(Our story continues with part 3-A:)
THAT’S IT. I am sweaty. I am stressed. I am annoyed! All thought is abandoned as my two-week-long fantasy simply springs out of my head full grown, like Athena, only evil and stupid. I whirl upon the little Floor Roller:
“Of course you did, you beastly, beastly boy!
The air hangs heavy with the words.
Words I didn’t really say, but did I have you going for a second?
All right. Rewind.
I don’t “whirl” upon the Floor Roller. Actually, I take a moment to close my eyes, testing to see if my ears close with them. Maybe I didn’t really hear that. Maybe I don’t really see my husband and brother talking sideways, plotting Joey’s death before my very eyes. Maybe I don’t really see my Go-To Kid taking these precious, pre-show moments to hyperventilate himself purple.
The Floor/Arse Roller/Twiddler speaks again. (Put in that order, we may simply call him the Little Fart.)
“Mrs. Tracey, I — ”
Rats, I do hear him. Now I have to look at him. Smoothing the frown that comes at the mere maddening thought of him, I turn around.
Well, at least he’s standing.
“Yes, Little Fart. You forgot your costume.”
“Uh-huh,” he whimpers.
I keep waiting for him to collapse to the floor. I was unaware he could speak standing up.
“Well, Little Fart, that just means that –” you know what that means, Little Fart?”
“What?” sniffles the Fart.
“– you will have to wear what you have on.”
“But I need a costume, don’t I?!” he wails.
“Well, but now you need what you have on. It’ll be fine.” I am brusque, fed up with this Little Fart. God help me, but I actually turn on my heel and walk away from him.
Warily now, I approach brother and husband. Still engrossed in watching Joey, they don’t even notice me until I mutter:
“What are you guys up to?”
Their heads turn towards me in unison.
“Just watching what’s going on.” My Beloved sounds casual.
“Uh-huh,” I say, narrowing my eyes at them.
Brother drips venom when he speaks:
“I thought she said there was a demonic stronghold over our whole family. Wife is probably safe, but Button Baby has our demon blood in her.”
He gestures to the two of us.
“True,” I say.
“Well,” he continues, “Joey shouldn’t get too close to her, then. You know.”
He raises his hands, rakes the air with his fingers, making the “demon sound.”
“Get away from my baby!” he hisses low.
I can’t help it. I laugh, but stop when I glance at My Beloved. He is eerily quiet, staring at Joey’s back. Now, My Beloved is a good-natured, low-key fellow, unless he perceives an injury to me. Not to himself, to me. Then there is no reserve of protective anger too deep to summon, nothing he won’t do to charge in as my champion. His quiet right now is not good. I know he is simmering.
Brother breaks the silence, speaking through clenched teeth what, I suppose, is foremost in our ugly, collective thoughts:
“I just want to kick her in the ass.”
Egad. Here we are, surrounded by all the little Christian drama queens and all their Christian parents. We’re Christians. We’re standing in a chapel, for God’s sake, but raging testosterone is creating just a touch too much swagger, a touch too much seethe that I’m scared there’s gonna be a rumble, a rowdydow, a real hubbub.
I scowl up at both of them, trying to level this house that hormones built.
“Look. Just stay away from her. Stay away. PLEASE.”
(and …… you know ….)
Way to make him look like a “little fart” without a costume on. Way to Go, Tracey!! Justice is served.
I love how brother/husband are all protective of you, even to the point of cussing in chapel. Now THAT’s love.
Speaking of cussing in church, as a side note, during communion one Sunday, hubby is sitting on an aisle seat, and takes the plate with all the little grape juice cups in it. As he attempts to pass it to me, and hold his little cup, he spills the entire contents of his cup all over his shirt and pants, he lets out a quiet, but still audible to me, and to the poor usher, “Oh Shi*!”. The poor usher felt bad for him and started blotting him with his own hanky. Nice, huh?
I’ve never seen MB angry. I’ve never seen him anything other than mellow, and good-natured. This is a very interesting concept.
I hope he rumbles. But since this is a drama post it would have to be a West Side Story-esque heavily choreographed dance-off style rumble. That would be AWESOME.
-M
*SHARKSSSSS*
*JETSSSSS*
I was waiting for the “West Side Story” references. You guys didn’t let me down.
Hooray!!
M@ — He does get mad — rarely. He *doesn’t* dance, EVER.
Amstaff M — I don’t think I thought of it like that at the time. There were simply no other options at that LATE moment! That he looked like a little fart was just a blessed outgrowth of his own constant inattentiveness. 😉