...but I DO mention him. Does that count?
I am hereby exercising my editorial right to hijack my own blog for the purpose of venting, thereby preventing the premature death and/or dismemberment of any number of my cohabitants here in this ever-shrinking space we call "how long till we can move?"
So. Had a nice day. Karen came, did special skills therapy with James (<--- MENTION! See it? Right there. AND details. So I'm not so bad after all. Well... until you read the rest...) And I got a play table that has been mine since childhood repainted for my daughter (because the Devil insists on fresh paint, dontcha know), and my house is as clean as it is ever going to be until I no longer inhabit it.
(WANT. TO. MOVE. NOWWWWWWWWW!!!!)
We had some nifty weird thunderstorm-ish weather that looked like it was going to be a lot worse than it was, and then a beautiful sunset, and a fine dinner prepared...
..and then Number One Son announced that he didn't feel well. Now, I am Mommy, hear me go into denial - and I am wily to the ways of 8-yr-olds presented with unwanted peas and pork chops. So he was instructed to sit down anyway, and sip his drink, and "see how he felt". He declined to eat. He asked if he could go to bed. HE TURNED DOWN A POPSICLE. Either the kid has developed a mean poker face, or he's genuinely ill.
Now while this was going on, Jamesy and the Devil were in their chairs, and Jamesy was merely picking at his food, as well. I don't know if his ear has cleared up or not, but he began whining in a way that I associate with him being in distress of some sort (versus merely being ticked off at the crappy service in this restaurant, for instance, or the quality of the news reporting on Fox), so he was dosed with children's Tylenol (GENERIC, forgawdsakes, yes I know about the recall, calm yourselves!) and finally, he nodded off in his chair.
While I tended to Number One's various needs - ginger ale, a pot in his bed (don't ask) and could he have a snuggle? - Dad was left with a James who would rouse himself long enough to cry piteously, then eventually fall back into a fitful sleep that HAD to occur on Dad or else woe unto us all. (The same Jamesy, I would like to add, who is currently jumping on the couch, giggling, and jabbering at Kai Lan. Apparently, a full recovery has been made.)
And then came American Idol.
(Here comes the real point of this post. Those with weak stomachs or who expect any discretion whatsoever in their blogger's TV viewing habits should stop reading here.)
Yes, yes, I'm pathetic and pitiable and quite possibly contemptible and almost certainly utterly bereft of taste but, dammit, I LIKE Idol. I particularly like Big Mike, and if the truth is to be told (and it IS, oh baby, IT IS), I have been waiting all week to watch his performance tonight. Granted, it's 3 minutes of pure cheese, but...
... it's 3 minutes I missed.
3 fripping minutes out of an ENTIRE FLIPPING WEEK and, no, sorry, you must be too busy catering to loud small people who fall miraculously silent ONE BRAIN-FRYING SECOND after the performance ends!
Did they cry over the judges' endless blather? (Sorry, Ellen; I promise yours is the only stuff I care to hear. I meant THEM.) Negative.
Did they cry during the wretched filler interlude with Frank Sinatra's relatives? Of course not.
Did they, in fact, make any noise whatsoever during ANY OTHER PERFORMANCE? No. No, they did not.
And so, I find myself in the ludicrous position of being PISSED (no, I mean P.I.S.S.E.D PISSED) with my beloved offspring - who are small and helpless and possibly plague-bearing, let us recall - because I missed a performance which, let's face it, who cares? And also, have you never heard of Hulu? The interwebz? BING?? It's not like I can't see the damn performance in about 354 million places the nanosecond it's done airing; but I am bent all to shit because I missed Michael singiiiiing *whine* and why can't I eeeevvver have a minute for meeeeee *bitchmoan* and oh it's so unfaaaaiiiir *teen angst flashback*
So.. um.. yeah. I had to confess. Thank you all for bearing witness to my depravity. Clearly I should be immediately taken away from my children (for their safety!) and put someplace quiet. Preferably someplace with a hot tub, blender full of margaritas, and scantily-clad serving boy with epic abs. For therapeutic purposes, of course.