Saturday, January 31, 2009

Fun with Fujazz: Thanks to Mr. Loaner Son.

The Loaner Son has a father. His father has ties to an actual “Stewartville.” Somewhere in the world there are most likely many Stewartvilles all inhabited by Stewarts. While we have one right here inside our house, we are now being contacted by others from outside our house. Join our club, they scream at the top of their lungs.Yesterday, we received a long-sleeve T-shirt in the mail from the Loaner Son’s father. As you can imagine, this brought hours and hours and hours of fun into our household. This is very good news for us, since we are on House Budget Poor Us Initiative Boom 2009. In order to make something that really, really, really sucks, like planning for the future when we just want to have fun, we give the situation a grand name … and then it’s not so bad. We are easy to fool.

Our friends were going out to dinner last night. The Stewarts had to stay in and make a homemade pizza. Now, we make a mean pizza—no problem there—but we were still lamed out at having to stay at home. When it’s by force, it sucks. Did I already write that it really sucks? I did. Ok, to be clear: budgeting sucks. And to counter that suckism situation, I should also be clear to point out that it is necessary. Planning for the future and all that jazz. I’d like to go see a jazz show, maybe down at Ona’s Music Room on 20th Street … but I’m not referring to the fun kind of jazz that brings immediate gratification and colors spinning behind your eyelids and a melody so hip and now and then and every day of the week to your ears—I’m referring to retirement jazz and baby jazz and a new car some day jazz. That jazz. It’s future jazz. It’s fujazz.

So while planning for fujazz, there must be budget cuts. The 2009 Stewartville recession has hit. No cat shall suffer while underneath our roof. They must be fed and have proper treaties at all times. Cat teasers must be replaced as feathers are eaten and bells fall off and are stored lovingly under the couch and under random bookcases. Since we cannot cut out feeding or spoiling the cats, we must cut out spoiling the Stewarts. We must make our own entertainment instead of relying on others, like those wonderful people making magic downtown at Ona’s Music Room or like our friends who want to go out and eat social dinners where we talk and laugh and tell story after story after story about our other friends, instead of all this—we must rely on our own wits. Just me, Mr. Husband, Oliver Baggins Pants, and Bonita Banana. We can do it. The Stewartville T-shirt helped. All of us, except The Senator who refused to lower himself to such comedy standards, had fun trying on the T-Shirt. Oh, how we laughed. Oh, the joy the Stewartville T-shirt brought to our little household.

This was a night that we’ll talk about for years and years and years as we reminisce over the joy and laughter that was witnessed inside our four walls and a holy columnthat cold evening at the end of January. The pizza was gobbled up within ten minutes as we watched X-Play and stole sideways glances at the waiting T-Shirt fun that was to be had. We chewed quickly, knowing that as soon as dinner was over, the T-Shirt wild abandon would begin. Oh, how we polished off that pizza without taking any extra breaths. No slacking on the way to super T-shirt fun. Not us! The cats danced at our feet in high expectation, not really knowing but guessing what was about to happen. It was better than Christmas—that feeling you get when you're a five-years-old and understand the concept of Santa and strangers bringing awesomeness wrapped in shiny packages into your home in the middle of a dark night. It was just like that. No, no, it was BETTER.

So, as you can see, we both tried on the T-Shirt and posed and made ourselves into Stewartville T-Shirt fashion models. For if ever there were a Stewart standard for wearing a Stewartville T-Shirt, the two of us, the two Stewarts onWerewolf Lane certainly captured the norm. Even Bonita got into the fun. She begged and begged and begged as you can imagine any cat would do upon seeing the revelry before her being played out in her parents, and we let her. We helped her lovingly into the T-Shirt and she cried great big meows of happiness and understood right at that moment—it’s good to be a Stewart in Stewartville.

God save the budget.


Nancy said...

I think you are TOTALLY smart for thinking of your future! FUJAZZ! YEAH! MIL

facingthetrend said...

The cat! Is wearing! A shirt!