I don’t know what in the Lindsay Lohan is wrong with me, I can’t sleep and stay up until 5 am every night! Sleeeep all dayyyy driinkkk all night…I’m in Miami, TRICK! My new thing is going to be to use disgruntled celebrity names instead of actual cuss words, I recently learned that cussing is unattractive. Gasp!
Kids, today I am going to introduce you to what might be the greatest character we have yet to meet here at Cocktails at Tiffany’s, my stepdad. Now before I start ripping into him let me say that I like my stepdad; he’s a nice guy, supports his family and me, yada yada yada…he just gets on my nerves because we are total opposites. And I think I get on his too. And by total opposites I mean I think fashion and drinking are the bees knees and he thinks ripping the insides out of a deer and mounting it’s antlers on the garage wall to display to all his hick friends and then eating the meat is all there is to live for.
The other day Lucky and I had an ichat conversation that concluded with us deciding I should introduce the redneck himself because the stuff he nags me about is hilarious and completely irrelevant/he is the only person in the entire world that would get their panties in a twist over this stuff.
When I was in high school I never would have called my house “the hang out” even though I desperately wanted it to be. At most I probably only ever had 3 friends over at the same time. Usually it was just Lucky though. When my friends started driving stepdad decides to enforce some new “house rules.” Most parents say, “Hey you and your friends can sit in your room and do your crack cocaine all you want but no one leaves. Keys stay in the basket!” My stepdad says,”Hey tell your bratty little friends not to park their bmw’s infront of the garage where the dodge is parked.” I don’t, so he makes this:
A NO PARKING SIGN. Which 7 years after I have graduated high school still remains in effect. Typically if my friends were over we weren’t going anywhere (with the exception of Lucky and I driving out to the lake to smoke our wood tipped swishers and listen to JTimb’s Cry Me a River whilst stalking the men we loved at their lakefront homes) and the friend would be there to move their own car if he needed to jet out for a big hunting emergency. The parking fiasco still goes on to this day, even if he doesn’t need to go anywhere its still, “OHHHH the suits are coming over with their Book of Mormon to try and convert you? Tell them not to park their bikes in front of the no parking sign hmmkay?” Lucky can we get a count on how many times we had to move your car in high school? Did we ever do it drunk? Check!
I need to comment on how long I’ve been waiting to share this post, what was holding up production was the picture of the no parking sign. Every time I trotted outside with my little white macbook to take the picture someone was out there, its like they know. The whole family just left while I was ichatting with Lucky so when I told her of course instantly she says, “THE PICTURE THE PICTURE TAKE THE PICTURE!” I had to go through a lot of strenuous work for this bidness too. The garage door was up so I had to pull it down, position the computer, and raise the door back up all while my snooty neighbors watched. I’m sure they think I’m a freak but they better watch their ‘tudes or they’ll be next! I’m excited to hear about what rumors start flying around about me, probably that I’m a drug dealer. I wish.
But back to crazy, more recently one summer that I was home from college and didn’t have to work while stepdad was slacking off and didn’t go to work (which he often plays hooky and I haven’t quite figured it out yet – Lucky says he’s on the Gizzy plan since he’s always home the same days as me) when I decide to make myself some lunch. We’ll say it was probably a frozen pizza but I can’t be exactly sure, judging from my love handles that’s what it was. I do want any normal red-blooded American who wants to eat a frozen pizza does, I preheat the oven at 450 degrees and put my pizza on a pizza pan and wait. Stepdad runs into the kitchen hands flying in the air, gasping for breath, having a meltdown about me making this frozen pizza. I’m all like, “What the french toast man it’s a pizza, I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge and go buy a new one.” He can barely get out the words telling me to shut the oven off. I flip it off thinking there is a gas leak and I’m about to blow us all to smithereens over a digiorno when he tells me that no that there is not in fact a gas leak or anything wrong with the stove he just doesn’t want me to turn the oven on because it’s summer. Yes, because it’s summer. “Oooookkkk,” I said, “Why does it matter if it’s summer?” “Just try not to use the stove in the summer ok, it makes the house hot and then I have to turn the a/c down to get the house cool.” So you’re telling me that for 4 months out of every year we can’t cook in the oven? Well what in the flipper is the point of having one?! Jesus H. And now, now not only are you telling me I can’t use the stove for 4 months out of the year, now you’re making me waste a $6 frozen pizza, which is probably more than what it would have cost for you to turn the air down 5 degrees for the 20 minutes that it cooked. This is just ludicrous. I just moved back home right, rule still stands. My mom bought my favorite food, TGI Friday’s mozzarella cheese sticks, at the grocery yesterday and I had to be like, “Why in the hell did you buy those, I can’t use the goddamned oven to make them, they’re just gonna go bad for Christ’s sake!!!”
The blame off all things crazy is starting to get put more on my little sister than me these days, but she’s got in under control. For a 6 year old she can handle her shit. She calls crazy out. Apparently stepdad barks about the tv getting left on while she uses the restroom or goes into the kitchen to fix herself some cheetos. I would imagine that powering the tv off and powering it back up every time you went to take a pee is using more tv life and energy then just leaving it on. But what do I know? I’m not crazy. One day I’m out putting duct tape on the hoopty so I can drive in some peace and quiet when I see my sister come outside raising cane about stepdad’s tv in his den getting left on. I bust out into a cackle/semi-snort and get put right back into place by stepdad because my car is leaking oil onto his freshly painted blacktop. The oil is black, the blacktop is black…. so buy me a new car..?
Obviously that wouldn’t fly on Mr. cheapskate, I have had to buy all my own cars and sell my plasma to buy beer while my sister could pay her way through college in barbies. That’s not the point though. Yesterday my mom brought home left over pizza from a party they had in her office. Mom eats pizza for dinner, sister eats pizza for dinner, I come down snorting and shoving my way through condiments in the fridge, “FI FIE FO FUM, WHERE DAT PIZZA!?” As I’m heating some up for myself (IN THE MICROWAVE) stepdad walks in and says, “Oh well had I known that pizza was going to be so popular I would’ve had some.” Really?! Take the goddamned pizza. Just take it, and eat it all up. Not to mention there was still another whole entire pizza in the refrigerator but something has to be said about me not exactly being anorexic while I live at home, I think he half expects me to eat slop out of a trough in the backyard.
Tell me, how would you feel if you had this coming at you with flailing arms near the open flame of the oven:
Ah, a denim jumpsuit. Typically we’re dealing with ankle socks with mandals and a sleeveless shirt but we’ve got to class it up when we go out to eat for mothers day/ Well I’ve gotta go put in my final requests for what I want my room to look like in hell.
P.S. Coming soon is The People of Cocktails At Tiffany’s page, so we can all keep our shit straight.