Now, they may have used the tattoo as an excuse to grab my boob and/or pull down my bustier, but either way, they at least feigned interest in the ink while they were groping and photographing.
I blame the entire thing on Mr. Jameson.
And Bacon Beer.
Yesterday was planned as A Big Day of Fun. Our schedule was jam-packed, and in order to get everything done, we had to involve the drop-in childcare at the mall, and public transportation.....but dammit, I was gonna make this happen for us. I was determined to begin my day getting all glammed up and sipping cocktails, and finish it drunk in an irish bar, cheering on friends and teaching my son how to hold a lighter aloft in support of his favorite bands. A life lesson, and one he would never forget, I'd wager. Turns out, he learned lots of lessons - but not that particular one.
Things we (and especially DADDY) learned on Saturday:
When mommy makes a plan, showing up dirty and unprepared to follow said plan? Is completely unacceptable.
When mommy makes a plan, and then has been drinking, and then you are not prepared to follow said plan (that was set up in advance of said drinking so that things would not get ugly)? Things get ugly. Ugly indeed.
When said plan involves being gone for the entire afternoon and evening, the dogs MUST be exercised before commencing said plan. When mommy allots 4 hours in said plan for this to be accomplished, mommy expects it to be done.
When you arrive woefully unprepared to follow said plan, and mommy has been drinking, and mommy has to diverge from said plan, mommy does not always have the full use of mommy's coping skills.
Sometimes, mommy forgets to use mommy's nice words, when the plan that was set up in advance of mommy's drinking is not followed after said drinking has commenced.
Diverting from said plan will result in either fun and hiijinks, or a very very angry mommy.
Mommy should never go to a bar dressed in a bustier that is a few sizes too big, to hang out unsupervised with the roller girls, after a day of drinking. THAT was not in the plan.
But it was fucking awesome anyway.
It all started out so smoothly. I spent my morning in a ballroom getting my hair straightened and eating club sandwiches. Lovely. I got some cute little dresses and a coupon for free McDonalds fries, so I considered it a morning well-spent.
Then I raced across the island to meet my family. I got to the mall just as they were disembarking from the bus, and suddenly, all of my plans came to a skidding halt. You could literally hear the brakes squealing. Or maybe that was the flames shooting out of my ears. I really can't be certain, it was hard for me to see or hear anything through the black rage. The three of them got off the bus, not dressed for A Big Day of Fun, but instead looking as though they had just finished four hours of yardwork. Dirty, sweaty, disheveled and clearly exhausted. Now don't get me wrong, I am frequently sweaty and disheveled. It's my natural state. I am not one to judge. I looked desperately for a backpack that I was SURE my darling husband had brought along with changes of clothes. And maybe our camping shower. At the very least, some baby wipes. He was carrying a small totebag. I had hopes that he had extra (clean) clothes in there, which were quickly dashed when he pulled out two rainjackets. I looked at him, perplexed. We had many plans, but none of them involved being outdoors in inclement weather. Honestly, I am surprised he didn't disintegrate in the heat of my burning glare.
Max was standing there, slumped, dirt smeared across his face, clearly in need of a double espresso and some chocolate. Lucy had tired puffy eyes, and her braids were all undone. She sort of swayed as she stood clinging to the railing, probably about to topple over and take a nap on the concrete.
I wasn't far from that myself, let's be honest. But dammit I had to rally, and so did everyone else. There was fun to be had. THIS WAS OUR BIG DAY OF FUN DAMMIT. LET'S HAVE SOME FUCKING FUN.
I turned to my beloved, the one who clearly was woefully unprepared for our big day, and tried not to yell. He had no excuse. He knew it. "What, exactly, were you thinking." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. I really didn't give a shit what he was thinking. Clearly, he was not thinking about much.
"I fucked up." was the lightening fast response.
Well, yes, yes indeed you did.
I tried, I tried to let it go. We dropped the kids off. We went to the brewfest. I had too much beer. I staggered out. He drove back to get the kids. I went to Hot Topic to pick up some accessories for the evenings festivities. One of the events was 80's themed, and fingerless gloves were required. I was lucky enough to also score a black and red satin bustier that was only 3 cup sizes too big, but at $6, really, there was no leaving it on the rack. Sami looked disgusted. I glared at him.
Then we raced home, where the dogs were literally trying to charge through a solid wood gate.
"What the hell is wrong with them?" I asked. "Didn't they get enough exercise today?"
He looked guilty. "I didn't take them for a walk." he admitted.
This is where Mr. Jameson followed by 3 hours in the sun at brewfest reared their ugly, ugly heads.
I cut loose with a string of profanities that really, I cannot repeat. Even here. I am not proud, but I was angry, and we were running an hour late for Max's art opening at the tattoo parlor, and then we still had the battle of the bands and WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK DUDE?!
So we all cleaned up, the dogs were walked, the art opening was attended, and because it was already way past bedtime, the kids had to forgo the battle of the bands.
But not mommy.
Oh no, mommy put on her fancy $6, only 3 sizes too big bustier and her black tutu and her Doc Martins, shoved her man hand (seriously, I have the biggest fucking man hands ever) into a red patent leather fingerless glove (with bows! Fancy!), and got back in the Mini.
Even though I had only been drinking water since about 5pm, I was decidedly worse for the wear. 36 hours of fun will do that to even the most hard core. By the time I staggered back into the house at 2am, I was a sad shadow of the glamorous mama who had been primped and pampered just that very morning. As one of the girls said at the bar "I"m not a hooker, I skate roller derby." Sometimes, you need to clarify these things. Appearances can be deceiving. With one of my bustier cups mashed flat, my hair deflated, my lipstick smeared and dizzy with fatigue and a pounding headache, I needed to get in bed and sleep for a few (or many) hours.
My name is Daffodil Campbell, and I'm a roller girl.