Apparently some people read Tiny Cat Pants and then stomp around the house complaining about how ridiculous I’m being.
I have a specific person in mind… Elias… but I guess maybe many of you feel similarly.
My dad said that I ought to put up a disclaimer that says, "Does not play well with others." Then I had to apologize for acting like my Uncle B, who always takes us places and introduces us to all the people he knows. That’s been me all weekend–"Here’s the Butcher; there’s Sarcastro; this is my dad; that’s my mom. You know Elias over at Tiny Cat Pants? Meet his wife: my oldest friend."
Today has been crazy. We went to the flea market, then over to the Mothership, then here, then over to the campground and then to the airport where a veterinarian who spent the last six months in Canada working on horses kept rubbing up against me and calling JR "Ramona."
Once we had JR’s bags, we came back here, changed for the play, went to Anatolia’s, this awesome Turkish restaurant for dinner, and America, I shit you not, my dad actually let us order dessert (that thing that’s shredded filo dough and cheese and sugar water) and he even ate it and liked it.
My dad has never in my entire life let us order dessert at a restaurant. You eat at a restaurant. You go to Dairy Queen for dessert. That’s just the way the world works and you don’t want to start fucking with how the world works.
Then we went to see Faith/Doubt and everyone loved it. My dad was just raving about the three women who sing in the piece.
My poor mom. You have to understand that she’s really the straightman to my dad’s madness, but every once in a while, she’s her own kind of crazy. So, today, in honor of classy things like the theater, she wore her scarf that she got in that classy country of France. She was going to speak only in French, but then she never got around to it. I don’t know if that’s too bad or okay.
We also spent a great deal of time yesterday searching for her wallet, which apparently she loses at least once a week, because she refuses to put it in her purse. I think she may refuse to put it in her purse because her purse is so god damned ugly that, if I were a wallet, I would commit suicide rather than be kept in a purse like that.
My mom is a school teacher, so she’s one of those women that would wear a vest every day if she could and who sees nothing wrong with a sixty year old woman carrying a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats.
Of course, my mom is no tacky midwesterner. If she’s going to carry a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats, it’s going to be a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats with class–it’s going to have some god damned beadwork and fringe.
You can see why the wallet might regularly decide it has something else to do.
So, today, at the flea market, we looked for a wallet with a chain that she could hook to her pants, but no such luck. She claims she’d refuse to carry it, because, apparently a wallet with a chain is inappropriate compared to a cartoon cat covered purse with beaded fringe.
After the play, JR and I went down to the Bluegrass Inn and saw Brandon Giles swing from the ceiling and play the piano with his butt, so that’s always a good time. God bless you, Bluegrass Inn, for being exactly the kind of place people visiting Nashville wished that people from Nashville wanted to hang out at.
Did I mention that my dad has decided that he’s an anarchist?
Remind me to tell you about that later.