i'm not writing about the new year

Seriously.  I'm not writing about the change in years.  The shit just has to be better this year.  That's all I'm saying about that topic. 

I'm writing about my awesome last day of 2009.  Because it was. 

I cleaned my office.

My office was a hurricane of paper.  It was bad.  But it wasn't a good day because I cleaned.  Trust me.  I hate cleaning.  Tidy =/= me.  I'm not one of those people who feel "accomplished" when I'm done cleaning.  I feel tired.  That's a messy house.

The day was awesome because I spent it with Younger.  And this isn't in an ooey-gooey, I love my kid way.  It's because that girl is damn funny.

Every six months or so, I'll offer the chickadees--one or both--the opportunity to get paid to work for me.  Sometimes it's cleaning my office, sometimes it's hauling boxes during a document production, like last Christmas with Eldest.  (Oh, my God, trying to find that post brought back a crapload of memories.  I believe I have forgotten to tell you that we hear--yes, I am passing on gossip--that Sasquatch has been arrested for breaking into a Sears store after hours.  Nice.  I sincerely hate that kid.  Yes.  Hate.)  But I digress.

I offered up the option of working the 31st with me to both girls.  Eldest has only had like four-hundred-and-ninty-seven hours of time on her role-playing board and needed more quality time with the computer, so she couldn't be bothered.  Younger, on the other hand, said, "Sure!  Sounds like fun!"  (And yes, she spoke in explanation marks.  I questioned her enthusiasm.  I distrust people enthusiastic about cleaning.  But maybe she was just exicted to pick lunch at any downtown place she wanted.)

The cleaning was not fun.  At. All.  I think we hauled something like a six foot stack of paper--REALLY, six feet--to the recycling bin.  But while she cleaned and organized supplies, she talked. 

This post would be ridiculously long, instead of the typically too long, if I told you it all.  But I have to share the parts that made tears roll down my face.

She told (as told in "her words" or the best rendition of them I can come up with, spelling provided by me because you couldn't understand it if you tried to read her spelling):

The Tale of the Most Spectacularly Awkward Moment With My Father. 

Ever.

I was cleaning my room and Dad came in to get the trash.  One of those little pad things from my swimsuit was laying on the floor.  I don't know why it was there.  Somehow it escaped from my drawer and was in the middle of the floor.  And Dad said, "What's that?"  And I said, "Oh, a boob pad from my swim suit."  And Dad said, "Oh, so your nipply doesn't show?"

(At this point, Younger starts flailing her hands about in the air, like she's trying to bat the embarrassing moment out of her brain and her voice is raised to near hysteria.)

And I was going, "Oh my gawd, DAD!?  Did he just say, 'nipply'?  How do I get him out of my room?  Why are we staring at each other turning all red?"  Mom, it was the most spectacularly awkward moment of my life, with dad.  Ever.

The end.

This story caused flash-backs of Tampax ads coming on television while I was watching with my dad.  But it also made me lmao.  I cannot imagine the horror Car-man went through when he realized what he had said.  I mean the man just doesn't say words like, "Nipply." 

Um, is "nipply" a word? 

Anyhow, that little gem was quickly followed by her observation that her best friend, The Cheerleader (not), goes to a church which teaches that women should follow the direction of their men.  I said something profound like, "Oh?" (knowing full well that The Cheerleader (not) and her mom go to some conservative Baptist church while her Dad is Catholic.)  She said, "I know they do.  I was there for that sermon.  When the preacher started talking about obeying husbands, I leaned over to The Cheerleader (not), and said, 'How long does your service go?' and she said, 'Two hours,' and I muttered, 'Kill me now.'  But what do I expect?  After all, The Cheerleader (not)'s mom took her brother and his friends to Hooters for his 13th Birthday Party." 

I was alternatingly thinking, "Phew.  This kids DOES have a bit of the feminist in her!  I have questioned it at times." and "Oh. Em Gee.  Hooters? For 13-year-old boys?"  and "Damn Baptists."  (Yeah.  Start the hate comments now; I'll get even more by the end of this post.)

"It's no wonder he looks at porn on the Internet."  (Younger and The Cheerleader (not) caught this brother perusing porn last week.  But he IS 13; and I suppose the Internet is this generation's version of stealing Dad's Playboy.)  I chuckled.  To this reflection on porn usage, Younger added, "I blame it on the Mormons."   

There were suddenly crickets in my office. 

I tilted my head in that WTF-sort-of-way and said, "Um.  Hun.  Her mom is Baptist.  Not Mormon."  She said, "Oh, I know that.  It's all of them; Baptist, Mormon, CATHOLIC.  But 'Blame it on the Mormons' has a nice ring.  From now on, I shall* use the phrase 'BOTM'.  Blame it. On. The. Mormons."

And I can't help it, while her statement had a decidedly xenophobic tone (the Mormons have had enough torment and don't need ours), I found the phrase "BOTM", pronounced "bottom", tear-inducingly funny.

That is a misogynistic house. It's the Cleaver house, of Beaver fame. Did you know it's on Desperate Housewives now? Ironic, no?

*Yes, she used the word "shall".