I thought I was going to become a widow today, and I can’t say that I was too sad at the opportunity to go shopping for my new outfit. Before you judge, read on. Vice President Joe Biden was visiting Fairmount for a fund-raiser. The Secretary of State police had the street cleared (Jason got a call from our mail carrier that they put up no parking signs after he left for work and needed to move his truck — how awesome is she?), and blocked off most of the streets into Fairmount. I was in Ladue at a Students on the GO! meeting. How lame is that? I’ll tell you how lame. Last year we were treated to dinner. This year, we had pistachios and pretzels. There was beer, but no actual food. The vice president of the United States of America is a mile from my house, helicopters hovering, and I’m staring at pistachios and pretzels. I don’t even like pistachios. I love the word pistachio, but I don’t love eating pistachios.
On the way home, I called my soon-to-be-picked-off husband, and guess what he was doing? Really, guess. No, he was not waiting innocently inside for the fanfare to end. He was standing on the sidewalk, holding a backpack and talking to me on the phone. The SSP spotted him, and it seems as if Jason became interesting, or should I say suspect. Within seconds the helicopter was directly over my Contractual Life Partner’s head, and the SSP was facing his direction. I told him to stop being stupid and get in the house.
My son was also exhibiting bad decision-making skills (golly, I wonder on which chromosome that genetic trait can be found) by pretending to shoot with the broom. Yes, let’s play guns with the broom and make shooting sounds when your father is on the phone with a backpack on his shoulder, and the Secretary of State police department has identified him as a potential terror suspect! Yes, please! I know, let’s get the dogs to strap on some sort of hate propaganda and involve everyone. I was waiting to get pulled over on the Missouri Highway Patrol because, of course, after they shoot my spouse, they are going to open his call log and see that he had several conversations with me. Great, now I’m public enemy No. 2, and after my run-in with the Forest Park ranger over an expired sticker, I’ve probably got a rap sheet.Will they let me have my nail lady come to the maximum-security correctional facility? I can’t go more than two weeks without a manicure. Where will they put the boy? Does he get to go to prison with me? Is there a good kindergarten class for him? Are the dogs destined for reprogramming at some top-secret, high-security dog prison? I know Guinness will not last long; she needs blankets, soft beds and wait staff.
All I asked is that he not get arrested or shot before I get home. I certainly didn’t want my son in protective custody because his father is acting like a criminal, and his mother is missing history because she is driving home on a rain-covered Interstate 270 after a faux “happy hour meeting” with pistachios and pretzels!