Sunday, January 25, 2009


It all started with a shoe.

My peaceful day ended up tattered and torn and flung to the four winds.

Her Majesty is what some may call a shoe-a-holic. Not terribly uncommon for a 17 year old girl. Although she and I wear the same size, our tastes in shoes differ somewhat so typically she and I don't have issues with borrowing shoes from one another. Her youngest sister, on the other hand, shares the same taste in shoes with Her Majesty and since the youngster does on occasion borrow (and I use that term loosely...borrowing would indicate that some semblance of permission was sought and granted) Her Majesty's shoes, issues arise.

The extent of the "borrowing" is not limited to shoes. It also extends to clothes, jewelry, hair accessories, perfume and outerwear. But shoes are what brings me to the end of my rapidly fraying rope today.

It was a pair of brand new, stark white Vans. I don't know if you are familiar with these, but they are basically a pair of canvas slip on tennis shoes with a label that makes them a little more special and a lot more expensive than the exact same shoe you could buy for less than $15 at Payless. Now why anyone would think that a pair of stark white canvas shoes would remain stark white for more than 28 seconds is beyond me but Her Majesty insisted that it could be done. This particular pair of shoes was her second pair. She had to replace the last ones because, to no one's surprise, they got dirty. Since the youngster doesn't have a job or an indulgent boyfriend with a job as Her Majesty does, she doesn't have over 30 pairs of "everyday" shoes like Her Majesty does. Her Majesty was kind enough to let the youngster have the "dirty" shoes. This weekend, the youngster, her "nice" sister and several friends went to a controlled rave. While she was getting ready, I assume she couldn't find the dirty white shoes so she took it upon herself go into Her Majesty's room to acquire a suitable replacement. At this point she absconded with the New Still Stark White Shoes. I was blissfully unaware that she had set the wheels in motions to bring Armageddon down on my peaceful Sunday afternoon.


Her Majesty, in keeping with her typical Sunday evening behavior, went to the basement, threw whoever's clothes that were in the washer and dryer into a basket so she could do her own laundry. This is when the FIT HIT THE SHAN. She noticed that the New shoes were in the load coming out of the dryer. Then she noticed the neon yellow stain that has desecrated the holy shoe and she realized at this point that they had been washed and dried essentially heat sealing the stain into the New Not Nearly Stark White Shoe.

Screaming, cussing and overall fit throwing ensued. The only positive thing about the whole experience is that the youngster was at the mall with friends, completely unaware that her secret, but still feeble, attempt to cover up the evidence had failed miserably. I'm not sure that I would have been able to protect my child from my other child in that instance of overwhelming and immediate rage that seem to completely overtake and envelop Her Majesty at the discovery of her ruined shoe.

To be truthful I was quite impressed at the depth of profanity she has reached in such a short time. I didn't know she knew so many ways to use the word Fuck. Now I know as a mother I should have been horrified at the language my child was using but since I have raised the use of profanity to an art form myself, I couldn't help but feel a little pride that some of my skill had unbeknownst been handed down to the next generation. Until she turned her venom on me.

In Her Majesty's opinion, I should replace the defiled Tuesday. Because apparently they are the only shoes she owns that will pull the outfit she plans on wearing Tuesday together. She started to scream at me about how I needed to control my child. She was speaking of the youngster of course, clearly she didn't think at this point that she had lost control. After the room stopped spinning and I regained control over my own temper, the shouting match ensued. She screamed at me. Clearly I was the youngsters proxy in this battle. And truth be told, I was okay with that. I can hold my own with a smart mouth teenager, I promise you that. She slung insults, directed at the youngster for not only "stealing" her shoes but at me for allowing it. I had to admit at one point that she was indeed correct that the youngster should have asked permission. Other than that, I plead ignorance of the crime and did not accept any blame. This was not an excuse that Her Majesty was willing to accept at this point. More screaming ensued with more insults slung at me and my child rearing skills. Obviously I have failed, but never mind that now.

I have a detached garage at my house. Its a good 20 yards from the house.This is Big Sexy's man cave. He heard the commotion from the cave. Like any good man, he waited for at least 5 minutes to see if the fight was going to peter out on its own before he felt compelled to come in and break up the melee. He was concerned that the neighbors may call the law. I didn't realize that Her Majesty or myself were at the volume we were at but clearly she and I are cut from the same cloth. We both come from the school of arguing that says that she who yells the loudest and the longest wins. We're both warriors so when Big Sexy emerged from the kitchen, the decibel level was off the charts. I like to think that both me and my spawn, genetically bound to a long line of loud people, can yell louder than any two people in the world. She's a cheerleader for heavens sake so she has actually parlayed her talent into a use for good instead of evil. Well I thought we were loud. Turns out Big Sexy is louder than both of us....combined. I guess I knew this already. He's been a football coach for 17 years and I've heard him yell at full volume plenty of times. Until today, that volume has not reached it's full potential when directed toward me. Picture it if you will. All three of us are now yelling at full voice. She's still yelling about the youngster, I'm yelling at her to quit yelling and he's yelling at both of us the Shut the hell up. Doors were slammed, names were called, tears were slung. It was chaos. Finally after a few half-hearted attempts to draw me back into the "shoes must be replaced by Tuesday" argument, everyone went off to their corners to rest and reboot.

Problem is, the youngster is still not home and I'm afraid that the still tense but reletively quiet atmosphere in the house that is balanced on a razor edge will tilt and become a free for all again when she finally does arrive home. I know she is aware of the wrath of Her Majesty awaiting her. In the midst of the battle earlier, some phone calls were made, texts sent and voice mails were left. I'm sure she is trying to find something to fill the minutes until she absolutely must return to meet her untimely demise. I feel kind of bad for her really, but not that bad. She spilled red Kool-Aid on my brand new Beige sofa not too long ago so I kind of feel like she has it coming.

So much for a restful Sunday. Maybe next weekend will be better. Her Majesty has made solid plans to put a padlock on her bedroom door. Who would think a mere shoe could cause so much conflict.

Friday, January 16, 2009

How to avoid a Deliverance moment

Well it finally happened. I was inspired to write something. No, not so much inspired but incensed really.

My friend, coworker and nemesis Tess informed all of us that she can't change a tire. Apparently our other coworker, Chiquita Banana, told Tess that her tire is flat in the parking lot and they either needed to go get air or change it. Not a big deal, except it is 17 degrees outside. I casually asked Tess if she had a spare. She indicated that she did but it was all the way in the back of her Jeep. Knowing her the way I do, I assumed that she would stay here at work indefinitely rather than actually attempt to change the tire herself....or freeze to death in the car waiting for someone to rescue her.

I can certainly understand calling AAA or a burly man. This would be my first choice on the list of what to do's but if I was stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a tire of the pancake persuasion and did not have option 1 or 2, I could change the damn tire myself. My Daddy made sure I knew how. Along with using jumper cables in the correct way as to not blow up a battery.

Maybe my parents erred on the "Worst Case Scenario" side of caution at times, but I at least know that if I'm ever in Alabama at 2 in the morning on the shoulder of a dark I-65 with a nail that I inadvertently picked up somewhere north Montgomery sticking directly into one of my tires....again.....that I will not have to just sit there and wait for a boozed up hillbilly with gleam in his eye and a perverse sense of right and wrong to wander by and offer his services. This makes me feel a little bit better about myself and it worries me for my friends.

At this point I have decided that, as soon as the arctic blast that has paralyzed us in here in the typically balmy south leaves us and returns north to the land of no biscuits, I will teach my daughters how to change a tire.

Her Majesty, my oldest daughter who is the only one driving at this point already knows how to jump a battery off. She has a very bad habit of leaving her lights on. She has required a boost no less than 8 times in the last 6 months. You'd think by now, she'd realize what the dinging meant.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Need some help here....

I don't have anything to write about. Nothing. That's why no one has heard a peep from me since before Christmas. I can't even conjure up a witty comment.

I was at a book signing with a friend the other night and I realized that lately I've been doing so much reading that all of my ideas are someone elses.

Here's my quandry.

I don't have an original thought in my head, no one wants to hear about my holidays or resolutions, nothing worth writing about or reading about has been going on lately and I am struggling to come up with something to hold my attention for more than 30 seconds.

My friend that I was at the book signing with challenged me when she said if you give her a topic and an audience, she could write all day about anything. So that is when I decided to see if I was on par with other people who seem to never run out of stuff to say.

So I'm asking for your help.

Give me topics!

I don't care what it is. Anything...seriously. I got nothing on my own. I know...I'm a loser. Help a sister out.