For those of you who are keeping score, I did indeed claim I was bad in bed the very same day that Nashville is Talking (Channel 2’s blog) linked to Tiny Cat Pants. If there’s any more ingeniously stupid way to taint my dating pool, I can’t think of one.
It’s been a grueling week and it’s only Wednesday. Or maybe it’s been a grueling month and I just now noticed. Anyway, I’m going up to my parents to be babied for the weekend. Let someone else worry about the important shit; I’m going to curl up in a little ball on the single bed in the room set aside for the littlest nephew and hide from the world for a couple of days.
At the least, this means that I can have our family’s traditional birthday breakfast on Sunday of cake and ice cream.
Lest you all be under the mistaken impression that this trip to my parents is not without it’s own set of aggravations, let me relate to you the conversation I just had on the phone with my dad [not word for word, but you’ll get the gist].
Me: Hey, what’s the weather going to be like up there?
The Reverend: High 70s, low 80s, why?
Me: I’m going to go ahead and take Friday off and come on up.
The Reverend: Why?
Me: Because I’m burnt out and I hate everyone.
The Reverend: What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. I’m at the dentist.
Me: I’m burnt out.
The Reverend: Oh, okay. Well, your mom will write you a check for the gas.
Me: No, you don’t have to do that. I’ve got it.
The Reverend: No, we want to.
Me: Sure, okay, fine.
The Reverend: But you’re going to have to feed yourself on the road. We can’t afford it. Maybe we can pack you a nice sandwich for the ride home, but . . .
Me: Dad, it’s fine. I can pay for everything.
The Reverend: Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve got the gas covered.
Me: Okay, then, thanks.
The Reverend: Okay, then I need to call your mom so we can cancel our plans.
Me: You have plans?
The Reverend: Ha, ha, ha. Of course not. Your mom was going to spray the grass, but otherwise I was just trying to make you feel bad.
Me: Um, okay, well, then I’ll see you on Friday.
The Reverend: Friday it is.
The dentist must think my dad is nuts.
Well, the 40th annual effort to make people say “What the hell? I thought they just had this award show in October” has come and gone and though I am no closer to understanding the difference between the Academy of Country Music awards (the ACMs) and the Country Music Association awards (the CMAs), I thought it was a pretty interesting show.
Here’s what the three people I’ve seen since the awards thought:
The Butcher: “What’s great about Big & Rich is that the way they sing out of tune with each other pretty much encourages the audience to sing along.”
The Redheaded Kid: “Woo, listen to me, woo-wooo, I can sing just as bad as Rascal Flatts!”
The woman in my office building: “Is it just me or was that the most self-righteous two hours on TV this week?”
Me: “I think it was three hours.”
Woman: “Three hours. Three hours of ‘Drugs or Jesus’ sanctimony? I’m glad I fell asleep.”
But here’s where I confess that I didn’t give a shit if it was the largest gathering of self-righteous hypocrites since widow Johnson socked it to the Harper Valley P.T.A., because I am in love with Lee Ann Womack’s hair. I can’t find a good picture of it on the internet yet, but it was glorious, this paean to big country music hair days of yore.
I’m no girly girl and my hair do usually involves rolling down all the windows in the car and hoping that dries my hair enough to make it presentable at work. But I’d get up early to have hair like that, if I knew how to do it.