interviewer: So Crabby, is it true that after years of avoiding housework in every creative fashion possible, you now must clean or die? You have an allergy to dust "that" severe?
crab: DOH! No I'm just cleanin' my butt off cuz it's my new hobby. Hell yes, it's true! Life has kicked me in the ass so many times I'm sportin' a butt crack the size of the Grand Canyon. But this, THIS, is cruel! And I'm not allergic to dust. I'm allergic to sh#!"
interviewer: Um. I am sorry Crabby but we don't use that word here.
crab: POOP! Can I say poop? I'm allergic to dust mite poop. Tiny little microscopic turds, shat out by the dust mite. And apparently there are millions of them all over my house. And I have to clean it up. But first I'm gonna kill the little bas.....
interviewer: Yes. Yes. Thank you. We get the idea. You recently went on strike against the men in your house for buying pickles?
crab: Oh HULLO! It was a lot more than pickles! They got a Sam's club membership back in August. They started buying restaurant sized jars of pickles, peppers, and mustard. Wheels of cheese. Pounds and pounds of fat bacon. You couldn't even see the floor of my pantry! And my frig???? FORGET IT! Nothing would fit in there anymore. It was a nightmare. So I stopped cleaning the frig and the pantry. Went on strike.
interviewer: Two days ago you stopped the strike and what did you find in the refrigerator?
crab: The portal to hell.
interviewer: I bet they were grateful you came off that strike and got back to work.
crab: Yeah well, you'd lose that bet, missy. When I bitched about the mess I had to clean up and told them I was officially off strike....they were confused. They didn't know I was ever on strike. MEN!
interviewer: So how does it feel to live in a dust free house now?
crab: How thee hell would I know? I've only finished two rooms.
interviewer: But you've been working for a week. You must be finished with at least a floor of the house? How dirty could your house have been?
crab: Ah, hell. There they go again. Multiply like bunny rabbits. 'scuse me.

Crab: You were sayin'??
interviewer: Um....nnnno...no nothing. That was all.

Labels: ass kicking, butt cracks, cleaning, cleaning strike, dance recitals from hell, dust mites., foul moody crab, good housekeeping, poop, stinky peppers

Saturday, our grandkids, were in what must be now on record, as the world’s longest dance recital. 10 hours. 3 kids. 1 Mom. All in different dance lines scheduled throughout the day. To catch one performance of each would require no less than 3 hours of butt numbing attendance.
Interesting note: Out of the 50 songs and dances we endured, our family was in ……6.

When we arrived Bob’s x-wife was already there along with her husband. Bob has what I like to think of as “social disease”. It requires him to stop and talk and visit with anyone he knows. Why? Because according to Bob….”it’s just polite.” I myself am not afflicted with, “social disease”, so I had no problem moving on to try and find what ever seat would be the least torturous. Sadly, there weren’t any.

To say the recorded music was loud would be like calling a tsunami wet and windy. I’m pretty sure I saw one of my ear drums rolling down the aisle during the “Ho” number. The seniors chose their costumes from Fredricks of Hollywood. (not kidding) and their music…I can only assume from, Ho Rap productions.

I confess I did snicker a little when, during one ballet, I looked over at Jake and saw him staring ahead, vacant expression on his face, his mouth hanging slack. And laughed out loud when the lady next to him began to lean into him so she could yell, “TIWANNA IS IN NUMBER 22! I SAID….TIWANNA IS IN NUMBER 22! DID YOU HEAR ME?” ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ha ha ha ha ha! Talk about a wake up call. I think Jake mighta’ peed a little.

Payback didn’t take long. I was solidly drifting in my own mind to far corners of the world, when the woman next to me screamed, GO TIFFANY! WOOOOOOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOOOOOOO! I reminded myself that she was just a proud Mom and I should be nice. Right up until she started doing the damned tap number in her seat along with Tiffany knocking into my left leg and spilling my water all over my lap.
“LADY, KNOCK THAT CRAP OFF!” I asked, politely.

The last part of the show is a blur to me. Only part I remember is Bob talking into my ear. “Are you sleeping?”

“Only during the slow numbers.”

I’d just like to say, I hope and pray these kids drop out of dance SOON. I hate this crap. HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT.

PS. My ass hurts like a bastard.

Labels: dance recitals from hell, idiot mothers, nutjobs