Every day I run across things that make me say, “What. the. hell?” But I rarely actually snap a pic of one of them. I really need to get better at that. I’ll thank Tyler for documenting this one for what-the-fuck history. We tripped on this while we were walking around the Warner Bros studios. Isn’t it fun how I throw that out there, like I cruise the lot all the time. If I did, it would be because I crashed the gate to see if I could eat my lunch off of Adam Levine’s abs. Otherwise I generally have no business being there.
We were there to watch a group of super-talented people record the score for one of the episodes of the ABC show, Once Upon a Time. (Thank you Tyler Parkinson and Mark Isham.) After the session, walking around we came upon this little gem. Someone’s idea of a kickass hood ornament… a mangy prop crow with only a few of his tail feathers left. Sadly, I totally relate to this crow. I guess it’s appropriate that it was on the hood of the “Two Broke Girls” utility truck.
School drop off is the long-standing bastion of unabashed stupidity. It’s a simple process. Wait in line. Pull up to the curb. Open the doors. Say goodbye. Drive off to enjoy your blissful kid-free day. But there’s always one douchenozzle who can’t grasp the process, and reminds us all that dim-wits walk amongst us.
Every school has one. The mom that everyone has to accommodate, because…. well…. she says so. But in the OC, we like taking the absurd to extremes; the GL450, the fake boobs, the faux tan, and the Disney-princess blonde hair. (Yes, you can specifically request that color in salons here.) All of this in one big plastic package. Her husband must be a lucky man… except for the fact that she has the face of a bull mastiff. She’s like Beauty and the Beast all wrapped up in one.
Now that I’ve painted the picture, every morning Princess Perkytits gets out of her car to open the door for her kid and help her gather her things. Mind you this is something that every other child does solo… because parents are specifically requested to remain in their cars. I’ve convinced myself that she does this in order to reveal her latest shopping and/or surgery acquisitions to the captive audience in the traffic line, who clearly couldn’t give a shit.
But this morning was truly an only in Orange County moment. Ok, perhaps you might see it in parts of Dallas as well. But given the patented OC-princess hair, I’m comfortable with the claim. I was a bit later than usual this morning and the curb traffic was creeping more slowly than normal. Disney princesses are very predictable, and it was of course Wanda Whitestrips prancing her Pradas about. But this morning, in true OC form, our Princess was lint-brushing, yes… using a fucking lint brush on her Jr. Belle’s pinafore; slowly, methodically, and without regard for the traffic holdup.
Now, I’m sure when you lounge about with your heard of Maltepoos, as you poke bonbons in your pie hole, it will make a mess on the dress-blues. Perhaps we could de-lint before leaving the house? Or pull into one of the dozen parking spaces and get out of everyone’s way? Nope. That’s not how Disney Princesses roll in the OC.
I feel like it’s my responsibility as a parent to ensure that my children are well-read and have an extensive vocabulary. I owe it to the people with whom they eventually end up on dates. I don’t want to be responsible for them boring the shit out of someone some day. I’ve dated plenty of boringass lunkheads, from whom I could not wait to part company. I refuse to add to the pool of douchebags.
I’ve also made them both endure cotillion classes in order to be able to function in a formal social setting. Call me old fashioned, but I still believe it’s important to know which fork is which. I dated plenty of guys who didn’t know a bread plate from a fucking frisbee. And I always found a lack of table manners to be a turn off. Hell, if a guy was ever able to use those tong thingies to extract escargot gracefully, he totally got laid.
The fun thing about me is, stick around, there will always be a contradiction. Or maybe not. Perhaps swearing like a sailor in front of my kids qualifies as vocabulary training? The one thing I’ve taught them is there is a time and a place for everything. I mean, we might not always cut loose with a fabulous cheek-clapping fart. But, say, at home, when standing between your brother’s face and the TV, it’s not only acceptable, but encouraged. I believe Eddie Murphy called it “The Fart Game.” And we are tough competitors in our house.
But as far as the swearing thing, have you ever been around that guy who doesn’t know how to swear? He comes out with, “Fuck shit goddammit…,” in some telling, English-is-my-fifth-language accent. All the seasoned potty mouths make eye contact and silently agree that he’s a swear-virgin. How awkward is that? I want to be sure that my kids are good at everything they do. Including swearing.
It pains me, what a good mom I am.