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By Jackie Papandrew
School’s out, and we’re on a summer road trip, having left both an arm and a leg behind at the service station in order to fill up our tank. My husband is driving, and I'm riding shotgun while I inhale some much-needed coffee.
School’s out, and we’re on a summer road trip, having left both an arm and a leg behind at the service station in order to fill up our tank. My husband is driving, and I'm riding shotgun while I inhale some much-needed coffee.
The headlines are trumpeting a record heat wave. We join other mutilated members of the gasoline-buying public out on the already crowded highway. Even having to sacrifice limbs is not apparently enough to keep many of us at home.
Everyone looks hot and bothered in their vehicles, tightly gripping their steering wheels, intent on beating the traffic. Tensions are rising along with the temperature. Twice we are cut off by some inconsiderate road hog and have to swerve to avoid a collision.
Twice I spill coffee on my white shorts. Now I am irritated.
“You know what the problem with this world is?” I ask loudly to no one in particular. The other members of my family hunker down in their seats and groan softly, recognizing the onset of one of my soap-box speeches.
“Other people,” I say. “They’re the ones causing all the trouble.”
With no one foolish enough to try to stop me, I ramble on and on, lambasting the rest of humanity. I skewer all those other people who are always out to ruin my fun -- taking the parking spot that is rightfully mine, dawdling over dessert at my table in the restaurant, blocking my access to the best stall in the ladies room, ruining all those delightful hours at Disney World. Holding me up. Breathing my air.
“I just don’t know what these other people are thinking,” I continue, really warming to my topic.
“Hey Mom,” my daughter interrupts. “You know who you are? You are Squidward.”
If you understand exactly what she meant by that, you have obviously been watching way too much television and should seriously re-evaluate the direction of your life.
For the rest of you, I’ll explain that Squidward is a cartoon character on the Nickelodeon TV show “SpongeBob Squarepants.” SpongeBob, an overly good-natured sea sponge with a tendency to lose his trademark square pants, lives in a pineapple in the underwater city of Bikini Bottom.
His next-door neighbor is a cranky curmudgeon of a fellow named Squidward Tentacles. Squidward is the antithesis of the happy-go-lucky SpongeBob. He’s sarcastic and grumpy, and he likes to read. He’s a shot of reality in a sea of sickening sweetness. Despite his name, Squidward is actually an octopus, according to SpongeBob creator Steven Hillenburg. The fact that I know this and that I know his middle name (Johanssen) should tell you a lot about me. If Squidward were a man instead of a mollusk, I might secretly want to marry him. He’s like a bracing bit of lemon in a cotton-candy world. I love Squidward.
So when my daughter points out my resemblance to the ornery octopus, I am actually flattered. Still, sensing that a good mother probably should not favor such a rascal, I put up a bit of a protest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, feigning a hurt tone. “If anything, I’m more like SpongeBob, all sweetness and light.”
Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff I hear myself saying. My family is not buying it.
“Mom,” they sputter in unified disbelief. “Please!”
Ignoring them, I pick up my cell phone to call Directory Assistance for the number of a hotel. A disembodied voice commands me to state the purpose of my call.
“This annoys the fool out of me,” I blurt out, again to no one in particular. “Why can’t I just get a real person when I call?”
The disembodied, dispassionate voice returns, telling me it can find no listing for “this annoys the fool out of me.”
I sigh and obediently state the hotel’s name and location. I realize my daughter is right. I really am Squidward. Maybe the world needs a few more of us.
© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
http://www.jackiepapandrew.com/
“Other people,” I say. “They’re the ones causing all the trouble.”
With no one foolish enough to try to stop me, I ramble on and on, lambasting the rest of humanity. I skewer all those other people who are always out to ruin my fun -- taking the parking spot that is rightfully mine, dawdling over dessert at my table in the restaurant, blocking my access to the best stall in the ladies room, ruining all those delightful hours at Disney World. Holding me up. Breathing my air.
“I just don’t know what these other people are thinking,” I continue, really warming to my topic.
“Hey Mom,” my daughter interrupts. “You know who you are? You are Squidward.”
If you understand exactly what she meant by that, you have obviously been watching way too much television and should seriously re-evaluate the direction of your life.
For the rest of you, I’ll explain that Squidward is a cartoon character on the Nickelodeon TV show “SpongeBob Squarepants.” SpongeBob, an overly good-natured sea sponge with a tendency to lose his trademark square pants, lives in a pineapple in the underwater city of Bikini Bottom.
His next-door neighbor is a cranky curmudgeon of a fellow named Squidward Tentacles. Squidward is the antithesis of the happy-go-lucky SpongeBob. He’s sarcastic and grumpy, and he likes to read. He’s a shot of reality in a sea of sickening sweetness. Despite his name, Squidward is actually an octopus, according to SpongeBob creator Steven Hillenburg. The fact that I know this and that I know his middle name (Johanssen) should tell you a lot about me. If Squidward were a man instead of a mollusk, I might secretly want to marry him. He’s like a bracing bit of lemon in a cotton-candy world. I love Squidward.
So when my daughter points out my resemblance to the ornery octopus, I am actually flattered. Still, sensing that a good mother probably should not favor such a rascal, I put up a bit of a protest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, feigning a hurt tone. “If anything, I’m more like SpongeBob, all sweetness and light.”
Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff I hear myself saying. My family is not buying it.
“Mom,” they sputter in unified disbelief. “Please!”
Ignoring them, I pick up my cell phone to call Directory Assistance for the number of a hotel. A disembodied voice commands me to state the purpose of my call.
“This annoys the fool out of me,” I blurt out, again to no one in particular. “Why can’t I just get a real person when I call?”
The disembodied, dispassionate voice returns, telling me it can find no listing for “this annoys the fool out of me.”
I sigh and obediently state the hotel’s name and location. I realize my daughter is right. I really am Squidward. Maybe the world needs a few more of us.
© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
http://www.jackiepapandrew.com/
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