Friday, July 30, 2010

The Road Trip.

A couple weeks ago the kids and I tagged along with my husband on a business trip. Five hours to Canada. Due to forgetting things, it took four attempts to leave our driveway. The last item being our passports, so thank Christ we remembered those.

We were lucky to get anywhere. We needed to maneuver around tornados, bolts of lightening and sheets of rain. If flaming hoops showed up at the Canadian border, I would not have been surprised.

My husband tailgates. Not the beer-guzzling, classy-hot-dog-in-the-parking-lot kind of tailgating. It's the ramming-our-car-into-another-car's bumper kind of tailgating. Trust me, I'd prefer a beer and hotdog. I always watch the drivers as we pass and more often than not, they flip the bird.

The hubbs refuses to believe he's a rude driver, so I have to come up with sarcastic ways to suggest he back out of the car's anus that is driving in front of us.

"Man, that guy should really get a colonoscopy. He has a polyp on the left side of his anus."

"Gross. Who are you talking about?"

"The driver in front of us. You are currently driving inside of his asshole."

Or

"We must be getting really good gas mileage, that's awesome."

"Why? Why would you say that?"

"Because your front two wheels are literally on top of the car in front of us, forcing them to pull us all the way to Canada. I mean, I don't care, but I would think they would want us to remove our front tires from their skulls."

Then Parker gets worked up..."Who's skull are we on? Dad, what are doing? What's going on?"

After five hours of this banter, we arrived at our destination. Apparently Paige, the yougest, thought we drove to Spain. As we sat down for dinner, the server took our order and Paige yelled, "I had no idea the people in Canada speak ENGLISH! Wow!"

After one night of swimming and movies, we were back on the road. We relied on our GPS even though it drove us to a cornfield. At this point, we were verbally abusing our GPS. "Oh, I'd love to take a left, you piece of shit, but we don't want to drive into a cornfield! You have successfully driven us to a field of nothing, you no-good piece of junk." I was waiting for it to laugh at us. At some point the joke is on us, the idiots, for blindly following it right toward a cornfield. "Well maybe if we just get through the first few rows, there will be a road leading..." Christ.

We may have lost our minds on this trip, but we did gain some good memories and inside jokes that should carry us through the next year or two. Isn't that what it's all about? Memories and being able to laugh at ourselves? That's the good stuff.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Sports - And Crazy Fans (Parents).

My daughter's fastpitch team won a tournament last weekend, but the journey to get there was not pretty. All the parents were hysterical nail-biting alcoholics. I somehow morphed into the psychotic cheerleading captain. I found myself yelling, "Okay Parks - make her swing the bat! Blow it by her! Shut her DOWN now!"

Keep in mind the parents of the little 10-year-old batter were sitting on the bleachers next to me while I instruct our pitcher to shut their sweet little bundle of joy down.

Who cares, we had a game to win! I would have painted my face into a fucking White Bear Polar Bear if the opportunity presented itself.

After a couple of games, the parents were ready to share cardiac arrest paddles due to heart palpitations. I swear to God, I had chest pains during one particular inning where a few errors were made. I was ready to watch this game from a stretcher if needed. Christ.

I was yelling, "IT'S OKAY (fuck)! DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT (shit shit shit)! IT'S JUST A GAME (the biggest game of your fucking life)!"

As parents, we came to our senses and realized we needed some beer, bloodies and gin & tonics to calm our nerves. I was ready to start smoking or convulsing to relieve my exposed nerves. After two gallons of Shock Tops, I was ready to be a good, calm little fan. I had my shit together again.

It didn't work. I was worse. When my daughter struck out by watching a strike sail right by her I yelled, "Say WHAT??!! That was perfect!" She turned to me from the fucking batter's box and yelled, "MOM - GOD!"

This required damage control. And self-awareness. And an apology. I stumbled over there with my Shock Top breath and said, "Hey, I'm sorry. I could never do what you're doing out there. I am so out-of-control-crazy-excited, but I will keep a lid on it."

She said, "Yeah. That would be good."

And wasn't that the reason for my insanity? I never could do what any of those girls were doing out there. I was the bookworm, theatre geek in school. I don't have athletic DNA in my body. I don't even own thigh muscles. In fact, and I'm not kidding here, I just pulled a fucking neck muscle while typing this blog.

So I admit it, I was living vicariously through them in complete and total awe. Like a parasite, I dug in and extracted as much of the experience as I could get. I'm not proud of it. Just being honest.

I was honored they allowed me to be a part of their journey to becoming champions (even though they probably would fire me as a fan if they could). I am past my prime and honestly, I never even had a prime, so it's beautiful and fascinating and cool to watch and see how it all happens. That energy of being Top Dog was exhilarating - and I was only feeling the aftershocks of what the actual Top Dogs were feeling. I'm only the mother of a Top Dog.

Although most of the girls on the team had no idea they even won a game. A few of them went up to the coach after one particular shellacking and asked, "That was fun! Did we win?"

Maybe they really are oblivious to the crazed parental hysterics that ensue on the bleachers.

As my daughter would say, "Yeah. That would be good." We have State next weekend, so I'm going to need to learn breathing techniques, buy a muzzle, and take some anti-psychotics in order to maintain a cool, breezy appearance.