“I call shotgun.”
“No fair. Aunt Carrie she always gets the front.”
“Move your seat up, Stupid! You’re crushing my foot!”
“You’ve had the iPad long enough. Give it to me, it’s my turn.”
“Put it baaaack! That was my favorite song!”
(It was then…and only then: My nieces agreed on something.)
(And that was to the words to some completely non-understandable hip hop song on the radio that I refused to admit to being too un-hip to rap with them.)
(So, I faked it.)
(But I do know it was Pitbull. I am certainly hip enough to know that much.)
(However, they couldn’t compete with me when I was their age and I busted out the following [in the way-back-back seat of a white, wood-paneled station wagon with exotic cerulean imitation leather, while I assembled my kids meal container that, with a couple of tucks here and folds there turned into a flying dragon, from Burger Chef]):
“I said a hip hop,
Hippie to the hippie,
The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop, a rock it
To the bang bang boogie, say, up jump the boogie,
To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat.”
All the while keeping impeccable rhythm.
With my neck grooves and head bobbing.
“Ooohhh, yeah! And let’s get that veggie pizza you made us eat last time that SHEEEE said she wouldn’t like but she did.”
“Can we get cookie dough and eat it first?”
And after we made it home, we piled up and ate some raw cookie dough by the spoonfuls while the veggie pizza cooked.
(Cause, I mean…we’re healthy like that.)
And watched two DVR’d episodes of Judge Judy.
“Man, she is old.”
“I like how she always tells the girls they don’t need to be giving the boys money.”
“Don’t she have any other shirts? She wears that one every day.”
The night progressed and I somehow was able to prevent my living room floor from becoming a WWF ring.
I only had to bark out “GET IN THE SHOWER” about 417 times.
“I’m not in the shower YET! I’m pooooopin’!”
“I know! Use the blue bottle shampoo…I KNOW!”
“Tell her to bring me a towel!”
“Do I have to use conditioner??”
“Can you trim my bangs?”
“Aunt Carrie, I swear I smelled like bar-be-que sauce when I got in the shower.”
“My God, do you drink all this wine?”
“Why don’t you have food in your refrigerator?”
“Is there any more cookie dough?”
And we then saw there was enough cookie dough left to bake.
So, we did.
Then they wanted milk.
And it was only after they had 2 glasses each that I giggled when I confessed it was soy milk.
And they both got big-eyed and froze. In fear.
One grabbed the front of her neck.
One glared a freakish-devil glare at me.
Then they admitted it was good.
And asked for another glass.
It felt like a night of me being a referee at a never-ending press conference.
And as I get situated and sit at my computer to now talk to you, I hear a light rumble coming from the sofa.
This is what will happen to my two most favorite things in the world when they have cookie dough and pizza.
And soy milk.
And Aunt Carrie.