A Fart At A Funeral

Okay, you need to use your imagination for a moment. Imagine you’re at a church attending a funeral, the service is about to start. The organist is playing  “How Great Thou Art“, the room is somber. You are reflecting on the passing of a loved one, your own mortality and all that entails. Then, quite suddenly, a smell wafts at you. It’s invading the inner sanctums of your being. It’s the stankiest Beefaroni fart that’s ever been produced.

Now imagine the look on your face.

That’s the face Statler & Waldorf (AKA Mom & Dad respectively) receive on a regular basis. Thankfully not just from me, but from most people they come in contact with. They spent last weekend with us and we celebrated Father’s Day with them and Alec’s folks.

I won’t deny that I brought the crazies into my relationship with dear husband. He’s most accommodating with them. I, on the other hand, am running out of patience with them. Before I had kids I could cater to their needs quite well. Now when they visit I feel like I have 4 kids & the labour process with them was my childhood.

Here’s how the weekend went. Please bear in mind that I called them the previous week to advise that Emmy had the measles and it might not be the best weekend for a visit (they came anyway).


Did you get out the photos I asked you about when I called yesterday? Um, no. Why not? What have you been doing all week? Taking care of a little one with the measles and a newborn, you? You had no intention of giving them to me did you? No, I actually quite enjoy the feeling of disappointment I give you on such a regular basis.

Okay, I just said that last bit in my mind, but I was thinking it with the Beefaroni Fart Look on my face!


What’s with your hair? What, are you dying it every day? Every time I see you it’s a different colour. Are you not happy with the colour God gave you or what? I don’t know if I actually responded to these last questions as both conversations were going on simultaneously as they walked through my door. I don’t get talked to – I get talked at. Some kids get hugs, I have my daughterly duties questioned and hair criticized within the first 30 seconds.

And at that point, we were off and running folks.

Skip ahead a few hours to me thinking about dinner. There’s really no point in cooking for Statler & Waldorf because although cooking & baking is something I really enjoy, what ever I make is usually met with disdain (too much garlic, olive oil – because vegetable oil is the superior oil, obviously – or the bowl it’s served in is too blue), so ordering in is usually the best bet. That way, when Statler complains the following morning that she didn’t sleep because what ever she ate upset the equilibrium that is her bowel – it won’t be my fault. I decide Fat Burger would be a good choice.

By this point Waldorf is making Emmy a toy box (belated Christmas gift, the man needs projects – he makes coffee nervous). I figure I won’t make Alec be responsible for the kids and Statler, so I’ll take Statler with me to pick up the food. She then starts asking Emmy if Emmy wants to go. Duh, she’s 2 – of course she wants to go! I say “No, she’s staying here with Alec”. Which is met with Come on, let her come. Emmy do you want to come with Grandma? At which point, Emmy puts her shoes on & is standing at the door. Thanks a lot. Now I get to be the bad guy when I say no and Alec will have a sad child to deal with. I maintain my composure & explain that Emmy still has the measles and doesn’t need to be going out when she’s been sick all week. Which was met with Well, she can come & just stay in the car. Uh, yeah, it’s not 1978 – I’m pretty sure that’s illegal & under no circumstances would I leave her in the car! And, by the way, if you’re gonna leave her in the car, what’s the point in taking her? That’s when Emmy looked at me with her “please Mommy” eyes and the ship had sailed – Statler won. I was pissed, that kind of undermining just irritates me to my core.

Jump ahead another few hours. Watching TV with them & “Return To Me” comes on. I won’t lie, I love this movie. The reasons are 3 fold

  1. I love me some Duchovny – seriously. I just know he’s into freaky shit.
  2. I also have a strange attraction to Jim Belushi…I don’t know.
  3. I’m a chick flick fan.

The following discussion ensued

Statler – Did you know the X-files guy got picked up for sex? Um, actually he went to rehab for sexual addiction (sounds like a totally made up affliction to me, but what ever). Oh, what ever that means. I think we’ve blocked out what Statler said next because it had to do with erectile dysfunction & I prefer to think of my parents asexual beings, so the fact that she knows what erectile dysfunction is was disturbing enough.

Then Waldorf chimed in with Well, he was really good in the Red Shoe Diaries. Fuck & oh no he didn’t just say that. Dad was into the Red Shoe Diaries? No direct eye contact for a while, okay Dad? Ewww. This leads to Crying Game genuflects on my part.

The following day was much of the same. Took everyone to the mall where I felt like we were caring for 4 children instead of 2. Constant barrage of questions and vocal concerns over mall lighting, store locations, critiques on mall tile choices, the way I care for my kids and the list goes on…

We went home and I made Monkey Bread to have for dessert that evening. I put a tablespoon of Jamacian Rum in the butter (and took several hits off the bottle). I forgot the bottle on the counter when I went upstairs to get ready for dinner. Alec was then questioned by Statler on whether or not I am an alcoholic. Let me just say this – when they’re in town, I should be drunk every day!

This was on the heels of Waldorf asking why Emmy wasn’t her usual self, she just didn’t seem very happy. Geez Dad, I dunno. Could it be that she has the measles? You know, the reason why I said this weekend probably wasn’t the best for visiting ’cause she was sick & irritable? Yeah, remember that??? Insert Beefaroni Fart Look here.

We met up with my in-laws for supper at Tony Roma’s to celebrate Father’s Day that evening. I was wound up tighter than an 8 day clock, but we managed to get through drink orders and food orders without debacle. I ordered a starter soup and Riblings with a ceasar salad in place of side dishes. Seemed good to me. Upon the arrival of our food, Waldorf looks around the table & says Hmm, no one ordered ribs and we’re at Tony Roma’s! To which I answered, “I did” & pointed to the riblings portion of my dinner. And he replies What? That salad isn’t enough for you? You eat so much, do you need all of that? What the fuck? Who talks like that? It’s not like it’s new but it inspires the Beefaroni Fart Look every time.

That basically sums up our weekend. Abject horror combined with moments of embarrassment.

Here’s my concerns. At what point does this all catch up with me? When do I have the nervous breakdown that I must be entitled? I do love them deeply (which is how I am able to manage them), but some times I have to question what God was thinking when He made them. It is honestly by the Grace of God that “aholic” doesn’t follow any of my behaviours.

I keep hanging on thinking God is trying to teach me some profound lesson by being their daughter, but lately I’m feeling like God is just punk’n me.

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2 thoughts on “A Fart At A Funeral

  1. Oh, I feel ya. Sometimes I look at other girls’ blogs, and first I realize I’m incredibly inept at making crafty stuff to put around my house/food storage/couponing, and then, second, I think, “Wow, really? This is how other people live? Really?” But the best part about blogging is sometimes I will read someone’s (aka yours) and feel like, “This girl is so COOL! I love her blog, she is so funny/smart/more clever than I will ever be!” And all of this while I am sitting home in my worn out nightshirt. So keep away from those other blogs, they will suck you in and make you feel like they’re normal. Well, they’re not.

    PS-I have a friend with the FUNNIEST blog-funny because she lives in a bubble world and doesn’t even realize it. If you ever want a laugh, email me at mommymeliss@gmail.com, and I will send you a link.

    PPS-I’m impressed you only started in May-you are a natural!

  2. Your parents should meet my mother.

    Take for instance, our parenting choices on bed time.

    We don’t believe in crying it out. We attempted it once and it didn’t work.

    The other night, I was dealing with Little Bit (my 7 month old) who was ill and cranky and didn’t want to sleep. The Sprogling (2 year old) sat and cried and screamed for over two hours intermittently, even when I’m in his room with him cuddling.

    My mother who has been harping on me to just let him be and cry it out is now telling me that I’m being cruel and I shouldn’t let him cry.

    I feel your pain. Every day.

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