You’ll be relieved to know my arms have fully recovered from being shredded and I can type again.  Call me crazy, but I think it’s time I added in actual weights to this strength training routine, which I’m sure will cause my arms to amputate themselves in order to escape the pain. During any upcoming blog outage due to the loss of my arms, I recommend you go here, here, or here.

But in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this Afternoon Special right here on my blog!

Despite the aura you may get from my blog, I’m entirely capable of going days without drinking.  In fact, I was out of vodka for 1000 years. Actually, it was more like four weeks. Or possibly two. Fuck, I don’t know, it felt like 1000 years.  By late Friday afternoon last week, I’d had enough of this recession-induced state of sobriety.

Honestly, how do teetotalers do it?

It’s not a coincidence that Friday was payday and my boys’ favorite holiday, National Scream and Fight Until Mom Is Ready to Beat Us Day. Their celebrations of this day went on and on and ON for so long that time warped upon itself and I was stuck in a Twilight Zone hell hole of screaming, fighting children.

It’s as if the acrid scent of my patience worn thin hit the boys’ olfactory bulb in their brain and they knew I was weak. They became demented with power, and their screaming and fighting escalated to a special pitch so high that not even dogs can hear, but all mothers around the world CAN hear and know you are a failure as a mom because you can’t control your own kids in your own goddamn home.

It was then that I yelled, ”That’s it! We’re leaving for T-ball practice early so we can go by the liquor store!”

“What’s the liquor store, mama?”

Good god, there must have been a mix-up in the hospital nursery because I have explained what a liquor store is 100 times and they never remember. It’s genetically impossible these children are mine.

“It’s where you go to buy alcohol. I’m out of vodka and I’m going to buy some.”

For whatever reason, my explanation prompted high-pitched giggles and more rolling on the floor, which in itself inspired Parker to leg lock his brother yet again, which caused Payton to go into yet another fit of screams and hyperventilation because OH MY GOD, THE HORRIFIC TORTURE DEVICE THAT IS A LEG LOCK!

“And when we get to the liquor store, I’m going to tell the workers it’s all your fault I’m buying alcohol!”  I said this as a joke to the boys because if I don’t laugh at the screaming and fighting, I’m going to smack them upside the head.

“Hahaha! We make mama drink!  Hahaha!”

Little shits think they are funny.

“Get your shoes on and get in the car.”

The boys ran to the van (praise the auto doors) and buckled themselves in while I locked up the front door.  Since I’m not a X-men mutant and can’t lock doors in reverse time, they went at it AGAIN, fighting in the goddamn van.  I whipped around, shot red lasers from my eyes at them and yelled, “OH MY GOD, STOP IT BEFORE YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY AND I RUN DOWN THE STREET IN MY UNDERWEAR!”

“Oh no,” Payton said to Parker.  “We’re going to make Mama drink!”

I dropped Parker off at practice and took Payton, the first boy-child Satan whelped upon me, to the liquor store where he proceeded to make Father Beelzebub proud by doing the exact opposite I instructed and touching every motherfucking breakable bottle in the goddamn store. He generally ran wild, making me wish those child leashes disguised as backpacks were not inappropriate for a boy of eight.

At the check out, I could literally hear all the way from Hell Satan’s chest swell with paternal joy when the cashier sardonically chuckled at me and said, “You sure have your hands full.”

Again, this is where I resort to humor to keep from throttling my kid and I replied, “Heh. Why do you think I’m here?”  I grabbed the nondescript brown bag and dragged Payton out of the store by his ear.

As we reach the door to exit, Payton turned around and yelled to the ENTIRE DAMN STORE…

“My mom NEEDS to drink!”

Shit motherfucker.

The employees all turned and looked at me and one picked up the phone, I just know to call the Betty Ford Clinic. You may not know this about me, I can run fast and was gone before she got to the area code.

Instead of taking Payton to the liquor store ever again, I’m going to invest my time in planning out my revenge as an old lady – like shitting my pants when Payton takes me to the store.

The moral of this Afternoon Special?

Never make jokes about alcohol to children.

Don’t take your children to the liquor store.

DON’T RUN OUT OF VODKA, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. ALWAYS KEEP A BACK UP BOTTLE.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 30th, 2009 at 1:01 am and is filed under Evidence File for The Betty. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.