"Leg 2" of Tuesday's Day Camp Relay: Sweet Mom-in-Law offers to handle the driving, so Spouse can deal with the fallout of his peeing contest with Direct TV Guy. (Three wires got dropped through the attic and actually connected, two more are capped and remain to be connected to additional receivers at a later date, and Direct TV Guy refused to pull the wires in the living room through the wall and down to baseboard level, so right now the cables are protruding out from under the TV and spilling over the mantel in a most unattractive way while we decide whether to shove 'em in a paintable conduit or pay someone to pull them through the wall. Meanwhile, various wall art that is likely to get knocked off by a swinging cable is piled in an equally ugly heap on a sofa table, topped with bric-a-brac from the mantel. When, exactly, will my house look like a house again? Don't answer, it's a rhetorical question.)
Because of issues with mi familia, I worked from my parents' house for a few hours after "Leg 1," and am changing into work clothes and getting ready to depart for my office when Mom-in-Law arrives to retrieve the Big Kid. As they are leaving, Big Kid informs me that, "MOM, you were totally wrong about us needing closed-toed shoes. I think that's for the little kids only. EVERYONE at the middle school camp had on flip-flops yesterday. I was the ONLY ONE with Crocs."
If I hadn't been so tired or distracted, I would have called you-know-what on this. It's a NIGHT camp session. Involving flashlight tag. There's no telling what your foot could run up against in the dark. That alone mitigates in favor of closed-toed shoes. But, you know what? Whatever. Wear your flip-flops, and I am almost hoping that they refuse to let you do something that you really want to do, so that the next time I say, "Closed-toed shoes," and you counter with, "Flip-flops," I will have a ready comeback.
A few minutes after 3:
Spouse (from his car): I'm driving to camp.
Me: Why, exactly?
Spouse: Because your older son wore flip-flops, and now they won't let him zip-line.
Me: Awesome! That will teach him. Wait - are you actually taking him shoes?
Spouse: Yes, because for what we pay those people, he'd better get to zip-line. He had better zip-line A WHOLE LOT.
Me: But this was going to be my new "Bead."
Me: Remember when he told me after 8 o'clock the night before the last day of fourth grade that I was craft parent for the end-of-school party? And you were playing tennis, and I didn't want to go to Wal-Mart with just the kids because Wal-Mart is scary at night, so we went to Target and made do with what we could find that was kind of gender-neutral, which was a friendship bead bracelet kit? And then he proceeded to show off his magician skills by putting a bead in his ear, and we ended up having to take him to two different doctors who charged us a bazillion dollars against our deductible? That entire summer, every time he asked for something that would cost us money, all I had to say was "BEAD," AND HE WOULD STOP TALKING. This was going to be like that: I would say "Close-toed shoes," he would say "Flip-flops," and I WOULD SAY "ZIP-LINE." CHECK, AND MATE.
Spouse (ignoring me): Meanwhile, my mom is driving around somewhere, wasting time before she has to pick up PJ, and I am going to be there and available, and *&^% it, I might as well pick up the little one while the big one has me inconvenienced, so I am trying to radio ahead that she can go ahead and leave, BUT SHE WON'T PICK UP HER PHONE.
Me: Hmm. Knowing her, it's turned off. Maybe you could meet her at the pick-up gate, and tell her to turn it on?
Spouse: I'm hanging up on you.
Forgot to mention the really satisfying part of my Tuesday (well, aside from hearing that my dad was coming home from the hospital): since we moved in, Spouse's home office has been Africa hot. To the point that I don't even want to walk through there, which is problematic, because the laundry room is on the other side. If I have said it once, I have said it thirty times over the last two months: Your office never used to be this hot. They must have blocked something when they were cleaning the air ducts or something.
Spouse's reply? "It's always been hot in here."
Yes. Normal hot. Not AFRICA HOT. This is different.
At least thirty times, I have been told that I was imagining things. Then, Direct TV Guy shows up. Goes into the attic. Max the Ceiling Cat follows him up there. Spouse retrieves Max - and comes down and says:
"Hey, you know how my office has been kinda hot lately? It looks like when the plumber dropped the new gas line they flopped over the insulation, on top of the vent, and they never restored it to its original position. So it's been blocking the flow of air into the room."
I AM KILLING YOU WITH MY MIND RIGHT NOW. Wait, no I am not. Because this means that I was right. Cancel the mind-killing. This is flippin' awesome.
And so we conclude this installment of Family Fire Drill Theater on a happy note. Or, at least, a smug one.