momster: You’re not wearing any pants.
Naked Girl: Oh.
The Evil Momster re-dresses Naked Girl. Naked Girl may have lost this battle, but our hero has many tricks up her… Well, wherever she keeps them.
Our hero creeps silently from the Evil Momsters sight, and
Our hero is naked again, this time fleeing the scene, the unrestrained glee of streaking making her so fast that she is no more than a blur of tiny butt cheeks. At the naked yoga couch, The Evil Momster catches up to her. Naked Girl tries valiantly to intercept The Evil Momster even before the impending battle begins:
Naked girl: I don’t have to wear pants.
The Evil Momster: I’m pretty sure you do.
Naked Girl: (FLASH of toddler brilliance) No, Miss Jenna said.
The Evil Momster: Your preschool teacher told you that it was okay to come to school with no pants?
Naked Girl: (Triumphantly) Yes.
Our Hero thinks she has won the war, The Evil Momster must certainly yield to the rules of the most beloved and almighty preschool teacher, mustn’t she?
No, The Evil Momster seems to have some lie detecting sensory perception and knows, somehow, that Naked Girl had never actually had this conversation with the beloved and beautiful Miss Jenna.
The Evil Momster: Has Miss Jenna ever come to school without pants?
Naked Girl: no.
The Evil Momster re-dresses and restrains Naked Girl in some sort of transportation device.
You may have won this round, Evil Momster, but Naked Girl will be back!
Stay tuned for the next episode of Naked Girl, when you’ll see our hero find out how cold it is outside with no clothes on.
I am currently suffering fro the NASTIEST most WHOREable virus that has ever attacked my immune system.
As most feverishly deranged people, I’m not ashamed to admit that either I’m feverishly deranged, or you’re out to get me. Could go either way.
It all started two weeks ago with my daughter, she was sick for a full week, poor baby. Her fever spiked to 105.5. Then my son got sick, then me and the husband.
But I’m the only one who’s still sick.
Is this coincidence? Can’t be, and the resentment I feel for my family, or “The Healthies”, as they shall be known from this moment forward (in case they read this, I don’t want them knowing I wrote a post regarding their disgusting good health) knows no bounds.
In fact, If they didn’t bring me popsicles and other gifts of medicine and chicken soup; catering, in fact, to my every need, I might sit here and think hopelessly about how I’d take them all out, if I were well enough to get up, or had the strength to do something coordinated, like think.
Since I don’t, I can only assume that the healthies are trying to off me instead.
I have multiple delusions pointing to that reality, as well as the voices, which have formed a very persuasive argument inside my swollen, overheated brain.
The healthies are playing right now. Probably laughing at me as I lie here, incapacitated, having nursed the lot of them through this snotty mess of a flu last week, and the week before. My son just poked his head around the corner into the living room where I am ailing upon my recliner. He says:
“Mommy, do you need anything?”
It’s hard to despise his healthy glow when he’s so sweet.
“A popsicle please”
But only If it’s not been poisoned.
Ah, but this is not my mission right now. Right now, I’m answering questions about my blog, a Q&A sent to me by Parenting is Funny. (Which may become my final statement— If I’m dead in the morning, it was the boy.) Go read her blog, she’s funny.
1: When and why did you start blogging?
20 minutes ago, because I had to do this Q&A, and it’s the first time I’ve been able to hold the laptop steady for any period of time for almost a week. It appears the husband has noticed, he just asked if I’d like a pillow for my head. For my HEAD? or FOR my head? The healthies are always asking tricky questions.
The smallest one, K, comes over and hands me a toilet paper roll dressed up to look like a turkey, with a million different colored cut outs of her hand stapled to the back to make it’s plumage. Glitter is coming off on my hands.
IS IT POISON GLITTER?
“I make it for you, Mommy, gobble-gobble” She says, laughing.
They’re slippery, using the cute one to achieve their nefarious ends.
2: Is there any reason behind your blog’s name?
Oh yes. Reason. Never let your guard down, even when you nap. They say it’s the fever… But can I really be sure? Isn’t that what they WANT me to think? That I’m the crazy one? Isn’t that juuuust what the assassin sent to murder me in my sleep would say? Can’t. Trust. Anyone.
“Just take a nap, Naptimethoughts, we’ll take care of everything… “
I’m here to tell you that you never …. Nap… But so sleepy… They must have put a sleeping pill in my popsicle… That’s rule number one— Never underestimate a healthy.
I can hear the husband shushing the children so that Mommy can sleep. What? They don’t want me around? I’m not pleasant enough company for healthy people? The Voices have been vindicated…
I seem to have lost several hours. Sometime during my nap, the husband took my computer and put it back in its’ bag. Hopefully he didn’t figure out my sophisticated password (birthday) and read this log, or I’m surely dead by morning.
3: If there’s one thing you dislike about blogging, what is it?
What’s not to like? It’s a diary, it’s a blog (is that redundant?) it’s a time stamp on the people you last considered a threat to your life. It’s dead useful. Pun intended.
4: Have you ever thought of quitting your blog?
5: Have any nasty trolls stopped by your blog and left comments?
Yes— in fact there appear to be two little trolls wandering around me as… We… Speak. Shhhhhh… Don’t rouse them. They’re always making comments. There is no way to get them to STOP making comments.
Now the little troll’s climbing on me. She’s laughing the laugh of a sweet baby, but I know better. The husband pries her off of me, and she cries “I love you, Mama”.
She’s out for my blood. I can feel it.
Trolls, both of them. The bigger healthy troll comes over and kisses my hot cheek.
“I hope you feel better soon, Mommy” He says.
Right. This from the one that put a sleeping pill in my popsicle.
6: Have you written any controversial blog posts?
I write a blog?
Looks like it’s time for my medicine.
7: Have you ever experienced losing your blogging Mojo? How did you get it back?
That’s two questions. You’re all in cahoots with the healthies, aren’t you? You may think you can just pull the wool over my eyes because I have a million degree fever, and won’t notice… well I’m noticing, all you healthy people out there, and I may have too much snot in my head to hear you, but I know two questions when I see them, and that’s two questions.
The husband is asking if I’m comfortable in my recliner, or if I want to come to bed. He’s tricky, that one. If I could see properly, I’d Google which place would be easier for him to get a pillow over my face before I made a decision. I can’t, though, and at this point, death might be preferable.
The snot is unbearable.
I can only hope the NyQuil mixes with whatever poisonous concoction the healthies have brewed for my tea will do the job quickly and quietly.
If there’s an afterlife, I hope to see you there.
When I started Naptimethoughts, it was just for me.
I had no expectations that anyone would ever read the thing, and I certainly never expected to form real friendships with people I’d never met— people who live across oceans, across continents, people who live on the other side of the world.
Obviously I was wrong, I have formed friendships as real as any friendships (what do they call it? IRL?) by way of Naptimethoughts, by email, and now, face to face. I never thought it would happen, but recently I had the great pleasure to meet Pieter, of Ah Dad, in person. He came all the way from South Africa, aaaaaand he came to me. I didn’t even have to go anywhere, which is good because I’m really lazy, and “doing stuff” is not generally on my “Stuff to do” list.
He came to the States (specifically NYC) on a business trip, and wanted to go to Gotham Comedy Club, so my husband and I took him.
I’d never been to Gotham before, so I consulted a friend on it’s specifics.
“You wanna sit in the front”, she said, “the sound at the back tables is ASS, so get there early. Also, the wait staff come over constantly to make sure you’re all drinking enough to make the comics funny.”
I took this sage advice, and we planned to get there an hour early.
We ended up driving in. The Husband and I rolled the dice on the Lincoln Tunnel and won, it was way faster than the train. Then we parked my husbands commuter car (I affectionately call her “Shit Box”. It’s out of love, people, not because she’s got close to 300,000 miles on her.) in a garage, which, since we were downtown was pretty cheap. Parking till midnight was only a bajillion dollars, whereas uptown — in the theater district — you’re looking at 2 bajillion and a kidney, at least, and that only gets you till six PM.
So, with butterflies in my tummy, we walked the three blocks to meet Pieter. By the time we got to Gotham and met him, I was completely breathless (lets say it was excitement, and not extreme lack of exercise). He brought us gifts from South Africa, and since I’m generally an asshole and never think of these things, I had not thought to bring anything for him. He got a dose of Naptimethoughts hospitality nice and early.
Hey, at least he knew what to expect.
We went inside, and Gotham was still in the middle of the show prior to ours (we were an hour early after all) so we stood around and talked.
It must have been a trillion degrees in the foyer at Gotham. I started sweating like a cub scout at Neverland Ranch, and Pieter learned that I do not lie about my abnormal sweating. I take it very seriously. As I took my own personal embarrassment shower, he politely asked if we’d like to go outside.
It was really hot, though. Pinkie swear. Nobody else was sweating like a fucking fat guy at a buffet, but they did, at least, acknowledge that it was warm.
Since we were first into the show, we got a table right at the front (I was much less sweaty at this point). Like, right in front of the microphone. We got some drinks.
The lady whose job it is to come out and abuse the audience came out to abuse the audience. She took special exception to me, I don’t know why.
I was laughing.
I was nice; nicer, actually, than is usual for me. The kitty kept her claws retracted.
Here are some of the highlights of her special on Naptimethoughts:
“I see you’ve come out tonight in your best green Washington DC tee shirt” (It’s not the Met, you know.)
“There’s something very off about your vibe. Are you mother Earth?” (I’m Naptimethoughts, so close the fuck enough.)
“What do you do for a living, and don’t try to be funny” (I don’t ever try, that’s generally the problem.)
“Who are these two guys you’re with? They make a really good looking couple” (Okay, yes they would. We get it, two tall handsome men and a fat lady in an old green Washington DC tee shirt. You’re just jealous.)
“Are you on a weekend pass from a mental hospital? Are you sure they’re not your nurses or something?” (I’m never sure of anything. I was willing to let that one pass as legitimate.)
Then I got the stink eye for ordering a drink while she was talking.
She was funny, though, so no harm no foul.
Okay, that’s a total lie, I was completely annoyed. Both the guys told me I was a baby, and yes, they were quite right, but I thought she was horrible and mean and ugly. No, Fugly. Super fugly with disgusting sauce and a side of cat snot. Not the runny kind, either, the rubber cement kind. (See Today in Haiku)
So there, lady whose name I do not know and will never see again. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, several weeks later, on a blog that you’ll probably never read, in a post you’ll probably never see.
That’s right, I called you fugly.
Naptimethoughts = Vindicated.
The headliner was Mario Cantone, and he was very… He sang some extremely… Show tunes. I don’t have an adjective for what he did. None of us did. We all thought the other two comics were funnier. He kind of looked like he had a blow problem or something.
Oh well, the booze flowed, and Pieter got to check out Gotham Comedy club.
This is us:
After we saw… Ummm… Show tunes, we went to East on Eighth for some dinner, and we introduced Pieter to mediocre American meatloaf.
I thought I had a pretty good handle on what to feed a South African, but it turns out… Not so much. So we convinced him to try the meatloaf, in an effort to give him a true blue taste of America.
Inyhoo, it was no matter, what counted was the conversation, and it was good. Actually, it was diarrhea of the mouth. My husband said, later on, that he thought he spoke once during dinner, and it was to the waiter. We were there for hours and neither one of us shut up at all. What was so strange and amazing and exciting about it was that we were talking:
To. Each. Other.
Not on a screen, not by email, not commenting to each other regarding posts we had written, but talking, sometimes gossiping, (no, not about you) about everything that, prior to that moment, we had not known that we needed to talk about. We talked about writing a blog, about how we write, and why we do it, we talked about our kids and families; it was such easy conversation. I felt like I spilled my Naptimethoughts guts for the first time ever, and I suppose in a way I did, because he is the only one of you that I’ve ever met, “IRL”. (Heh. IRL. )
We closed the place down. They had to ask us to leave, in that very desperate we-really-want- to-go-home-now kind of way.
I’d tell you what we did next, but it involved me trying to navigate the streets of lower Manhattan around midnight from the backseat of a car, sorting out detours, and failing miserably. I’d have done better if we’d walked, or gotten on the subway. SO YOU”LL JUST NEVER KNOW… MUAHAHAHA… Ah Dad made it to The Cellar eventually anyhow. Check out his blog, he wrote about it.
We should do that more often.
Well, I mean, South Africa’s kind of far, but after my night out with Pieter, I think we should all make an attempt to meet each other IRL. I know Ireland has award ceremonies for Bloggers, and you guys all get to meet there, but the rest of us schlubs should try to meet up when we travel.
It’s so worth it.
Pieter, it was wonderful to meet you, and if you ever find your way back to NYC, you know where to call.
Has anybody else met a fellow blogger? How was it for you?
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