Thunder Blunder

     Soooo happy for the win, but let me tell you what happened at our house last night. 
So yesterday we, I mean the boys, got the invitation to spend the night with the grandparents.  We were tempted to load up and go to the game, but by the time we got them packed and ready, got ourselves packed and ready, got tickets, and got a room, we’d barely make it in time.  We decided we would just do our normal routine, but this time without kids.  Whoa.  What?  Not that we don’t enjoy our kids, but…
     Our routine is to record the game, wait till about what we think is half time, and then start watching the recording.  We usually go eat supper, or now that summer is here, we go to a t-ball game or go get a sno cone or something.  By the time we get home, take showers, get the boys settled, get ourselves settled, perhaps get a snack, it’s time to turn on The Thunder.  I’ve even seen us all exhale at the same time as we sink into our respective game watching positions.  If we’ve done it right, and we always do, we can watch the game without commercials and replays.  This is particularly awesome when there is a close game and I can’t stand it.  The tricky part is avoiding all human contact while we wait for the game to get good and started, which can be hard to do.  Since everyone knows I’m a huge fan of The Thunder, well, I’M not huge, my Thunder fanness is huge.  Anyway, for some reason, people love to give me score updates.  You would think if they know me well enough to know I’m a huge Thunder fan, they would also know I love surprises.  Sheesh.  The only bad part about waiting for the game to get that far ahead, is that it does no good to pray, or have a good attitude, or send good vibes, or anything.  I sometimes pray anyway, just for my own comfort, but I know it’s too late.  It’s a helpless feeling really.  That’s why I like to ‘Thunder Up’/pray earlier in the day. 
     So yesterday when we, I mean the boys, got the invitation to spend the night with the grandparents and we could either bust it to get to the game, or have the house to ourselves to watch it, we couldn’t help but think about how the night might go if we stayed home.  It didn’t take us long to decide to watch from the comfort of our living room.  We decided we would go out to eat to pass the time until the 3rd quarter. We were in no hurry since we knew we didn’t have to do *shower drill.  
     *Shower drill is where we start ‘yapping’ at the boys at about 5 miles out from our house.  Who’s going first?  That usually takes a few minutes because they have to try to get into the other guy’s head and decide what he's going to choose, decide if he’s just using reverse psychology, and then decide the best way to argue appropriately for what he wants which is what the other guy wants.  When one of us gets tired of that argument, we will cut them off and just tell them who’s going first.  Check mate.  They will both be unhappy even though the 50/50 odds say that one of them should have gotten exactly what they wanted, I guess unless they were fighting for the thing they didn’t want just because the other guy wanted it. (sigh…exhausting)  Anyway, even though the routine is the same, I start giving the orders.  Take your clothes off and toss them in the laundry room on your way by.   Get underpants and something to sleep in.  I break up the second argument of shower drill over the one t-shirt they think they own and remind them that I have purchased several nice pj sets they could wear and if they don’t stop fighting over a stinkin’ t-shirt, I’ll quit shopping for them and start shopping for myself.  On our way to the bathroom, they are still arguing over whose turn it really should’ve been and I am thinking about how ridiculous it is that I don’t have one pair of pjs to my name.  I turn the shower on and tell Levi, who has been granted the gift of first, to hurry up.  What he hears instead is, how about a nice, long poop before your shower, Sir?  I can’t believe I’m surprised every time.  Here come the reminders.  Remind them to please use soap- everywhere.  Remind Maverick that in order to wash his hair, he needs to get it wet.  Remind them to dry off, with a towel, before they try to put their clothes on.  Both boys are naked.  Maverick has gone into silly mode.  The kind where he’s dying laughing but nothing funny has happened.  Not to me anyway.  I fuss at him to settle down, but he already took his ears off.  He is laughing and laughing.  Levi is not distracted in the least by any of the hubbub going on around him.  I wonder how such a sweet little boy that is so snuggly and delicious can create a smell so awful that it makes me think I would feel better if I could just throw up.  I would love to do us all a favor and flush the toilet for the slightest bit of relief, but I know that will throw Levi into panic mode and who knows how long we may have to wait for him to ‘relax’ in order to ever finish and get in the shower.  Besides, it doesn't seem to be bothering either one of them anyway.  I want Levi to take his shower first since Maverick usually has to take two.  On an oddly regular basis, he comes out of the bathroom with the his dry clothes stuck to his wet body, the back of his head soaking wet and soapy, and the front of his head bone dry with the sometimes extra added bonus of a little sap in it from the tree he likes to climb.  He has the nerve to get mad when we tell him to go back and try again. 
     After both boys have had their showers, the bathroom is sufficiently soaked, I’ve won the bathroom door prize for the zillionth time in a row of another load of towels to wash, and most of a tube of toothpaste is covering a majority of the sink, they come in and do a couple of head stands, dunk the basketball a few times, look for baby (Levi’s teddy), get seven drinks, and finally sink down into their bean bags.  That’s when we shut it down.  Get the game on and Thunder!!
     So last night would be different.  We were kind of excited.  We had it all planned out.  We would set the DVR to record the game and whatever two shows come on after the game, just in case there’s some kind of overtime or three.  It’s happened.  There we sat, biting our nails, eyes wide, breath held, and we’ve run out of recording.  What just happened?  Are we at live tv?  Don’t look at the score.  What time is it?  AHHHHH!!  It’s like being in a movie theatre with 10 minutes left in the movie, and the power goes out, only about 1000 times worse.  I had already set the DVR to record the game, and whatever’s after that, and whatever’s after that like three days ago so, check.  We’re good.  We set out on our first half of the game trip to town.  As we’re pulling out of the driveway, he asks did you record the game?  Yeah, I got it.  Dang, really?  We ate, got a sno cone, and drove around a little, knowing that we would need to take up a little more time than usual since we didn’t have to do shower drill.  We came home and took showers.   I even took a *whole shower since it was possible and I had no idea when the next opportunity would be. 
     *A whole shower is a shower where I get to wash my face with designated face wash, wash my body with designated body wash, and I am allowed more time than my normal minute 48.  I even washed AND conditioned my hair.
     We had our lucky Thunder tees on, I was wearing my lucky socks, the remote…the remote… whew, the remote.  Yes!  I turned to get my pillows, yeah pillows, all fluffed, and I heard these words in the slowest of slow motion… Wherrrre izzzzz thhhheee gaaaaaammmmuhhh?  I spun (beautifully and on one foot) towards the tv and the husband.  I looked at the menu of recordings.  I looked again. You’re on prime time recordings.  You went down to far.  THIS ISN’T OUR TV?!  THIS ISN'T OUR HOUSE?!  Oh my God!! It didn’t record!!  NOOOOOO!
     Neither of us said a word.  I knew exactly how a dog feels when his owners come home to find that all the shoes in the house have been chewed up, the trash can is dumped and scattered all over the house, and the couch cushions have been shredded.  He thinks if he doesn’t make eye contact with you, you can’t see him.  I was desperate.  I tried it.  We found the game on live tv to see that we had again perfectly timed it so that the 3rd quarter was just starting.  I stared at the tv and didn’t so much as breathe for a good fifteen minutes.  God it’s hot in here.  I wanted to get up so bad and turn on the air conditioner, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.  Why am I wearing these hot socks?  Maybe if I wasn't wearing these hot socks I wouldn’t be this hot.  There’s nothing worse than having wet hair and being hot.  It’s probably that long, hot shower that’s making me hot.  It’s probably the deadly weapons system/laser beam eyeball rays shooting out from the general vicinity of Kerrick’s Lazy Boy that are causing me to be hot.  Probably.
     We watched the rest of the game in regular time complete with commercials and replays (thank God we didn’t have any replays).  You can’t imagine how long those commercials seemed.  It felt like forever.  When a Chickasaw Nation commercial came on (our favorite), I started imagining our story on the ID channel.  If I ever turn up missing, don't be surprised when they take our DVR in as evidence.    
     After a good Thunder win though, the mood lightened considerably.  Good thing I had Thundered Up.

If These Bras Could Talk

Every time I get home, no matter how long I’ve been gone, it could be two days, or 15 minutes, I have one thing on the brain.  I must get this bra off immediately!  I unsnap the clasp with one hand, then twist, pull, and contort my way out of it, while my other hand is already threading it through the arm of whatever t-shirt I happened to be wearing that day.  This all happens in record breaking time.  I can be carrying groceries, talking on the phone, or refereeing the boys.  It doesn’t matter.  God help whoever happens to be standing too close when that thing comes whipping out of my sleeve.  I have hurt my back a couple of times during the process, but it’s totally worth it to get out of that booby straight jacket society forces me to wear.  I’m pretty sure I hold some kind of record or something.  I’d go up against any seventeen year old boy you want to throw at me any day of the week.  I’m oddly proud of it really.

While I’m doing my best Houdini impression, I’m wondering who decided that we have to wear these things anyway?  A crazed maniac that’s who.  It had to be some kind of deranged lunatic who likes to see people suffer.  I mean, ISN’T THIS A DIRECT CONTRADICTION TO THE VERY FREEDOM ON WHICH OUR COUNTRY WAS BUILT?!  WELL ISN’T IT?!  Whew, ok, it’s off.  I’m good.  No really, I’m good.  Sometimes I think all those straps and loops are squeezing on my brain instead of digging into my rib cage and shoulders.  As the routine goes, I toss it into the closet, turn the light off, and close the door hoping to erase some of the mental and physical torment it has caused, but not before I turn to give it one last look of disgust.  You know the one, the ‘you really let me down today’ look.  But this time, just as I turned my head to walk away, I caught a glimpse of my bra laying crumpled there on the floor and it seemed as though it was staring back at me- with attitude.  What?!  You’re giving ME a look?  Hmpf.  I ask you to do one thing, ONE thing!  How hard could it be?  

And then this happened in my mind…the response from my bra~

How hard could it be?!  Well, since you asked.

You have the nerve to act like I’m dealing with one small situation here.  Last I checked there were two. And yeah, I called them a ‘situation’.  You expect me to be all loose and easy going enough for your comfort, but when things start to get out of control, I’m the one left holding the bag, er, uh, bags.  Well, you know.  Whoever is the most comfortable just gets thrown on under that t-shirt to brave another day.  Well lucky me, I just happen to carry the title of most comfortable.  And from whose closet do I get the pleasure?  A dance teacher… a dance teacher!  And not some young, tiny ballerina who really is just going through the motions when she attires herself with one of us.  No, no.  I get the, was either pregnant or breast feeding for three years straight, never met a cheeseburger she didn’t like, happy it’s kind of acceptable to be ‘a little thick’ these days, dance teacher.  Wow.  That’s a lot of weight on my, uh, that’s a lot to carry, ummm… let’s just say if somebody walked up to you right now and threw two oranges up in the air, in two different directions, would you be able to snatch them down with a firm grip?  Doubt it.  Now what if right after they threw the first two, they threw another two, and then another, and it was your responsibility not to let them drop?!  Yeah, that’s right.  Jumping.  How am I supposed to know when you’ll get a wild hair and start jumping?  I gotta be ready for that.  I’m not a circus clown.  I’m an undergarment. 

Yeeeahh, an undergarment.  You know how degrading that is?  This is not my dream come true.  I wanted to be a bikini top.  No one ever sees me.  You don’t care how I look.  The elastic is coming out on one side.  He doesn’t care anymore.  He’s given up completely.   All he thinks about is that next soft, easy soak in the gentle cycle and if he’s real lucky, an occasional hand wash.  A few of the fasteners are hanging on by a thread, and I’m about to lose them altogether.  God help us if when they snap, and they will, they snap at the same time.  How am I supposed to work with this equipment?  There’s been no change in quality here.  I’d hate for you people to come up with something better to accommodate your, everything has to be faster, better, and bigger generation.  Really, I’ve seen no advancements in the brazier industry.  Victoria’s Secret you say?  Psh.  It’s not an advancement in technology to add lace and padding.  I mean, what’s with the tiny satin bow?  All that does is distract the elastic.  The padding is kind of nice though.  It serves as kind of an air bag when things get a little out of hand (dirt road/particularly exciting Thunder game).  What they need to focus on is quality performance, not bells and whistles.  I don’t need a pretty Porsche to hug these less than tight curves.  I need a utility jeep.  Not a cute, no doors, no windows little fun jeep to ride around town in either.  I need a military jeep.  One that’s not afraid of a few bumps in the road, not afraid to get a little sweaty if you know what I mean. 

A, B, C, D?  Come on Victoria.  You wanna tell me every girl/lady/woman between the ages of 12 and death ---I interrupt--- I demand that after age 65 it should be socially acceptable not to wear a bra!  I’m just guessing here, but at that age haven’t we been through enough?  Bra rolls eyes/cups and continues, You wanna tell me every girl/lady/woman between the ages of 12 and 65 is expected to fit perfectly into generally 1 of 4 cup sizes?!  You’re somewhere between a B and C most days, somewhere between a C and a D for cheat weekends, and a general C when you’re (laughs uncontrollably and can barely get it out) excercising.  (pulls it together and continues rant) Instead, you just keep picking me up off the floor and expect me to hold down the fort come what may.  There are days when I can’t even wrap my head around what you’re asking me to do.  It’s about the same as the mover who draws the straw to be the guy on the bottom of the stairs when they are trying to move a piano to the top floor.  I just have to keep my head down, put my shoulder into it, push up, and hope we don’t all come crashing down.  And then on other days it seems like you don’t even need me at all.  Well, I probably shouldn’t go that far, but really, it’s like you’re using a suitcase to carry around a couple a pennies.  Come on.

And then, after a long, looong, hard day at work, this is the thanks I get- thrown to the floor to think about how I’VE let YOU down! 

Well, know this!  I didn’t let you down sister.  I let you in.  I comfort and guide you in the right direction. Forward Not Downward!  That’s my motto.  I make you socially acceptable and keep you from embarrassing yourself and your children.  I take the weight off your shoulders when the load is too heavy and cover for you when there is not much load to bear.  I stay strong in the 100 degree heat of a t-ball game to make sure all of little league isn’t getting distracted by an almost 40 year old wet t-shirt contestant in the bleachers and I keep the high beams dimmed when you’re faced with oncoming traffic in the cold dead of winter.  I spend my days in a constant struggle to keep you firmly in place and all while reaping the benefits of the horrible views and unsunny beaches of a resort located directly next to your armpits!!  So you just think about that the next time you throw me in the floor to soak in this pool of shame you’ve filled for me!  Then she, (I think my bra is a girl- you know because she seems to be a little emotional) folds her arms/loops, looks away and waits for her apology. 

 

And just as I am about to walk away to think about what I’ve done… I noticed a pair of panties looking at me, arms all folded and mad.  Not today panties, not today.

 

I think they should come up with a bra that is the same concept as a seatbelt.  As soon as anything seems to be happening out of the ordinary, it should just automatically get a little tighter.