Mood: irritated
Topic: Rants
So, I got an awesome Mother's Day present, and my snake is cuddled up in my bra and I'm all happy and stuff. It transpires that the gift of the snake was a sort of atonement in advance for something I didn't yet know was about to happen, some stuff that was guaranteed to irritate the living shit out of me, and Ben knew it. And in typical Ben style, he decided that it would be easier in the long run to atone afterward than to gain my permission. He's right, of course, but still. GOD.
I knew very well that our friend Brian and his 13-year-old son were coming over to barbecue last night. What I didn't know was that they would come toting another 13-year-old boy and some annoying blonde. I don't take to my husband's friends' females, especially the kind who are trying hard to make a good impression, because usually I am stuck having to entertain the Barbie of the week while the men go off to drink too much red wine and argue about when to turn over the steaks. Pregnant, I am somewhat less patient than that. Our little dinner party tested me to my very limits.
Oh, she was ingratiating to a fault. Right away she's saying stuff to Ben and me like Oh, I can sense that you're the kind of people who . . . Just fucking beautiful. She's been in my house for five minutes and she's getting all Deanna Troi on my ass. But, y'all, she's qualified! She has a college degree! In communications! The only major on earth that's more Mickey Mouse than mine [English] was!
And then of course we had to hear all about my cute pregnant belly, and how cute it is, and don't I look cute in my maternity top? (With a snake in my bra, which apparently I have because I am such a cool mom for little boys. Hello, if I were really a cool mom, I'd be playing Game Boy with my kids instead of blogging and playing with snakes.) So cute, the belly and the snake and all. And then, without further preamble:
SHE. TOUCHED. MY. BELLY.
Didn't just touch it. Fucking caressed it. Anyone who knows me at all knows that this is a very, very bad idea. There are a tiny handful of people on earth who are allowed to touch me without reserve, and if you're reading this, odds are you're not one of them. I had to restrain myself to keep from scooping up my passport and leaving the country on the spot.
Later, Ben and I found ourselves alone with Brian in the backyard.
Me: So how long have you been going out with this one?
Brian: I'm not going out with her. We're just friends.
Me: Good. GOD.
Brian: Why?
Me: SHE. TOUCHED. MY. BELLY.
Brian: But I like her. She has big tits.
Me: She does? Okay. But still. She touched my belly.
Brian, who had downed approximately 800 glasses of red wine by that time, immediately started rubbing my belly himself, whereupon I invited him to go rub some random bit of Ben and leave me the hell alone, thank you. He's an old old friend, and I can talk to him that way. Whereas I had to be nice to the Barbie, because it's not typically my job to scare off Brian's girlfriends; he does a wonderful job of that all on his own.
Did she have big tits? God, I don't know; I guess so. Not big enough to justify all the annoyance, I didn't think, but what do I know? Ben assures me that large breasts can atone for a multitude of sins. Fine, but I'm not the one trying to get her top off. Let Brian listen to her psychobabble.
She did say one entertaining thing in the form of an observation that Ben and I reminded her of Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas (presumably because we are a big white-haired guy and a little curly-haired brunette with bangs and a big mouth). Now that shit cracked me up. Oh yeah, just like them, if Marlo said shit a lot and Phil dealt in offensive humor. The evil Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas. Ben and I had some fun with that one, later.
I could easily rant for another half-hour about the effect of a pair of bored, rambunctious 13-year-old boys on a Sam and Matt who had not napped, the additional 800 glasses of red wine Brian consumed before the night was out (it was his 49th birthday, but it sure is odd being around drunks when you don't drink yourself), and the further blitherings of the blonde, who will have been long since replaced with a different blonde by the time we see Brian again. But: GOD. From where I sit now, Monday morning is a bit of a relief.
Posted by Gretchen
at 6:36 AM PDT
Updated: Monday, May 9, 2005 4:41 PM PDT