The One Where I'm Too Old For This Shit

My brother is 8 years younger than me.

Also, he does not have a bunch of health problems.

So being a younger thirtysomething, he goes out.  Like, at night.  When other people are out, also. Apparently, it's a "thing".

I vaguely remember this type of activity from when I was younger.

He came to town for Thanksgiving, and wanted to go see a cover band that we love:  The Spazmatics.  They are an 80's cover band dressed as nerds. We have seen them live locally quite a few times, and my bro has seen them TONS of times.  It's a good show, I know all the songs, the guys are funny, so I enjoy going out to see them. Or at least, I USED TO enjoy going out to see them.

But being 40 has put a damper on my swag.  Also, having health problems that make sleeping elusive, being on a strict meds and detox schedule, and being tired constantly has put a kink in my tail.  My feet hurt too much to stand or dance for long (thank you, Bartonella), so when I hear, "live band", my first concern is whether there will be comfortable seating.  40, going on 80.

So I was hesitant to say "yes".  But like the awesome Big Sis I am, I sucked it up, and went.  Even as a Designated Driver.

We drove.  And drove and drove and drove.  Because they were playing at an Indian Casino, Cache Creek.  So the location was almost an hour and a half away.  We left right around my normal bedtime.  I felt like a little girl that got to stay up late for something special, like a drive-in movie, or an all-night drive to Disneyland.

Stifling yawns, I warned my passengers (after we were on the road and I had control over the vehicle) that I would maybe stay for the first half. They were happy to have a sober ride with a badass minivan, so they did not argue.

We got there, with 3 minutes before the show was set to begin.

Things do not start on time in the world of Nightlife.  I guess because they have had all day to get behind.  So this meant that I had some time to convince the Blackjack dealers I needed new tires for the Swagger Wagon.  I worked that table like a stripper with 9 kids to feed.  When I was up half a Michelin, I meandered over to the comfy chairs in  the lounge.  Did I mention the chairs were cushy?  Comfy?  Gloriously soft and accepting of my tired ass?  :::swoon:::

I got a beverage to blend in with the cool kids----a Seabreeze.  Except that I'm old, and no one knows how to make a Seabreeze any more.  You'd think I was Don Draper, asking for a damned Old Fashioned.  IT'S VODKA, CRAN, AND GRAPEFRUIT, PEOPLE!  Instead, I sipped a VERY RED vodka-cran-with-lyme.  Which is fine, because it was more cranberry than vodka, so it was practically medicinal.  No UTIs for me.

And then, I danced!  I brought back my GoGos dance moves. Which fit in better than I expected.  It didn't even have to be "ironic". 

But Sky King was worried about me. Being out with Normal Adults At Night, and all.  We texted for a bit:

SK: Took you long enough to get there.

Me: It's DEEP!

SK:  Obvs.  Have fun, keep your bro out of trouble.

Me: I will do my best.


Hey, Progress!!!  You trust ME to not get into a fight!

SK: Yeah, Fun Aimee seems to be shelved, so I worry less.

:::this is the part where I feel responsible, and sorry for myself, missing Fun Aimee and all the potential altercations and hangovers that go with her:::

So I sang til my throat ached, and danced 3 whole songs.  In between, I worked on my kids' college funds.  UPDATE:  Things AREN'T looking good for college.  Maybe a scholarship for sarcasm will be en vogue by then.

I forgot the types that go out late at night, hammer-drunk, dancing in public.

There are the Drunk Chicks. They tend to congregate in large groups.  Herds, if you will.  They yell, "WooHoo!!!" a lot, and make you dance with them.  They are persistent.  And they feel accomplished if they can remember your name, song to song.  It goes like this:

(all caps because it's too fucking loud there)

DRUNK CHICKS: COME DANCE WITH US!  IT'S "COME ON EILEEN!"

ME:  NO, I'M GOOD.

DC:  IT'LL BE FUN.  AIMEE, RIGHT?   C'MON, AIMEE!!!! DANCE WITH US!!!!

Fortunately, I did NOT have to drink a drink bought by him.  But likely only because I left by midnight.  I was not wanting to be in his cologne orbit. is went on.  All night. I relented once in a while. They tried to give me their tequilla shots bought by some stranger.  Either they were close to puking, or wanted to make sure they hadn't been roofied. Even though I hear that Roofies help with sleep issues, I declined.

Meanwhile, to my right, there was a man with more gold chains than hair.  Originally, I was all, "Dude, who's the creepy old guy?".  Then, I decided, "Man, forty looks awful on some people".  it was a sad revelation.  In a sea of sad revelations.

Finally, there was Side Pony Chick.  This chick has issues, which seem to be solved with kitten sweatshirts and Mudslides.  She dances like she has nothing to lose. And her hair is a testament to her desire to put out the "I don't care about life anymore" vibes.  Don't be fooled by her smiles.  Always remember you are still in a bar in an Indian Casino. This chick will give you diseases that have been mostly eradicated through better hygiene and life choices----smallpox, The Plague, scurvy.

I finally escaped the night with less than a $40 loss at the tables (sorry, Harvard) and up two drunks.  We meandered down the road til fuller bladders prevailed, and found respite at the haven of all Drunk Havens, Denny's.

Only drunk people could possibly order this

Then, we finally pulled into the driveway.  I was home!  I survived!  The kids were still alive!  (Can I just say how glorious it is, to have a 13 year old, that will feed and water the 8 year old?  GLORIOUS.)

Princess left me a sweet note:

 

It says, "Avery loves you mom and dad. O and sarah you still o me ten dollers babie sitting chicoe"

Apparently, she said she had babysat the dog, Chico.  And she concluded that babysitters get paid.  Ten dollars seemed fair.  

All in all, she might not need college. 

Which works out well for everyone.

Coprophiliacs of the World, Unite!

Can we finally, as a nation, come together on a controversial topic, once and for all?

Poo.  It is NOT a toy.  Despite what Mattel and Goliath will have you believe:

Doggie Doo is a game where you jam a dough-y like substance into the pooch's mouth.  At some point, it comes out the other end.  It's Hungry Hungry Hippo, for coprophiliacs*.  My question is, is the scooper the winner? Does it also sneak through the house at night, eating dirty panties? I would rather buy my daughter a drum set.

Barbie, sacred maker of all that is achievable, realistic, and not misogynistic AT ALL,  gave us Tanner the pooping dog a few years back.  You fed it suspiciously poo-like pellets, and then it shat out poo-like pellets.  Apparently, the poo-like pellets looked A LOT like chocolate Tic Tacs, because little kids across the country were eating the damned things (future coprophiliacs?) and they had magnets in them, to help them "travel through Tanner's inner workings".  Magnets = lead.  Lead is no bueno in the world of edible toys.  After all, lead paint gave us things like Vanilla Ice, The Sonny and Cher Show, and the parents of the Jersey Shore Cast.  This case?  Rested.

I'm not against poo.  I am pro-poo, I really am.  It unclogs the pipes, helps you drop a few pounds.  And if you're Sky King, it gives you a good 30-45 minutes of "Quiet Time" a few times a week.  Which I don't get, but that's another post.  What I am against, is the need to for companies to make pooing into a creative play experience. 

I'm all for pranks.  There's nothing like dropping a fake turd or vomit pile on the ground, and watching the hilarity that ensues.  But that should be the end of poo play. 

These games and toys do NOT embody the reality of poo.  Yellow dough-like goo that smells like plastic?  Not.  Brown plastic pellets that magnetically stick to the pooper scooper?  Not likely.  The reality of poo is much worse.  Much, much worse.

When your sweet little babies are first born, they expel a nasty black stickiness that attaches like tar to their babybits.  It takes remarkable violence to remove it.  And it just goes downhill from there.  Breastfed babies expel green frothy slime that can have the force of Mentos in a diet Coke.  Formula produces giant foul-smelling man-like poo. And for the next 2 and a half years, we wipe wipe wipe, several times each day.  Unless you are fortunate enough to have a child that is perpetually constipated, which will only leave them writhing in pain between bowel movements.  So in that case, you are actually PRAYING FOR SHIT TO HAPPEN. 

Which is all run-of-the-mill. 

There's babies that get into their diapers before a change, using what they find to paint the walls.  There's plenty of excrement flying in the prison system, and not just from mouths. Then, there's major Poo-Tastrophies.

Princess was involved in a Major Poo-Tastrophy.  I was involved, as well.  And it has left vivid stains on my brain.

Back in the days when Sky King was leaving us each morning to run a business and spending weekends managing a Flight School about 3 hours away, I was able to stay home with the kiddos.  Monkey Boy was working his way through a year of Kindergarten, and Princess was giving me glimpses of what I had to look forward to for years to come.  She was keeping me on my toes even at 9 months.

Being a Child Development Professional, I had everything I needed to keep my children safe, including a system of gates.  Princess was a busy busy girl, and Monkey Boy was not very diligent with keeping baby-proof.  He had Legos and action figures, teeny bits of this and that.  And babies?  Love to put shit in their mouths.  Little did I know how literal that phrase would become.

The first problem was, Monkey Boy was not a fan of flushing.  He had issues with loud sounds-helicopters, vacuums, movie theaters, toilets. The sound was loud, and he could not simultaneously hold both ears covered while engaging the flush mechanism.  So he skipped it.

Luckily, I had a gate in the bathroom doorway:

Unluckily, MB would sometimes forget to close the gate.  I would sometimes find Princess playing in the toilet.  Eeeew. 

One day, I came around the corner to find Princess in the hallway, playing with something. She had been quiet, which is Momspeak for Up-to-no-good. She was speaking Up-to-no-good fluently.  The closer I got, it looked like she had been into some candy-she was holding something, it was smeared all over the carpet and bathroom, and she had it all over her face.  Because she was eating it.

The "eating it" factor made me think it was chocolate. 

But it wasn't.  It was poo.

Which became my third call in 3 years to Poison Control, after I cleaned her, the carpet, the walls, the bathroom.  All while fighting my gag reflex.

Me: Umm, yes.  My baby girl ate some poo, and I need to know what to do.
Poison Control Dude: It's fairly common for babies to get into their diapers, there shouldn't be a concern, but you'll wa....
Me: It wasn't her poo.
PCD: What???  Who's poo was it?
Me: Her brother's.
PCD: Are they blood relatives living in the same home?
Me:.....yes.....why?
PCD: This means they likely have the same bacteria in their guts, so there is less of a chance of getting e coli.
Me:  :::alarmed:::  E coli?????
PCD:  Yes.  Just watch her for fever, or any unusual behavior.

Because eating poo?  Apparently not unusual behavior.

For the next 24 hours, she had the nastiest diapers I have ever experienced in my life.  And I have worked with children since I was 18. She pooed a total of 11 times.  Re-pooed, I should say.  And the smell may have peeled the paint off the walls.



Now, I have a great story to tell on Prom Night.  Maybe it will keep the boys from kissing her?


*Just in case my readership is not nearly as pervy as I think, Coprophilia is the scientific name for a poop fetish.  Yes, I had to Google it.