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Monday, December 10, 2007

Holiday Hoopla: Take 4

Oh the in-laws. You know there isn’t much more than them to send me into a raging case of Turret’s Syndrome, right? Only, my mother in-law isn’t a fan of all that fuckery, so rather than cursing up a blue streak, I resorted to less colorful phrases during my bouts.

Like, when I finally settled in after being up all night with the puppies, I simply asked, “For Heaven’s sake! Where in Sam Hill are you all going at 6 in the morning? Some people are trying to sleep after pulling an all-nighter of wrestling fudge dragons.”

Clearly, there was reason to use harsher language, but I was behaving.

Because my sister in-law, her husband and their three children arrived the day before us, they got both guest rooms, couches and all of the indoor sleeping areas. Mr. Lane and I were set up in the four-season porch on an air mattress. Add hyperactive puppies to the porch, and there wasn’t much sleeping taking place.

My comment about that situation was something like, “What in tar nations are they thinking, making us sleep on the porch while the dag-gum dingleberries get all the comfy beds? This is horse feathers, I tell ya!”

Mr. Lane was proud of me for using my big girl words. He was annoyed that I was still talking at 3 a.m.

Sorry, I get easily sidetracked. You are all still probably wondering, “Did they find treasure in the morning? Did they get eaten by wild beasts? Did Man vs. Wild save the children from a ferocious camel attack?” How about no, to all of the above. They did freeze and likely caught pneumonia, however.

After all of those hours, digging the rocky hillside, all they found were vintage beer cans. Upon the discovery, Man vs. Wild was very excited. “This is before pop tops. These are going to be worth… big bucks! Richie, get online and see what these babies are going for on eBay. Move it!”

Richie Rich who also had a rough night, worrying about his upcoming surgery, rolled his tired bloodshot eyes in his dad’s general direction as he typed, clicked and typed some more.

“Well?! Are they so rare… you can’t find any for sale?”

“Um… no, Dad. They are… in that condition… add rust and holes… maybe three bucks each, at best.”

Frantically, he insisted, “We have to keep digging. I know we will find more… in better condition. This was someone’s drinking place, guys. There’s got to be… hundreds of cans right in this vicinity.”

He speculated about how this beer-drinking man would hide from his old lady. “He’d tell her he was going hunting or collecting firewood… and he’d be out here drinking his heart out. Who knows, maybe he dropped some money while he was out in the woods.”

I shared a quiet moment with my nephew, while his father was preoccupied in his own treasure hunting fantasy land. And just like a good Lane boy, he used his condition to get out of the great hunt.

“Oh cheese and crackers, his treasure hunt is poppycock, kid. Hold onto your chest when you tell your dad that you don’t feel well enough to keep digging,” I winked at that boy.

Dec. 12th, Richie Rich is having a major surgery to repair his sunken rib cage. It’s a birth defect, but until now, he’s 17, it hasn’t caused him any problems. Recently, he has become winded easily and his doctor said his sternum and ribcage are compressing his heart and lungs. With no other options, he is undergoing a huge reconstruction of his chest. It is expected to be an excruciating procedure with a long recoup time.

His father patted his head and told him his cut would be safe in his hands. We high-fived as soon as he turned his back.

The rest of the kids weren’t lucky enough to have a serious condition to fall back on. Out they went again for several more hours. Red dripping noses returned. Dry cracked fingers held dirt-covered shovels. Tired little people and their big dumb leader finally completed their mission.

Their treasure was all rust. Why he brought it back to the house remains a mystery, but I’m sure my in-laws were thrilled to pay extra for hauling it all away. After all of that, he left his “treasure” to the trash man.

Seeing how this family holiday turned into a trip from Hell, we decided to play a game with the kids. The game is called Mad Gab. We set up our teams, Couches vs. Potatoes. In the end, Couches (my team) lost by one point. But not before we had some very colorful answers.

One person reads what is on the card and the teams have to be first to guess what it is supposed to say. For example, “These If Hill Wore” is The Civil War. You have to say it back to yourself fast and then the answers come to you.

My niece Marissa was killing me. She kept saying things that were so far off or was repeating the words just as the reader had. I don’t think she scored us Couches any points but she was laughing so hard, I knew points didn’t matter to her.

“Pooh seek hats!” Marissa excitedly said.

“Pussycats,” I corrected.

“That’s right! Couches get another point.”

“Hahaha, poo see! Hahahaa!”

I don’t know why but every time it was our turn, we came up with answers that were down right raunchy. Like, “Bat Tree Snot Ink Looted” I excitedly answered incorrectly, “Bitchy shot and looted!” Marissa and Lane 2 nearly pissed their pants from laughing so hard. Maybe it was all of the holding back on the cuss words that caused me to screw the win up for our team. Whatever the case, batteries not included was the correct answer.

The in-laws are on their way here for a few days for Richie Rich’s surgery. Who knows, maybe I’ll get some more material from those no good yellow bellied sap suckers.