'You can't do that when Grammy's here!'

By Laura Grimes

At the time of this typing, my mom’s ETA is 45 hours and counting.

The early missile warning system is now in effect. I repeat. The early missile warning system is now in effect.

In my last post, I promised a concussive blast. Reading on? Don your helmets! Duck and cover!

A visit by my mom — known as Grammy in these parts — requires an elaborate retraining process for the Large Smelly Boys, which began weeks in advance. Now my mom is not so goody sweet that we have to be pristine. After all, she taught me about good bourbon and dark chocolate. Namely that they go together.

However, taking our everyday Scatter antics and giving them a spit-cheek shine fit for Grammy is not unlike tossing a grenade in the middle of our living room.

It would appear that we take our everyday antics much too much for granted.* “You can’t do that when Grammy’s here!” has become a constant refrain at Art Scatter HQ. When, exactly? At times like these:

Yelling at the microwave: “Cook, you sumbitch!”
Calling the Honda CR-V “The Cervix.”
Using a mnemonic device to remember the letters on the Honda’s license plate: FKF.
Walking around repeatedly saying “What the FKF?”
Leaving the door open when using the bathroom.
Talking at the dinner table about how “Trojan” is a bad name for a condom because, “Hello! The bad guys get in!”
Debating the various forms of the word “ejaculate” at the dinner table and wondering if “it’s a British thing.”
Walking around in underwear.
Walking around without underwear.
Walking around with underwear on your head.
Walking around in women’s underwear.
(OK, Bob Rivers made up that last part. And maybe the one before that, I can’t remember.)
Calling the house beast AssButt Cat (or ABC for short).
Constantly greeting the house beast with, “Hi, Jack. You suck.” (Even if he deserves it.)
Proudly showing off the symmetrical inside of a hazelnut with a rotted scar and saying it looks like (the cat’s backside with his tail up).
Singing an opera tune loudly in the echoey bathroom using one word over and over: “Constipation.”
Writing “poop” on the chore list.
Writing “poop” on the grocery list.
Writing “poop” on the Thanksgiving menu.
Texting “poop” and only “poop” for many days.
Answering every question with “poop.”
Answering every question with “starts and ends with ‘P’ and has two ‘O’s’ in the middle.”
Answering every question with “up the butt.”
Yelling before getting in the shower, “I have to get naked down to my assbutt!”
Yelling after getting out of the shower, “I’m beyond sexy!”
After getting out of the shower singing “Nice pants (insert name)” repeatedly to the tune of Waltz of the Flowers from the Nutcracker.
Calling the ballet the “Buttcracker.”
Calling the ballet the “Crackbutter.”
Calling the ballet the “Cracknutter.”
Telling me calling it “Nutcracker” is not a good idea, either.
Drawing candles on a thank you card and labeling them “butt-scented.”
Saying, “You’re cuter than a bug’s butt.”
Saying, “That sucks green rat turds.”
Molding Sculpey clay into a penis.
Pretending to pee with a Sculpey clay penis.
Calling the city leaf sweepers “speeding motherhumpers.”

We will have a lot to be thankful for at this Thanksgiving if the reprogramming, I mean retraining process is successful.

All Scatter Family: Report to the bunker immediately. This is not a drill.

Bring on Grammy.

*The fine print: It’s convenient to have the two Large Smelly Boys take the fall for everything. I’m not saying that’s true, but I am saying there’s a reason they don’t have administrative privileges to this blog. (I wish I could just say I write down whatever Mr. Scatter says, but I’m already tap-dancing around meat courses that we don’t even eat to save this marriage.)

Art Scatter

‘You can’t do that when Grammy’s here!’

a Portland-centric arts and culture blog