why I am not a professional gambler

Last night was card-playing night with housemate Albert and Krissy's niece Kasie who was staying overnight to get a headstart on driving with Krissy to a family party from which I am immune, as we have four dogs who can't be left untended for a twelve hour day if we hope to have a house here when we get back. Thank the gods for dogs, because my family party experiences did not prepare me for this kind of thing. In my family we believed in the adults getting somewhat plastered and then my mom agreeing to let my uncle pull me behind his car on a sled tied with rope (I kid you not). Because I think my mom wasn't really enthused about parenthood.

Anyway, if I had video of this card game it would be a YouTube sensation, consisting of the thirteen year old girl constantly asking about cards sitting face up on the table "wait, what's that being played on?" alternated with whining "that's not fair!" when she wasn't doing well and then backpedaling with an oh-so-clever "just kidding" because otherwise she knew that flames would actually burst from my forehead and sear off her hair and she wants to look good in the holiday pictures. And then our charming dog becoming possessed by dog demons and insisting on sitting in the center of the table - not a small dog, mind you, a Vizsla-sized dog, and refusing to be removed so that I had to pull her off against all her efforts to brace her feet and cause herself to magically weigh 1200lbs. Albert drank more and more scotch and I don't think he could even remember what game we were playing but in the end somehow won anyway because the universe is just not fair and that's the way it is, so get over it, Kasie. Oh, and who was the bigtime bottom of the heap loser? Oh, yes, that would be me.

proof that I am evil

So I had a five minute conversation with Little Bit's teacher and the program coordinator at her school. And in that short amount of time I managed to ruin everyone's day and cause her teacher to well up with tears. It's a magic trick I perform. The thing is, my inner editor is on time delay. You know how people say "I wish I'd thought to say that at the time..."? They don't mean it. They don't know what they're asking for.

So this program coordinator says about Little Bit, who by the way has autism, "She tantrums and has behavior problems and we think it's about food because she demands orange juice and popcorn and screams and cries and then when we give it to her she stops."

And before my editor kicks in and before I can find an ax to chop my own head off, my mouth goes ahead and says "So she's training you then?"

And the only good thing that happened was that the program coordinator person finally thankfully stopped talking and turned all red. But her teacher, who I really like, looked stricken and sad and watery and then we left, because after all, my job there was done.

Later I poked kittens with sticks and teased homeless people by holding food just out of reach.