18 November 2011

Robbing Banks and Fire Fight Proof Tables

JT said I could borrow his tables. Eight foot banquet tables that I thought were plastic. 

They were not. 

They were mostly steel and partially osmium I think. They were also covered in plywood and then in particle board and then encased in cement, probably. 

Since I thought they were plastic? I took one guy to help me move them. One old guy to be more clear. One old guy that we have since discovered is using a mere 30% of his lung capacity. No shit. 

So... I arrive to pick up Old Guy at ten, a full hour late and we speed to the storage unit, thinking this would take us just a few moments and then I could be on time to help my mom set up for my daughter's birthday party. 

Since I have obviously pissed Karma off in some major way, the storage company has decided that this is the perfect time to seal the blacktop on their parking lot, making it impossible to drive to the unit. Instead, the owner tells me that I can park by the road, walk to the unit, carry the tables and forty chairs across the yard and LIFT THEM ALL OVER THE FENCE. 

Still thinking that they were plastic, I agreed. 

This is where Krissy's absurdity becomes Krissy's stupidity. 

We open the unit, lift a single table out and carry it as far as across the little street to the grass before setting it down and declaring our ineptness in the table carrying department. 

A lightbulb positively explodes in the air over my head and I decide to go and recruit more man-help. D and T agree to help, seem eager even to assist. They are maybe winking at each other and calling me a wuss telepathically. I do not mind becuase they are unaware of the osmium filling inside of the steel/cement/plywood/particle board/ heavier than shit/and in no way should be mistaken as an actual table/ tables. They can laugh now. 

While I was recruiting man-help, Old Guy has been unloading chairs from the storage unit and piling them by the single table we managed to remove from the unit. By the time we get back, he is sitting on a four-wheeler thingy with the owner of the place, catching his breath with a cigarette. 
No shit.

T and D spend a ridiculously small amount of time securing the tables in the truck and piling folding chairs on top of them.

This seems sensible until we realize that the tailgate will not close. A bungee cord is magically produced, probably from the truck but maybe from one of our asses. It doesn't actually do anything to secure the load, but it makes us feel more secure. 

T has to drive because he is 8 feet tall (approximately). D rides shotgun and Old Guy folds himself up in the middle seat, looking mostly like a midget between T and D... who are mostly giants... compared to me anyway. 

In my hurry to secure man-help, I forgot that the truck only seats three people. So, I tuck myself under the dash and cuddle up with D's knee and tennis shoes. We are probably bonding right about now. 

We are taking backroads, in an effort to not hit anyone with a random steel chair on the highway. It's sensible, but I am so late. My  mom is going to kill me. Apparently, one never really outgrows fear of the mother.

I mention this aloud, and declare that I am all kinds of wound up now.

D ponders. He decides that I should tell my mom that I was going so damn fast that I couldn't catch up to me and that's why I am late.

T proclaims with all of the gusto one would expect in such a situation, "GREAT SCOTT!!!"

Old Guy looks scared and T giggles.

"Holy Shit! Something about a flux copasitor." Which I assume to be a reference to Back to the Future... but again it's hard to tell with that guy. 

It is about this time that two of the chairs fly out of the back of the truck. We debate not stopping, but then, since we didn't hit anyone with the chairs, we stop to get them. 

D thinks that right now would be a perfect time to rob a bank. Since I must look confused D explains that we are now bullet proof, at least from the back because we have a shit ton of steel back there. 

I tell them I would love to rob a bank with them, unfortunately, my mother is absolutely going to murder me if I am any later than I already am. 

T makes the observation that in the event of a fire fight at the benefit that we are borrowing the tables for, he will simply flip the table and hide behind it. 

I wonder if I would be able to flip the table. Probably not. Now, my mom is going to kill me and I am probably also going to die in the event of a fire fight under one of these tables. 

Karma hates me.

07 November 2011

Confederate Pirates and Hot Dogs

M was very sad. She was crying and trying not to. She was in severe emotional distress over that freaking Hallmark commercial. I think we maybe should sue those people.

She did not want me to hug her, because hugging makes people cry harder. I understood, but hugged her anyway. Because as much as I like to ignore my feelings I have been reading a lot of psychology these days, and it is probably unhealthy to bottle all of these things up inside. So, being absolutely ridiculously hammered (allegedly) is the perfect excuse to just go ahead and let it all out!

M disagrees. She thinks she should go out in her car and have a private moment. I think that is a horrible idea. We are all sitting in my room, trying our best not to disturb the sleeping children and babysitter.

M wonders if I have any beer in the fidge. I offer her T's left over beer, because I am all kinds of generous like that. T nods. He is not drunk. Someday? I will be the sober person in these stories.

M goes to the kitchen and returns hugging every single bottle of everything alcoholic that was in the fridge. Two bottles of Coors, an open bottle of wine stuff that was left over from the painting adventure, and a half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.

I do not drink rum. M does not drink rum. T does not drink rum. Only pirates drink rum. So, we decide that we are going to have to be pirates and we pass the bottle around. T says "arhgg" after every sentence, which I attempt only once because it is much much cooler when T says it. There is some talk of burying treasure in the backyard that never comes to fruition because Sailor Jerry's rum is fucking 90-some proof and one can not dig holes and draw treasure maps when the room is spinning.

Also? Tragically? None of us have any treasure to bury except a now empty bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.

I am having a difficult time understanding the conversation, quite suddenly really. I am babbling about how I am someday going to be able to say "holy shit" with the same conviction T can, M is babbling something about being a mermaid and having pearls or some shit when she decides all of a sudden that she will probably die if she does not have a hot dog. Right now.

I am still babbling about maybe being a stripper like T when I grow up, because that is obviously on the list of shit to do before one can say "holy shit" like T does.

M is not really pissed when she comes to the bedroom door and demands to know where the hot dogs are. She sounds pissed and looks pissed, but she is really just sad and trying not to cry. The effect of holding emotion in too long is that it frequently makes you look like an insane angry woman that will absolutely burn   houses down if  someone does not produce the hot dogs RIGHT-THE-FUCK-NOW.

Luckily, M finds the hot dogs and cooks them. There is then a full twenty minute conversation about how I do not want hot dogs and yes, T really only wants ketchup on his hot dog. M does not know now if they can be pirates together because she doesn't know what sort of person doesn't like mustard on their hot dogs. M wonders if she even really knows T at all.

T can only answer "arggh."

M brings the hot dog in and also the newspaper and there is a lull in conversation while they eat hot dogs and I watch the room spin in circles until M starts jumping on the bed and yelling.

"Holy shit! Robert E. Lee died yesterday." I am all kinds of confused by this. I had thought Robert E. Lee died a long time ago.

I tell M that everything I thought I knew is obviously a  lie.

T wonders if it is the real Robert E. Lee. M says that it must be, because otherwise, who the hell would name their kid Robert E. if their last name was already Lee.

I tell no one in particular that the room seems to be spinning much faster now.

T decides that if we are going to go to the funeral we are going to have to wear our Confederate uniforms. These have obviously been stored in the something room on our pirate ship for the last century or so.

I wonder out loud if maybe that would make us some kind of cross dressers.

T and M wonder if I am okay. I ask if I can wear the eye patch, since T has already claimed the peg leg. I am all lost in my own world. I ask T who is going to cut off his real leg to put on the peg leg. If no one has volunteered? I will do it. With a hammer, because I like hammers.

The conversation seems to have moved on though, and T wants to know what the hell he ever did to me to make me want to cut his leg off. I may have said something about hating him because he was beautiful before giggling hysterically and incoherently babbling about saying "holy shit" in a sleepless stripper accent.