I would like Ang and True to know that I thought about them on the way to work this morning. I was listening to 93.3 The Razor (Always Rocks, Always Will) a completely kick-ass “all rock, all the time” station out of Little Rock and guess what songs came on The Rock Block?
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard
You Shook Me All Night Long - AC/DC
Enter Sandman (One I forgot to include in party songs) - Metallica
So kids, you were on my mind.
And now for Auburn, who I engaged with conversation about our cute brothers and how we love them and do everything for them . . . but I won’t do this.
So, my brother has this bad habit of letting himself in my house.
Other than the two times I was naked walking around, this normally doesn’t bother me. However, last night I was a bit taken aback . . and embarrassed.
No, I wasn’t naked.
I was shakin’ my thang to Lo Fidelity Allstars - Battleflag. I do that a lot. Just put on a CD or the radio and dance around the house. It helps me calm down after work and traffic and the whole nine yards. Plus it makes me Hap Hap Happy. Anywho . . .so yeah, my brother walked in on me breaking it down. AND he apparently had been standing there a while because he engaged me in one of the grossest conversations ever:
“I wish I could dance. You can dance. I wish I could dance.” - the boy has a point, I don’t think he knows where his thang is, let alone how to shake it.
I’m desperately wanting to help him, but think teaching my brother how to bootie dance is a little odd. I mean, how do you teach a guy that if you can’t dance with him. And trust me, I am NOT going to back it up on my brother. Not happening. No, not never ever in a million years.
“You could take lessons or something.”
“How embarrassing! No way! What if, like, the guys found out.”
“Sweetie, most guys can’t dance. It’s not a big deal. What counts is that you’ll go out on the dance floor. But you won’t do that. Start just going out there. I promise, the girl will make you look good.”
Not gross so far . .
“I just wish I could dance. That would really make the panties wet.”
I immediately start to gag.
He’s my LITTLE brother. It doesn’t matter if he is 40, he will still be my little brother. I DO NOT want to think about my little brother getting anything .. . that three letter word that rhymes with pet.
“You’re a sicko.”
He’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. “Why does that make you gag??”
“Because that’s nasty! You’re like . . . you’re . . . you’re my damn brother!!! I don’t wanna think about you doin’ . . . that!”
Ugh, Ugh, Ugh.
Gotta vomit now. Excuse me.
However, due to our blogging about dancing and my conversation with my brother, I did something bad. I took 5 minutes out of my therapy sessions with my 4-year olds (I only have 2 that are that old) this morning and taught them how to do The Roger Rabbit and The Snake. Come on, you know those old 80's dance moves. I listed it under “Following directions, “ so, it totally counts as therapy. Right? Okay, please no one report me to Medicaid. But I’m officially the “coolest” therapist ever . . . they told me so. What’s even scarier, is I taught these kids to do it listening to Paula Abdoul. YES, I still have TAPES of Paula Abdoul. Deal with it. Nothing like “Cold Hearted Snake” to learn The Snake to. How apropos.
I got a call a few minutes ago.
From a flower shop in Conway.
Apparently, I am to call them when I get home so that they may deliver flowers.
This particular shop is my favorite!
Conway Classic Touch (shameless plug for their kick butt business).
They have beautiful home decor and jewelry and all kinds of wonderful things. I go into Classic Touch at least once a month and blow far too much money.
But who the hell would be sending me flowers??
Luckily, I know one of the guys that works there.
So I hang up, wait 5 minutes, call back and ask for Chris.
“Oh, Chris, my lovely?”
“Uh oh, this is gonna be trouble. What’s up?”
Laughing, “No trouble. No trouble at all. Promise. Just need you to check something out for me. It seems that you guys are going to be delivering to me later this afternoon. I need a detailed description of WHAT you’re delivering and preferably an idea of who sent it or what the note says.”
“Meg, can’t you just wait and see?”
Now, almost everyone that knows me is aware that unless you’re 5 years old or younger; I have no patience for you . . or for anything. Kids, I’m great with. Adults and things I want - I have this astoundingly annoying sense of immediacy that must be satisfied!
Very whiney voice (yes, I’m ashamed and abashed): “Puh-lease, Chris?? Pretty, pretty puh-lease.”
“Don’t do that, you know that gets me.”
“Then just do it, puh-lease.”
I have THREE dozen roses.
36 black roses ; which means they were special order.
Which means he paid a veritable butt ton for these roses.
Which means he actually listens to me because I hate almost all other roses.
Who is “he”, you ask?
Mr. Clean has sent me 36 roses from France.
36 roses which probably cost about $300.
That’s the one thing Chris wouldn’t tell me: “I’m not telling you how much the guy spent on you! That’s just tacky! Pull it together!”
But I KNOW they’re special order.
I know because I sometimes buy black roses for myself.
Just one or two because I refuse to pay that much for anymore . . and it’s stupid to spend that much money on something that’s just going to die.
The card says simply “Can’t wait to see you when I get back.”
He’s working his ass off to redeem himself in my eyes.
Care to clue a girl in on how to handle this one????