D Day Plus 218: (October 12, 2010): Chilling, Meandering, and Justifying

By 6:30, I’d come down with a bad case of Lazy A** Syndrome. I had LAS real bad.  So bad, I couldn’t show my face in public, not even to my Zumba video friends hiding in the basement: Beto and Tanya. No way, no how. Only Jason Bourne’s cure-all would work.  Rest!  In fact Jason said rest was a weapon.  And I believed him.

Dad and I were schooled that rest was a weapon listening to The Bourne Identity going back and forth between Sterling and Bassett last year. I know I told you that.  But, I don’t know whether you got it. You only saw the movie, you didn’t read the book.

I took a nice hot bath that made my feet lobster red. I put on my comfy pink jammies with all the cool shoes on it (the ones I always took on our trips to MD Anderson). I heard Dad coming up the stairs with my dinner, so I jumped into bed so he couldn’t see my red feet.  That would only wind him up and then he’d harp about me taking such a hot bath.  I’m pretty sure harping and chilling weren’t compatible. So that’s why I did what I did. 

Dad handed me a big-a**ed bowl of air-popped popcorn with Diet Mountain Dew on the side. It’s what I ordered from Dad’s Diner.  I wanted to be bad and not eat a real dinner. It was great. Dad even delivered. I tipped him with some change on my nightstand.  I thought I was pretty funny. But I only got a lukewarm laugh – that was kind of fake – before he rushed downstairs.  

Dad had to watch his stupid hunting and survival shows. Personally, I think Dad’s gone off the reservation. Not in the Jack Bauer way -- from 24. But in the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs kind of way.  He’s been asking, “ya gonna to carry my guns when I go deer huntin?”  When he talks like that, Meatloaf’s song, Anything for Love, always pops into my head. I would do anything for love, but I won’t kill Bambi. 

I’ve been checking the mail a lot lately to keep tabs on Dad.  He’s been getting new toys from Amazon like a new-fangled GPS and some hunting books.  He’s also been buying all kinds of those hunting and hiking magazines whenever he picks up Pho by Regal Cinemas. I’m on to him. He's thinks I'm not, but I am.  He acts all sweet and helpful about picking up dinner. But I know, it’s a charade – a ploy to go buy stuff at Borders. 

I swear if there is ever a Soldier of Fortune in the mail box, I’m gonna slug him in the middle of the back. You know I can do it. You’ve been on the receiving end a lot yourself. Like when you’d leave me to take the blame for your gas cloud.  And then you'd have a laugh attack. You always did that! Especially on the Skybridge or elevators at MD Anderson. I’m not sorry for slugging your back and telling Dad, Katie, and Morgan that you were naughty. You smelled like the east end of a westbound skunk.  And you left me holding the bag or my breath. 

Dad had the television a little too loud so I yelled, “Turn it Down.” I was nestled in my Nancedom calling out to my lone subject. I was justified. Some bubba was screaming to some other bubba about “gettin the gun.”  And it was loud and annoying. Once Dad silenced the bubbas, I finally settled in for my Dancing with the Stars (DWTS) homework.  It was a simple assignment: watch Monday’s competition so I was ready for the results show at 9.  

You probably thought I was Pig Pen from Peanuts with all the trash that surrounded me: popcorn crumbs in bed married with more trash flashing on the TV in high def on the wall. It was a trash marriage made in heaven. 

I know you don’t care, but Mama Brady got the boot.  She did a pretty good job, but my eyes burned when Mrs. Brady dirty danced.  Think the Exorcist and Regan chanting “It Burns.”  Or maybe not!  I’m such a bad influence.  A really bad mother trucker.

After Mama Brady got the boot, I started feeling a little guilty about resting and chilling.  It was true. Otherwise I wouldn’t have even brought it up. I kept justifying that I deserved to take a break.  Meanwhile, I thumbed the remote to check FIOS On Demand for the latest episodes of my current Showtime favorites: Weeds and The Big C. I finally gave myself a break when Nancy Botwin on Weeds did something so Nancy Botwinish like string Andy, her dead husband's brother, along so she wouldn't be alone.  That Nancy is such a mess. At least I'm not as messed up as her. I can't be all that bad.  Besides, you and I know, I’m not a total slacker. So I’ll do what we do -- continue to justify long after anyone gives a rat’s behind.  

I worked nine hours and did an excellent job keeping myself distracted. Excellence on par with Rainman. For some reason, Dad’s voice just popped into my head.  He’s yammering about how I’m always so distracting because I never shut up. You know (and I know) that sometimes he can be a total butt munch. See, he even gets in trouble without actually saying or doing things. That’s neither here nor there but it doesn’t matter because I’m chilling, meandering, a justifying.  I’ll get to the point eventually. 

Like now. Drum roll please. The point is, the distraction worked like a charm today. At least twenty events for the final phase of D Day Minus popped into my head.  That  along with some key points with story lines without me  trying the least little bit.  They were safely scribbled on a paper in my purse – in random order.  Of course!