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Evening Special.

September 26, 2009

You’ll be relieved to know my arms have fully recovered from being shredded and I can type again. Call me crazy, but I think it’s time I added in actual weights to this strength training routine, which I’m sure will cause my arms to amputate themselves in order to escape the pain. During any upcoming blog outage due to the loss of my arms, I recommend you go here, here, or here.

But in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this Evening Special right here on my blog!

Despite the aura you may get from my blog, I’m entirely capable of going days without drinking. In fact, I was out of vodka for 1000 years. Actually, it was more like four weeks. Or possibly two. Fuck, I don’t know, it felt like 1000 years. By late Friday afternoon last week, I’d had enough of this recession-induced state of sobriety.

Honestly, how do teetotalers do it? Shit.

It’s not a coincidence that Friday was payday and my son and nephews’ favorite holiday, National Scream and Fight Until Mom Is Ready to Beat Us Day. Their celebrations of this day went on and on and ON for so long that time warped upon itself and I was stuck in a Twilight Zone hell hole of screaming, fighting children.

It’s as if the acrid scent of my patience worn thin hit the boys’ olfactory bulb in their brain and they knew I was weak. They became demented with power, and their screaming and fighting escalated to a special pitch so high that not even dogs can hear, but all mothers around the world CAN hear and know you are a failure as a mom because you can’t control your own kids in your own goddamn home.

It was then that I yelled today, after it continued on when I spent the day trying to do something nice for them, and they were fucking wrestling at dinner in a PUBLIC restaurant, I tell ya… “That’s it! We’re leaving to go home early so we can go by the liquor store!”

“What’s the liquor store, mama?”

Good god, there must have been a mix-up in the hospital nursery because I have explained what a liquor store is 100 times and they never remember. It’s genetically impossible these children are related to me… in whatever way.

“It’s where you go to buy alcohol. I’m out of vodka and I’m going to buy some.”

For whatever reason, my explanation prompted high-pitched giggles and more rolling on the hiking trail, which in itself inspired Parker to leg lock his brother yet again, which caused Payton to go into yet another fit of screams and hyperventilation because OH MY GOD, THE HORRIFIC TORTURE DEVICE THAT IS A LEG LOCK!

“And when we get to the liquor store, I’m going to tell the workers it’s all your fault I’m buying alcohol!” I said this as a joke to the boys because if I don’t laugh at the screaming and fighting, I’m going to smack them upside the head.

“Hahaha! We make auntie drink! Hahaha!”

Little shits think they are funny.

“Get your shoes on and get back to the truck.”

The boys ran to the car and buckled themselves in while I brought up the rear, yelling at them to look for cars before crossing the main street to go back to the parking lot. Since I’m not an X-men mutant and can’t make pay the bill in reverse time, those fuckers went at it AGAIN, fighting in the goddamn car. I whipped around, shot red lasers from my eyes at them and yelled, “OH MY GOD, STOP IT BEFORE YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY AND I RUN DOWN THE STREET IN MY UNDERWEAR!”

“Oh no,” Payton said to Parker. “We’re going to make GG drink!”

I loaded the dog, and the other 4 innocent children into the car and then proceeded to put on a movie for the Satan children whelped upon me, so we could go on our merry way back home to the ‘burbs and to the liquor store where they proceeded to make Father Beelzebub proud by doing the exact opposite I instructed and touching every motherfucking breakable bottle in the goddamn store. They generally ran wild, making me wish those child leashes disguised as backpacks were not inappropriate for in this day and age.

At the check out, I could literally hear all the way from Hell Satan’s chest swell with paternal joy when the cashier sardonically chuckled at me and said, “You sure have your hands full.”Again, this is where I resort to humor to keep from throttling my kid and I replied, “Heh. Why do you think I’m here?” I grabbed the nondescript brown bag and dragged the kids out of the store by their ears.

As we reach the door to exit, Tyler who is 8 turned around and yelled to the ENTIRE DAMN STORE…“My aunt NEEDS to drink!”

Shit motherfucker.

The employees all turned and looked at me and one picked up the phone, I just know to call the Betty Ford Clinic. You may not know this about me, I can run fast and was gone before she got to the area code.

Instead of taking crazy boys to the liquor store ever again, I’m going to invest my time in planning out my revenge as an old lady – like shitting my pants when THEY take me to the store.

The moral of this Special?

Never make jokes about alcohol to children.

Don’t take your children to the liquor store.

DON’T RUN OUT OF VODKA, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. ALWAYS KEEP A BACK UP BOTTLE.

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