Middle of Nowhere

So, with it being Halloween season and all, hubby and I decided to take his kids to a pumpkin patch yesterday.  I know, I should have foreseen the endless amounts of stupidity that would abound with it being a weekend and all, but I am a firm believer in giving the benefit of the doubt.


We loaded up into the SUV and began a 20 minute drive over the state line which ended with a drive down a road full of cornfields.  "Daddy, are we in the middle of nowhere?" his 5-year-old asked.  I giggled.  And continued to giggle some more.  "Yes, son. This IS the middle of nowhere," he replied. 


Now, what you need to know is that my stepson is a card.  A total fucking card.  Bless this child.  He takes Concerta.  He's been on meds since he was 4 and the doctors are still adjusting them.  It doesn't help that his mother is a complete fuck when it comes to parenting so a lot of his issues is just that: his mother is an asshole.  That being said, he is also at the age where he has virtually NO filter on his cute little mouth so you never know what the child will say.  Most of the time it's random, useless shit.  Sometimes it makes me smile, sometimes I just look at him and think, poor you. Your mother has totally FUBAR-ed you.  


Our arrival at the pumpkin patch is uneventful until the kids state they would like to participate in the corn maze.  First, I DETEST cornfields.  I really do.  I fear that I will be attacked by some fuck named Malachi who wants me to worship he who walks behind the rose.  Second, see the first comment.  So there is a sign that gives prices.  Ok, great. It's gonna cost $10 to go through this asstastical corn maze of hell. Great. What happens? The kids and hubby stand there, mouth breathing, vacant look in their eyes.  I know we are all ADD, but really? Mouth breathing like a bunch of special eds in public? 


I make the suggestion to go to the little cashier chick and inquire.  An argument ensues.  I plant my happy ass on a bench while the kids and hubby embark on the wonderful world of corn.  Not even five minutes goes by when an old lady waddles over, wheezing, and sits next to me.  I think it best she doesn't talk as she is guppy breathing and probably having an attack of COPD.  


Her bratty grandson starts screaming.  "I DON'T WANT A SMALL PUMPKIN! I WANT A BIG PUMPKIN!" Holy hell. I think the majority of octagenarians had coronaries.  I was tempted to get up and scream in his face.  What happens? His fucking mother says, "Ok, well we can look over here at these pumpkins. "  Then his brother gets in on it.  I get up, begin walking away from Wheezer and her little devilish minions just in time to hear her wheeze, "Now boys, don't talk to your mother that way."  Are you fucking kidding me? I'd pack those assholes up and tell them they weren't getting a pumpkin let alone go trick or treating, the ungrateful ingrates.  Fuck. WTF is the matter with people? They let their kids walk all over them.  And they wonder why the kids act like they do.  


I make it back to the truck, where I promptly texted my equally pissy BFF.  I'll call her Mama.  So we swapped stories about hating shit and whatnot.  


Actual text convo:


ME:  I fucking hate people. I'm about to go all headless horseman on these fucks.


Mama:  WTF are you doing?


ME: At a pumpkin patch.  In hell.


Mama: I so do not want to make this cake.  (For our other BFF's son)


ME: So tell him Spongebob took a shit and this is what you got.


Mama: It's Phineas and Ferb.


ME: So Ferb got hit by a car and this is what you got.


Mama: Funny you should say that... 


she sends me a picture of the figures she will put on the cake.  IT INCLUDES A CAR.  Now, I find this tragically hysterical.  I am literally sitting next to a ditch, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fucks, and I am maniacally laughing.  Oh, this is fucking fantastic.


ME: OMMFG. LMMAFO.


Further text convo includes how our hubbies can be complete marfs and whatnot.  I eventually begin to wonder if Malachi made an appearance in the corn maze and decided to gently persuade my family into joining he who walks behind the rose.  Not so much.  They come trudging over to the truck.  "That was hell," hubby says.  It's a cornfield.  WTF did you expect?  


We end up making our way home, in which I promptly develop a migraine.  Go me. Tramadol became another BFF for me.