In laws or Out laws, It Should Be Against the Law....

Here is where I can admit my absolute brain farted-ness and discuss other people's retarded-ness....  I received a bouquet of flowers, delivered the Friday before Mother's Day.  All it said on the card was Love, Mom and Dad.  So, I call my parents to say thanks, thinking it was a Happy Mother's Day bouquet or perhaps a congratulations for (finally) finishing your bachelor's degree.  I didn't get either one on the phone so I made a mental to call back later.  OK, I may be scatterbrained, and forgetful sometimes (please try not to die from shock), so I forgot to call back.  On Monday my mother-in-law calls the man I married (who used to be the man in the basement, but now refuses to stay in the basement because of the crickets and lack of furniture) and asks if I got the flowers she and my father in law sent.  Now here is where I go "what the fuck?"  I called the m-i-l back and thanked her for thinking of me and she said did I get the card with money in it yet.  I check the mail and there it is, she sends cash in the mail. 

Let's do a flashback to almost 6 years ago, when Fruit of the womb 1 was just born and I had that spell of crazy.  Yes, I know that it's not politically correct to call people crazy, but I can call myself crazy if I want to because I was there and I had a spell of the crazy (for those sticklers for accuracy it was postpartum depression).  Now at the time that man I married and I were living in Pennsylvania where his family resides.  I was crazy, and alone with no family except the in laws who had graciously (hmm hmm) offered to let us stay at their house until I was less crazy.  I was in treatment getting better and Fruit 1 was taken care of and m-i-l decided it was a good time to offer to kick me out of her house while keeping the man I married and raising my daughter for me.  Weeeeelllllllllllll, perhaps you can imagine how that went over.  Man I married, Fruit 1 and I moved to North Carolina where my personal dysfunctional family resides.  Perhaps you can imagine that things have been strained between m-i-l and myself since then.

Apparently, I have been drunk making up ( I would say Ambien making up but I've never had the pleasure of that amnesia inducing drug) with my m-i-l unbeknownst to my higher brain functioning.  I mean what other explanation could there be for her sending me a bouquet signed Love, Mom and Dad and a card in the mail that is so effusive in her praise for me and my skills in being a mother, wife and student that I taste bile in my throat?  I hate few things but disingenuous hypocrites are at the top of the list.

Karaoke and Douche Baggery.....

I had the bright blessing of being allowed to go out to one of the two bars in the town where I live last night.  I also had volunteered to be the designated driver.  What the hell was I thinking?  I was trying to be nice to the husband, it was his work friends getting together so it was his turn to get his drink on.  My unusual level of absolute sobriety after working a 12 hour shift did afford me the unusual opportunity to be an impartial observer of the human condition. 

Now, we all know I would rather walk on my lips than talk about someone, but.....  What the hell?  I observed all levels of the drunken douche-ery.  There was the redneck who rarely gets to drink in public taking of all his clothes repeatedly and gyrating on everyone while sweating like a whore in church.  Was it his repressed homosexuality that made him keep bumping and grinding on all the men?  Or was he somewhere in his drink addled brain remembering that his somewhat sober wife was watching and would probably chop his dick off in his sleep later if he performed the same actions on the females?  Who can know the mind of this brand of redneck?  Then there was the overweight redneck woman who hadn't bothered to put on makeup, comb her hair or change out of her t-shirt and pajama jeans she had been hanging out in the house in all day.  This lady, who irregardless of these facts, decided she had the moves like Jagger and was by far the sexiest thing in this bar.  There was the young black girl who decided to dry fuck her boyfriend on the dance floor hard enough to make me blush.  And that takes a hell of a lot of dry humping.  Then there was the matronly redneck who thought it was a middle school dance and she needed to break that dry fuck-fest up before it resulted in a bi-racial baby.  There was my cousin who just turned 21 and was giving her liver a test drive.  Then her Mom shows up to say hi to her completely wasted daughter and ask me to "keep an eye on her."  So I spent the rest of the night watching her power drink and vacillate between which guy she was going home with later. 

My personal favorite was probably hairy chested weirdo guy with the button down shirt on that so needed to be buttoned up.  It made me ponder, at what button does douche-baggery begin?  You know what I'm talking about.  There is that button between "I am cool, showing a little chest hair here, so you know I'm a man."  And then there is the next button that says "I'm a skeevy dude who hasn't gotten laid in so long I consider my flesh-light my girlfriend, I'm desperate enough to resort to some serious primate mating ritual shit and flash you evidence of my man hood in the guise of this one extra button undone."  Don't get me wrong, this guy last night got the Douche bag of the night award because he bypassed that questionable button area and went down to past the nipples unbuttoned area, the area that says "I own a large van with no windows in the back, it's painted black and I think of it as my love machine, I think no means yes and if you leave your drink unattended I'll slip some horse tranquilizer in it."

In reality these are not unusual characters in the bar/dance club scene where I live.  What took it up a notch was.......it was KARAOKE night.  Holy sweet baby Jesus.  I have experienced some of the finest bad karaoke, I have performed some of the finest terrible karaoke (I am sorry Jim for that rendition of LA Woman when my brother and I couldn't even speak coherently).  That being said, Holy Shit!  I have now heard a non English speaking gentleman "sing" U2, I think it was supposed to be "With or Without You."  It was almost beyond description.  I believe his native language is Spanish and since I have been attempting to learn Spanish I decided to congratulate him on the size of his balls after his epic performance.  He was so drunk he couldn't even speak Spanish.  Or maybe I don't speak drunk Spanish.  Whatever the case may be, the reality was if he couldn't speak his native tongue just let your imagination run wild with what he did to U2, I heard Bono has already formed a relief organization to help us all with our post-traumatic stress disorder because of the exposure to this performance.

Overall, except for my crushing sobriety, it was a fun evening.  For me I viewed it as sociological research.  I'm trying to brainstorm a way to use it in my required clinical time.  But, alas that may be beyond even my powers of bullshit.