I used to be smart

The other night at dinner, it became apparent to me that the kids were questioning my intelligence. Not in that typical “My parents don’t know anything” way, but regarding my accumulated knowledge and how I was as a student.

They thought I was dumb.

I was baffled. I had no idea where this was coming from.

Of course I grew immediately defensive. It seemed like the smart thing to do.

Me: I’m smart!

Them: {silence}

Me: Really! I’m smart!

Them: {hard stares at their food}

Me: I was in advanced English my senior year in high school!

Them: {silence}

Me: National Honor Society!

#2: How do you get in to that?

Me: Wouldn’t you like to know! If you’re so smart, you’d know!

Them: {silence}

Me: Top ten percent of my class of 750? 3.8 GPA?

They exchanged the kind of glances that their Dad and I exchange when we’re inwardly making fun of them but trying to give an outward appearance of propriety.

Finally, #5 spoke up.

#5: Then how come you can never check my math homework right?

Them: {Laughter}

Me: Shut up.

We are four and a half school days away from summer vacation. While I suspect I may grow even dumber over the break, I rest comfortably knowing they will have fewer opportunities to prove it to me.

Street Legal Puggles

You know what’s cheap and easy?

(Are you done? Can I move on? Thanks.)

Getting a dog license.

To get a dog license you don’t have to prove yourself a responsible pet owner. All you need is proof of the rabies vaccination. Not distemper or bordetella. You don’t have to prove that you’re not making them subsist on Twinkies. The town officials don’t inspect the dog, they don’t ask it about its home life; your dog doesn’t have to perform tricks or do higher order mathematics. A copy of the vaccination record and, in my town, eight dollars and twenty cents is all you need.

Our puppies got the rabies shot as soon as they were old enough, but the vaccination record. That damn piece of paper sat in The Pile so long. . . let’s just say it’s a good thing it’s a three-year vaccine.

The task of getting the dogs licensed became something I remembered only when I was taking them for a walk, and, once I thought of it, I was filled with a certainty that they were going to be ticketed and flatbedded away at any moment.

notlikethat — What's the problem, officer?

mindingourown — This isn't what it looks like

casey — What kind of dog do you think I am?

In my defense (I’m starting to notice just how often I say that, and it seems to only be in relation to parenting or otherwise managing the household), I did go to the office that handles these things back in December, with the eight dollars (and twenty cents, per dog) and the damn piece of paper. The lady told me I should probably wait until January because I’d just have to do it all over again. Check that out: an actual town official, actively encouraging my procrastination. It may have been because I interrupted her lunch break.

For the record? This is the same office I had to go to for my marriage license.

I knew if they got busted, my coercion defense wouldn’t make any difference to the arresting officer. I’d end up have to get them a lawyer. It would be a legal nightmare.

Luckily I have experience in such matters.

pokey — Can't we just settle this between us?

CC finally took care of it last week. What a relief. Street Legal Puggles.

What have you had on your to-do list the longest?

Putting Our Skills To Use

My sister, Beth, left this morning. #5 wants her to come back next week with her whole family, including her husband and Tall Nephew and Super-Tall Nephew. He has drawn up a sleeping plan for our house that involves CC and I sharing our queen-sized bed with my brother-in-law.

Beth put #5 to bed last night while we were at the party. He shared with her his design for a bacon hat and also told her that he is closer to the genetic makeup of a monkey than most people. He encouraged her to have another baby, but this time a girl, and then she could give the baby to us in exchange for him, and she would have five boys and we would have five girls. If she wouldn’t do that, he wondered if she would consider trading Slightly-Larger Nephew for #4.

Separately, #1 asked if Beth would trade Tiny Nephew for #5.

Regarding the party, in case you were wondering (and even if you weren’t), yes, it’s awesome to be at the party of the show that wins. I’ll wait while you imagine glamourous party scenes, like me doing shots with Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

(This is where the people that know me in real life are having fits of hilarity) I actually hate parties, but even I couldn’t hate this one. Here’s reality: I’m both anti-social and socially inept. I don’t drink anymore. A good party for me means I have a place to sit. Plus, I knew like six people there and none of them are famous.

These were the cool things about the party to me:

The front room was like a greenhouse; an entire building’s length of glass, and we watched the Tony broadcast on a ginormous screen that was mounted on the outside of a different building across the courtyard.

They had chrome toilets in the restrooms.

When the broadcast was over and the DJ started and the sound suddenly increased by about 90dB, we put our sound guy skills to use and unplugged the feed to the nearest speaker, making it almost possible to have a conversation where we were sitting.

Here’s a Tony hanging out on a coffee table with a drink. This happened more than once. Think about it: in a normal party situation, if you’re standing around, you always face the challenge of how to hold your plate and your drink and use silverware at the same time. What if you’re a moderately famous person who has an award to deal with as well? How do you eat and drink and shake hands? You set that mother down, that’s what you do.

For the record, the math that makes nine Tonys = nine vodkas is entirely subjective, and not highly recommended.