2004-09-01
if love is a battlefield, family is war
Last night was the last night of August. It was also the first night that I stood up to Irishman O'Swoon. Now I will tell you all a tale of bravery and stupidity. Sit tight and enjoy. Or, you know, don't.
Last night was Tuesday, so that means it was Irishman O'Swoon's night to have me over. Which was surprising to everyone I know that I even went. Lately, I had been avoiding Irishman O'Swoon and he had been doing nothing to keep in touch with me. So when he called on Tuesday, I decided to show him that at least one of us could keep their contracts to the court system.
When he picked me up, his jaw dropped. Seriously dropped to the dash. Hit the wheel, found candy corn on the floormats, you get the picture. My hair is black as you know, but what you don't know is that I had it cut yesterday afternoon and now it is all short and punky with angled bangs.[I did it Tweets, aren't you proud of me?]So, needless to say, Irishman O'Swoon thought I had turned into some kind of goth.
We did the normal talking about the cats[yeah that is what it comes down to]and he told me that his high school reunion thinger was good. But not much after that. Which is sad because he went and saw relatives that I had not seen. Really, what I wanted from asking him about the reunion was for him to tell me how my cousins are and all that. But being a man of the swooniness, he didn't pick up on it. Then we arrived at his house and we tucked in with the TV and not much else.
At about eight o'clock, he thought it would be a good idea to call Moron of the Moment and plan their sleeping arrangements of the evening. As they were giggling I listened into their cutesy conversation. He was telling her more about my relatives than he told me! And they're my damn relatives. After fifteen minutes of them talking and giggling[you can hear her giggle throughout the apartment]I put on my shoes[good thing I was wearing walking shoes] and left. I left slamming the door and he didn't even hear me.
I was three blocks from home when he finally found me. Or noticed I was gone at all. He pulled over across the street by the cemetary and proceeded to beg me to get back in the car. Which I kindly but firmly refused. He kept telling me not to do "this" and I just kept saying "do what?". This went on for at least a block before the pleading became demanding as it so often does with Irishman O'Swoon.
Finally, Miss Linguist came from around the block and started calling my name. I ran across the road. Miss Linguist stalked her body towards the passenger window. Slamming her hand down upon it, she says:"We have things under control here, thank you." And with that we both strode off into the moonlight. Two brave women who aren't going to take any more shite from Irishman O'Swoon anymore. While he was turning around in the street, I childishly gave him the finger and man did it feel good. I was on such an adrenaline rush, I could have ran a marathon, repainted my bedroom, and wrote the next great novel.
The moral of the story is:I am not a monkey's uncle. But I am a jackass' daughter.
In other news:Senior pictures are today. Miss Linguist stood up for herself yesterday during a board meeting and might get herself canned. Pray she doesn't.
This has been your Susan B. Anthony-esque diarist. Gonna wash that man right outta my newly shorn hair.
Quote of the day:"You don't have to do this, come here I'm begging you."-[Irishman O'Swoon]