That’s Not What I Said, Toya!

We were going to go to the Arts Festival today, Henry, Chooch and me. Our neighbor Toya was outside as we were beginning our walk to the trolley stop (one of the only nice things about where I live is that we can conveniently take the trolley downtown rather than drive and pay $5876876 plus a vial of baby albino blood for parking). Chooch loves Toya. LOVES HER. So much that he knows the precise sound of her car (as opposed to the 3+ other vehicles pulling in and out of our shared driveway on the daily) and he’ll stick his fat head out the window and yell, “HI TOYA! OVER HERE TOYA! HI TOYA!”

She thinks it’s precious because she doesn’t live with him.

Naturally, Chooch had to divert his path and run to tell her our itinerary. “And we’re taking the TROLLEY!” he panted excitedly. She was nice enough to let us borrow her bus pass so one of us could ride free.

We got to the trolley stop and proceeded to wait for a good twenty minutes because Henry didn’t listen to me when I told him what time it would arrive. I had already had a really dramatic morning (that’s tomorrow’s tale, woo boy!) and every little thing was pissing me the fuck off.

Including waiting for the trolley.

So I was like, “Fuck it, I’m out” and we all walked back home. Just totally was NOT feeling it and couldn’t imagine half-heartin’ it through the Arts Festival, which is something I generally look forward to. But on this day? I was exhausted in all aspects.

Chooch has been playing with some little kid over in Toya’s yard for the last hour now. I don’t know if he’s her nephew or what, but he’s a cute kid. About a minute after they first got acquainted, Chooch came stomping over to me and said, “That kid keeps calling me Riwee! Tell him to stop!”

“Well,” I asked, “what did you tell him your name is?”

“Riwee!” he said emphatically.

(At least he’s not telling people his name is Chooch, because he knows it’s just a nickname, so a big FUCK YOU to all the people who tell me, “You really ought to stop calling him that.” Oh my god, my kid knows his real name!? Shocking.)

They were breaking a bamboo stick into dangerous, spiny pieces the last I checked. This is all besides the point.

Suddenly, I heard Toya howling. Absolute gut-jiggling guffaw reverberating down the block, like two cracked-out Santas had just belly-bumped each other after watching porn.

This could not be good.

She had apparently asked Chooch if he had fun at the Arts Festival.

And that little squealer said, “We didn’t go because mommy said the trolley is a piece of fucking shit.”

That was my cue to quietly slip back into the house and leave Henry out there to find a cork for this particular oil spill.

At least Toya eschewed her Perfect Mommy lecturing for hysterical laughter, so this was significantly less traumatic than the time he told our neighbor Ruth, “My mommy hates you, Ruth!”

Still, I’ll never fucking learn.