Saturday, June 2, 2007

Summertime and The Easy Living Myth

"Michael," ten year old Surfer Dufe said dismissively to his sleeping over best friend, "You don't even know what a hooker is."

And so begins another Saturday at chez Rotten Correspondent.

We have been on a seemingly never ending sleepover roll for days. A just finished game of outdoor hide and seek has added to the geologic mud layer on my floors. The two youngest kids are sunburned because their loser of a mother forgot sunscreen at the pool Thursday. My cell phone is dead from a leaky water bottle. Our living room smells like a landfill and looks worse. The Film Geek is shooting all day today and I'm working all day tomorrow and we leave for the better part of a week Monday morning for the lake. The laundry pile has it's own zip code and there is a pair of Sasquatch's shoes with a stench that could be used to perpetuate the war on terror. And it just won't stop raining.

It must be summer vacation.

Vacation was a lot more fun when I wasn't working. Now it just makes me pissy. I'm tired of stepping over smelly teenage boys passed out in front of the 360 with pizza dribbled down their shirts and pop cans still in hand when I'm on my way to work at six in the morning. I'm exasperated by children who are too tired to clean up their mess but have the energy to practice their goal kicks against the side of the house for two hours, no matter how many times I tell them to stop. I'm sick of every single piece of dropped clothing being "not mine".

I'm ending with a retelling of a just happened event. Gumby, in a head lock, is pounding on the (glass) front door. Surfer Dude, of the head locking arms, is screaming that his soccer ball has been kicked across the street, by guess who? Michael, the sleeping over friend who doesn't even know what a hooker is, is on the porch swing applauding the accuracy of the head lock. When I fling open the door (in my bathrobe), Surfer Dude accidentally stomps on my bare foot with his big ol' boat tennis shoes when he throws Gumby onto the hard wood floor. I stop shouting at the kids long enough to wave at the elderly neighbors walking cautiously by. And when I get the kids in the house and read them the riot act, they tell me that I'm being unreasonable.

Is it August yet?

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