I Would TOTALLY Say Hello To Your Little Friend

You guys know that Ryan and I have movie time every night, right?  This is our daily tradition.  Meaning we do this every day.  Every.  Day.  And it must be done, otherwise I have a distraught child on my hands at bedtime because he CANNOT POSSIBLY go to bed until he’s watched a movie.

Around 8 PM, I start harassing him to pick a movie while I make popcorn.  Around 8:30, when he’s FINALLY gotten around to choosing something, we actually sit down on the sofa to actually watch whatever movie he has selected.  And Ryan is completely in charge of the selection process.  I have absolutely no say in what we watch.  You can imagine how I’ve suffered.  And the suffering has been worse than usual lately because we have gone through every DVD we own at least 18 times, and the Evil Empire known as our cable company hadn’t put anything new on the On Demand menu for like 6 weeks.  Those bastards.

So they FINALLY got around to putting up some new movies a few nights ago, and Ryan selected the Adam Sandler film Jack and Jill.  I had reservations about this because Adam Sandler isn’t exactly kid-friendly and, even though The Water Boy was sheer genius, he hasn’t made a decent movie in years.  A few months ago, in one of my more exemplary moments of maternal judgment, I let Ryan watch the first half hour of The Wedding Singer, which is among my favorite movies of all time.  This led to us having a discussion about homosexuality (because Ryan doesn’t know the difference between gay and transgendered), demands that I load the song You Spin Me by Dead or Alive onto his iPod, and two weeks of listening to him repeat Why can’t you be more like your brother? Harold would never beat up his landlord!!  (OK, this actually made me laugh every time.)  But Jack and Jill is rated a lowly PG, and it was something new, thank goddess, so I decided to give it a try.

Then. . . .I realized Katie Holmes is in this movie.  I cannot STAND Katie Holmes, although I have to say I like her a little better now that she’s filed for divorce from that idiot husband of hers.  But this was definitely a strike against this movie, so I braced myself for the usual 90 minutes of cinematic torture.

But THEN. . . .I realized that AL PACINO is ALSO in this movie!!  AL MUTHERFUCKIN’ PACINO!!!

Can we talk about Al Pacino for a second??  Ladies, have you ever found yourself completely crushin’ on a guy that you really don’t find that good looking??  No??  It’s just me??  OK then.

There is nothing sexier than an Italian dude in a scarf threatening to disembowel Adam Sandler

I admit it, I am all happy in the pants for Al Pacino.  I don’t know what it is, maybe I just have a thing for Italian guys with goatees, but put Al Pacino in an Armani suit and have him yell at people, and OH MY GAWD I am a puddle on the floor.  That man is hottt.  Not to mention he is a flippin’ GENIUS and probably the best actor of ALL TIME.  I mean, did you SEE him play Jack Kevorkian on HBO??  A paisano from the Bronx playing Jack Kevorkian, and unless you knew in advance it was Al Pacino under all that makeup you would have NEVER figured it out on your own, he was THAT GOOD.

I don’t know what kind of dirt Adam Sandler used to blackmail Al Pacino into being in this movie, but I’m glad he did because it was the ONLY thing that made this movie worth watching.  Well, that and the scene where Jill had diarrhea.

Anyway, Ryan has watched this movie at least three times since discovering it, and he has chosen to fixate on the scene where Adam Sandler is logged on to YouTube watching that famous clip from Scarface where a young Al Pacino yells Say hello to my little friend!! and blasts a bunch of goombas into oblivion.  *sigh*

So now my kid keeps jumping out at me from around corners, pointing his plastic toy guns at me (which I totally disapprove of yet he has somehow managed to acquire), and yelling Say hello to my little friend!!  For some reason, when Ryan does it, it has a very different effect on me.

Al Pacino, take me away!!  Please.  Hoooo-wah.

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Not Even Ryan Gosling Can Help Me

I’m like 18 weeks late to the party, or something like that, but I’m linking up with Special Needs Ryan Gosling today.  We all know Ryan Gosling is every special needs mom’s super hero, although I fear not even he can save me at this point.  And I’m sure I’m probably doing this linky thing all wrong, but I doubt our super hero will hold it against me.

This whole thing is the brainchild of Sunday over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood.  Go check out her page to see what Ryan G. had to say to all my bloggy gal pals.  And at least one dude.

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Hey girl. . .

You stay right there, in the corner of this room, curled up in the fetal position, if that’s what you feel you need to do.

That IEP meeting on Tuesday??  I got it covered.  Dev Ped appointment on Friday??  No problem.  Pediatrician appointment next week, and then Ryan’s next dental surgery in July??  I’m on it.  I’ll even watch him for you all summer while you’re working because I know the arrangements you made didn’t work out.  Unfortunately, I can’t go to that biopsy appointment for you, though.  You’re gonna have to do that one yourself.

You stay put in that corner, girl.  I’ll be right back with a bottle of Grey Goose and a pint of What A Cluster. . . .  Yeah, I even got Ben and Jerry to name an ice cream flavor after the current state of your life.

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Further Proof That I Am Raising My Son Right

So we’re driving home the other day and from the back seat, out of the blue, Ryan starts singing a sanitized version of Down With The Sickness by Disturbed.  I beamed with pride.  That’s my boy.

I joined in and started singing with him.  When we finished, Ryan said “Mommy, you know that song!”

I said “Of course!  I loooove that song!”

Ryan then asked “What song do you hate?”

I thought for a nanosecond.  “Any song by Justin Bieber.”

Ryan replied “Yeah, Justin Bieber really sucks.”

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Communication Breakdown?

There is a little boy in my son’s class named Michael.  I don’t know anything about Michael other than what I observed of him at a birthday party last year and on the rare occasions that I have actually made it to school for parent-invited activities.  He has a significant speech impairment, and he walks with an unusual gait.  He doesn’t really seem autistic to me, though, so I have no idea what his diagnosis is.  Every time I have ever seen him he has been smiling and happy and very sociable.  I have never had the opportunity to speak with his mother.

A while back I had to have a conversation with my son about Michael.  Ryan wanted to know what was wrong with Michael’s brain and why he couldn’t speak very well.  He wasn’t making any sort of derogatory judgment, he just wanted to understand what was going on.  I didn’t have any answers for him, but I stressed that Michael is a nice boy and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t speak well, he can still be a good friend.  Ryan seemed to agree and said Michael’s lack of intelligible speech isn’t really that big of a deal because he “speaks Michael.”

The other morning we were sitting in line at drop off waiting for a school bus to unload when I spotted Michael walking up the sidewalk toward school.  Ryan got excited to see him, lowered the window, and shouted “Hi, Michael!”  Michael approached the car and said something to Ryan in his garbled speech.  It was more like sounds than words, and I had absolutely no idea what he said, but Ryan apparently understood because he replied “Yeah, I brought mine too!”  I dunno.  I guess he really does speak Michael.

I waved and said “Hi, Michael!”  He smiled and waved back to me.  Usually my son walks into school alone while I watch from the car, but on that morning I handed Ryan his backpack and told him to get out of the car and walk into school with his friend.  So he did.

As I sat waiting for the bus to move, I watched my significantly challenged son and his significantly challenged friend walk into school together, chatting away in a language I only half understand.  I smiled with both gratitude and sadness, happy that they had found a friend in each other and hoping they can remain that way as they get older, when their disabilities become more obvious to their peers and they both have to endure the fallout from that.  But in that moment I was happy, and proud of my son for seeing past another child’s disability and being his friend, when friendship in itself is a struggle for my son.

And as they walked away from me, I was left wondering if Michael is really tiny or if Ryan is really tall.

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Update To My Tooth Post From Yesterday

 

I am home from work AGAIN today because Ryan has a raging fever.  Dr. Teddy Bear assures me that this is a pretty common reaction to the anesthesia and he’ll probably be feeling better by tomorrow, but if not I need to take him to the pediatrician.  I called to check in at work, and the only thing they had to say to me was So. . . .are you going to be in tomorrow?!?

And also?  My toilet just broke.

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

The Tooth, And Nothing But The Tooth

**Dear goddess, here she goes again with another dentist post.  Does this woman ever do anything beside take her kid to the dentist?  What the hell is up with her kid’s teeth, anyway?** 

My thoughts exactly.

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Because I have been on yet another weeks-long hiatus, and because some of you have been sweet and considerate enough to send messages asking me Where the fuck are you?!?!?, I will give you good people a very, very abridged update on the events of my so-called life.  It’s been awesome around here lately, folks.  Just awesome.

Thursday morning.  At work.  Celly rings.  School nurse reports Ryan is in her office complaining of a toothache.  He had finished a course of antibiotics the dentist prescribed at the end of March because that painintheass tooth that we’ve been trying to save for over a year was infected.  Can you say shit??  Because I did.  Several times.

Procure emergency appointment with the dentist for 4:30 that afternoon.  Have I mentioned I don’t get done work until 5??  School nurse calls again.  Ryan is back, still complaining.  I tell her we have an appointment later that day and he just has to hang at school because there’s nothing I can do about it until 4:30.  Yes, I AM Mother of the Year.

Dentist determines that painintheass tooth is infected again (still?) and needs to come out.  Amazingly awesome dental assistant named Latifa (for reals) distracts Ryan with video games so Dr. Teddy Bear and I can discuss the best way to do this.  We determine lots and lots of sedatives and lack of consciousness at a surgical center are the way to go.  (In case you missed my 97 previous dental-related posts, Ryan’s dentist is a big, giant teddy bear.  Over the past year, we’ve come to know each other quite well, and the more I am around this man, the more I adore him.  Watch out, Vince.)

I heart this man. But I do not own the copyright to this picture. He does.

Dr. Teddy Bear is out-of-network for Ryan’s dental insurance.  I don’t give a shit, my son is NOT seeing the butchers the insurance wants us to see.  The butchers even went so far as to tell Ryan’s dad on the phone that they are not equipped to handle children with special needs, but they refused to put anything in writing, so that 2-week fight with the insurance company involving Dr. Teddy Bear’s staff, Ryan’s Dev Ped, and Ryan’s dad was a huge, flaming exercise in futility.  Meaning I’m taking a huge hit in the checking account.

Because Ryan is having general anesthesia, he needs presurgical clearance from his regular pediatrician.  The more I have to deal with those idiots, the more I realize the extreme depths of their idiocy.  The only appointment they can give me (to fill out a stupid form that I could fill out myself, but I need a doc to sign off on it) is in their satellite office at the other end of the county on the afternoon of our Board of Directors meeting at work.  There. Is. No. Way I can do this.  Luckily, I managed to get Ryan’s dad to take an afternoon off to take Ryan to this appointment.  I gave him explicit instructions NOT to leave the peds office without original copies of all the paperwork, because I know how these things go.  And it’s a damn good thing, too, because the dentist’s office called me the next day and said when the peds faxed the forms they missed a page.  Shocking, I know.

Of course, our fax line at work was down that day.  So after work I had to run to pick up Ryan, then run to the UPS Store to fax the missing paperwork.  At $1.50 a page.

The nurse from the surgical center calls me on Friday before the big day to get a medical history.  After answering all of the questions that were already answered on the form the pediatrician filled out, I report to her that Ryan takes Adderal and Tenex every morning.  She tells me it’s ok to give him his meds the morning of the procedure with a sip of water.

I get to thinking about this over the weekend, and it just doesn’t sit well with me.  It’s ok to give my son an upper (Adderal) and then give him a bunch of downers when we arrive for the extraction?  I determine to ask about this on Monday when they call me with the appointment time.

Scheduler from the surgical center calls on Monday to tell me we need to be there at 12:30 PM Tuesday afternoon.  12:30?!?!  The kid can’t eat or drink before the procedure!  This is not good.  Gah.  I ask about the meds, so she transfers me to the very same nurse I spoke with a few days earlier.

I explain my concerns.  The nurse seems confused.  I then school the nurse on the fact that Adderal is a stimulant drug for ADHD.  She agrees that it’s probably best not to give him the Adderal.  Idiot.

I use vacation time the day of the procedure.  Ryan wakes up with a fever.  I’m all like Oh HELLS no, we are having this shit done TODAY.  I give him his Tenex and a dose of Tylenol.  Again, Mother of the Year, people.  I know.

Ryan’s anxiety is starting to build, but is still manageable.  My anxiety is starting to build because he’s all fever-y and I am filled with dread at the thought that I have to go into work and tell my boss I need to take another day off because they couldn’t do the procedure.  I’m watching him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t eat anything and trying to decide if it’s worth the risk to take a shower.

Surgical center calls at 9:40 AM.  Forget about 12:30, they want us to come in as soon as possible.  I tell them we live two counties away and it will take at least an hour to get there.  They say fine, no problem.  I’m praying this gives us enough time for the Tylenol to work.  At least my shower dilemma is solved.  I gulp down my coffee, throw some clothes on my stinky self, and head out the door.

Wage traffic war with old men with handicapped tags and maniacs who don’t care if we die on our way to dental surgery.

Pre-op nurse calls us in, and the first thing she does is take Ryan’s temperature, which is 99.8.  She asks if he’s had a cough or a cold lately.  I say No, everything’s been fine!  She takes it again.  This time it’s 100.2.  She makes frowny faces that make me very nervous but tells us to come back to the pre-op area and have a seat.  I ask her what this all means.  She says it’s up to the anesthesiologist, but he probably will nix this whole thing.  She leaves to go find him, and Ryan is anxiously whispering in my ear Why did we come here?!?  I’m FINE with my sick tooth!!  I can still eat!!  I want to go home!!!

At this point I’m ready to stab myself with whatever surgical instruments I can get my hands on.

Anesthesiologist comes in and whispers complaints about something to the nurse for about three minutes before he even acknowledges my presence.  Finally gets around to asking me all the same questions the pediatrician and I have already answered at least three times.  He’s doing a lot of writing.  He doesn’t mention the fever, so I start to relax just a little.  My mother calls my celly.  I ignore her.  Nurse puts an ID bracelet on Ryan and a red allergy alert bracelet that says “Bactram.”  I say Excuse me. He’s not allergic to Bactram, he’s allergic to Biaxin.  She replaces allergy alert bracelet.  Anesthesiologist asks me if Ryan had anything to eat or drink today.  I tell him he had his Tenex with a sip of water this morning.  I don’t mention the Tylenol.  Anesthesiologist looks confused and says Tenex?  I pull the prescription bottle out of my purse to show him, and he says Hmph, this one didn’t make it on the list.  He writes some more.  Then he says What about his Xanax?  Now I’m confused.  I say Xanax??  He doesn’t take Xanax.  Anesthesiologist crosses something out.  Apparently idiot nurse who doesn’t know what Adderall is also doesn’t know the difference between Tenex and Xanax.  I think to myself What the hell kind of ham and egg operation is this??  If anyone needs Xanax here, it’s me, people.  Me.

Anesthesiologist gives the go-ahead, and I’m all like Thank you, jeebus!!  It takes two nurses and me to coax Ryan into taking his ”giggle juice” so that they can wheel him away from me without histrionics.

Ryan wakes up in recovery shaking.  As soon as he can gather his senses, he asks for a mirror so he can see the hole in his mouth.  And the blood.  He then proceeds to sob and generally pitch a fit because this is the WORST day of his life and how DARE I put him through this?!?!  (That’s verbatim, people.)  He was FINE with his sick tooth!!!  Never mind the fact that Dr. Teddy Bear told me the whole thing oozed pus as soon as he put pressure on it.  Blech.  Here.  Take a gander at this lovely thing yourself.

I hope the Tooth Fairy isn’t too disappointed when she sees what’s actually inside that pretty little blue box.

Ryan proceeds to barrage me for an hour with drama and complaints about what a lousy mother I am for taking him to get his tooth pulled.

And I really, really need a shower.

So, there’s your update, folks.  And because no one has the time to read a War and Peace-length post, I will spare you the details of the bullshit that is going on with school, work, my own health, the Flyers, and Celebrity Apprentice.   All of which has been happening AT THE SAME TIME as this latest dental drama.  So, yeah.  I’ve been a teensy bit self-absorbed lately.  I don’t handle stress real well.

But seriously, thanks for asking.  Thank you.  I bet now you’re sorry you did.

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Atlantic City: Always Turned On

The title of this post is the official slogan of Atlantic City.  A big sign on the Atlantic City Expressway greets with you with this sentiment as you arrive in town.  Seriously.

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I went to Atlantic City again last weekend.

I know, I was just there a month ago, but we went again.  Vince is doing his best to pull me back from the ledge and keep me entertained and distracted.  Besides, it was Friday the 13th, so what better place to go than the second-largest but rapidly declining gambling town in the entire nation??

The last time I posted about going to AC, many of you lamented that you have never been there.  And at least one of you specifically asked for pictures.  Because I lover you all soooo much, and because maybe someone from Fodor’s will see this and offer me a paying gig, I hereby give you an insider’s guide to Atlantic City.  (Note to the Fodor’s people: I don’t do airline travel, so I expect a fully pimped out RV to travel the country in.  Like John Madden.  Or a retired Texan.)

We pulled into town about 7 PM on a Friday, and right there, in the manicured courtyard in front of the J. Crew outlet store, was this:

I guess some of the casinos were “lighting it up blue,” but I never checked because by the time it got dark out my ass was far too drunk for even a stumble down the boardwalk.

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Atlantic City, like most cities, has a Papa John’s. . . . . . . .

 . . . . . . . .but Atlantic City also has – not one, but two – BABAJAN’S!!

Take THAT, Schnatter, or Schmatter, or whatever your name is.

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But for the best Italian hoagie you will ever swallow, go here. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .as long as you don’t mind waiting in a line that snakes around the block (yes, they are THAT good) or expect a waitress who is less than 60 and DOESN’T have a beehive hairdo.  And, no, this White House definitely didn’t “light it up blue” last April either.

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If you lose all your money at the tables, don’t fret!!  There is no city in the world where it is easier to hock your wedding ring than Atlantic City.  There are at least three Cash-For-Gold places on every block.  See??

You KNOW you’re gonna get a fair price at any of THOSE places!!

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Entertainment can be found everywhere in this town, and while you’re here you should try to take in a show, especially if you like no-name comedians and over-the-hill rockers.  Remember the rock group Bad Company??  This guy used to be in it.

And now we all know what the back of my head looks like.

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Perhaps you prefer entertainers who are more scantily clad.  If so, AC has this place. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .for the upscale gentleman who prefers his lap dances with a side of filet mignon.

Or there’s this place. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .for the downscale gentleman who prefers his lap dances with a side of crabs.

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I have no idea what goes on inside this place, but I’m guessing safety words are involved.

And there’s plenty of curbside parking, which sure is convenient for anyone too sore to walk very far at the end of the night.

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And now you all know why I loooove Atlantic City so much!!  Well, for all these reasons, plus you can drink on the beach. . . . .WITHOUT A BEACH TAG!!

Summer vacation season is right around the corner, people.  You know you wanna come here.  You know you do.

I leave you with one word of caution, however.  If you do decide to grace this beautiful city with your presence, watch out for roaming herds of bachelorettes. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .because those bitches are EVERYWHERE.  And they are dangerous.  Just look at those weapons on their feet.

(Tip for the inexperienced AC visitor: You can tell the difference between hookers and bachelorettes because bachelorettes travel in packs.  I won’t make that mistake again.)

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Cop A Squat, If It Doesn’t Offend Your Senses

I’m squatting over at Jillsmo’s place today.

(Self-portrait of the lovely Jillsmo.)

Head on over to her blog Yeah. Good Times. to see what I have to say about sensory processing issues for her sarcastically titled series All Kids Do That.

I’m guest posting for a sarcastically titled series.  Hard to believe, I know.

Well.  What are you waiting for, the grass to grow??  Get a move on, people.  Clickety click already.  Sheesh.

Magnets Give Me Angst

The Ides of March is (are?) not even upon us yet, and already my inbox is filling up with messages about Autism Awareness Month and the campaign to Light It Up Blue.  *sigh*

I was really uncomfortable with the whole April-Is-Autism-Awareness-Month-So-You-Must-Purchase-Blue-Lightbulbs-And-Wear-Blue-Clothing-Or-You-Are-A-Terrible-Mother thing last year, so I basically did nothing.  Not because I’m completely against the well-meaning concept behind the whole thing, I’m just conflicted is all.  And yes, I DO tend to overanalyze everything.

For example.  Let’s talk about these things for a minute, shall we?

Last summer, Vince and I were tailgaiting at Motley Crue.  Vince scoped out the partying-est group in the lot and parked right next to them because, you know, he likes to be involved in all the action.  We ended up hanging with quite an eclectic group, which included

• several 20-somethings, whose fearless leader was a wild man who regaled us with tales of his frat boy days at Arizona State and smoking pot with his dad.  For the record, I do not condone smoking pot with your dad.  Your dad should be able to get stoned in peace without having you bumming from his stash.
• a couple of 40-somethings who brought along their 21-year-old son and 15-year-old daughter, who proved to be the most mature one out of all of us, and
• a couple of hefty 40-something dudes who arrived in a minivan

I found it hilarious that the guys parked across from us drove a minivan.  Back in the day, you would NEVER have seen a minivan at Motley Crue.  It was all muscle cars, Harleys, and police wagons.  Sadly, however, this is what we’ve all become: suburban, middle-aged minivan drivers lamely attempting to cling to our disappearing youth by going to see over-the-hill Motley Crue.  It’s quite pathetic, really.

These two minivan guys weren’t unfriendly, but they kind of kept to themselves.  (I think the wild, pot-smoking, Arizona State guy was a bit much for them.  Frankly, he became a bit much for me when he started slurring about how he prefers older women and how he really liked my hair.)  The minivan guys pretty much just threw a football around and sat in the back of their open vehicle enjoying their beer without much spectacle.

I was pretty much doing the same thing in my lawn chair, watching the madness unfold around me from a safe distance.  As concert time drew closer, the party in the parking lot started to wane.  Out of our collective tailgaiting group, the minivan guys were the first to call it, close up car, and head into the venue.

That’s when I noticed the Autism Awareness magnet on the back of the minivan.  One of those guys was a member of the club.  All of a sudden, I knew a whole lot more about him.

I hadn’t noticed it before because the van was open and the back was up.  I didn’t have the chance to talk to him about it at all.  But really, who wants to talk about autism while you’re trying to reclaim your lost youth at a rock concert anyway?

Which brings me to this.  I don’t have one of those magnets on my car, and I have occasionally beaten myself up over it.  On the one hand, I believe in living my life in truth, and autism is a big part of my truth.  I’m quite open with people about my son’s disorder.  I am not ashamed of it.  It is no secret.  A part of me feels like I am betraying my son by NOT having one of those magnets.  And when I’m sitting at a red light behind a car that does have one of those magnets, I feel a sort of kinship with that driver, who is a complete stranger but also a member of the same club.

On the other hand, our lives are not just about autism.  I am more than just an autism mom, and my son is more than just his disorder.  I’m a bit uncomfortable with the idea of putting one of those magnets on my car because it projects a very narrow view of us.  Plus, it tells complete strangers more about my son than I’m comfortable revealing to possible pedophiles.  (For you new readers, my general sense of paranoia is well documented on this blog.)

Also, if I put one of those magnets on my car, my son would definitely notice it and ask questions.  I’ve attempted to have the autism talk with him a few times, but he really didn’t seem to understand and came away with the idea that he is different and bad and wrong.  I always answer my son’s questions honestly and to the best of my ability, but I’m not sure I want to go down that road with him again right now.  I don’t think he’s ready.  And I still don’t understand this crazy disorder well enough to explain it to him in a way that would make any sense, anyway.

Certainly, we need to raise awareness.  We need to do what we can to educate people who are interested in learning so that we can create a more patient and compassionate world for our children.  (Gawd, that sounds sickeningly optimistic of me.)  But I am a realist, and I do not expect people to want to learn about autism just because my son has it.  I am also a cynic and don’t really see social change happening because of blue light bulbs or car magnets.

Think about it.  If I had noticed minivan guy’s magnet earlier, perhaps we could have had a conversation about out children.  Maybe I could have learned something, or helped him in some way.  But it would have been the two of us chatting it up by ourselves while the party went on all around us.  No one else would have paid a darn bit of attention.

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Despite my ambiguity about Autism Awareness Month, and despite the fact that I like to keep a low profile, I have signed on to be a part of my friend Karen’s effort to raise awareness by sporting blue hair during the month of April, provided I can procure a removable blue hairpiece.  I told you I am clinging to my lost youth.  If you want to join in, read about Karen’s very cool idea here. 

© 2012 That’sRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom

Apparently No One In Atlantic City Owns A Calendar

Remember how I’ve always said Atlantic City is the greatest city in the entire world??  No??  Well I have.  Pay attention, people.

However.

Atlantic City has just dropped a rank on my well thought out and not-at-all arbitrary rating system for cities.  (Let’s just pretend I actually have one of those, shall we?)  I simply cannot believe the disorganization, poor planning, and disregard for the public that is happening down there right now.  Allow me to explain.

Back in January, Vince and I made plans to take a road trip down to AC on the weekend of March 16th.  I haven’t had the opportunity to wear my Do Me I’m Irish tee shirt for a couple of years now, so I’ve been looking forward to this little weekend getaway a whole heck of a lot.  (Let’s just pretend that tee shirt actually still fits me, shall we?)

It would appear that the fine Irish citizens of Atlantic City don’t want to do me, however, because the St. Patrick’s Day Committee is holding the boardwalk parade and all of the other traditional festivities (i.e. feasting on ham and cabbage and passing out in the gutter in front of one of those cash-for-gold places) on March 10th.  That’s right, a full week BEFORE St. Patty’s Day.  Which happens to fall on a SATURDAY this year, rendering it completely unnecessary and illogical to celebrate it on any day OTHER than the actual Day of St. Patrick.

In unrelated news, Atlantic City-ites now celebrate Labor Day in August, New Year’s Eve on Christmas Eve, and no one really knows the actual date of their birthday anymore.

I’d like to know what genius came up with THIS plan.  Seriously.  I mean, did he consult the Mayan calendar by mistake??  Did he miscalculate the date based upon misinterpreted Biblical prophecies??  Did he drive his DeLorean 88 mph and unknowingly blast a week into the future??  These are the only possible explanations I will deem remotely acceptable.

This affects you, too, people, because I had planned on taking lots of photos and videos of the parade and all the hottt (and not so hottt) drunken messes stumbling around the boardwalk so that you could all experience the jubilation and inebriation of being Shanty Irish on St. Patrick’s Day right along with me.  And don’t think I wouldn’t do it, because I have done it before.

Looks like we all lose.

Fortunately for me, there is lots of other debauchery to partake in the other 364 days of the year in Atlantic City, so we’re still going.  But I’m not sure if I’ll wear my Do Me I’m Irish tee shirt because, considering I will have completely missed the party, it might seem kind of inappropriate.

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