It's All Hannah Montana's Fault

I know this person that is a bit neurotic unstable cuckoo excitable. She is a very sweet person that would give you the straight jacket shirt off her back, but she tends to get somewhat very completely worked up over minor problems.

And forget about any of life's major inconveniences, such as a flat tire.....OY! It's enough to send her into a tailspin!

As I said, she is very thoughtful, caring individual. I really like her. But she seriously needs to relax a tad. I'm afraid that she may just have a stroke one of these days. I can imagine that pulsing vein in her forehead just bursting during one of her tirades.

Recently I was on the phone with her and she was becoming unglued about some plight or another. I listened and offered advice. I tried to be the sound of reason while also being supportive.

I'm just glad we weren't on web cams because I believe I rolled my eyes a few times. I wanted to bang my head on the table, but I was afraid of spilling my, now cold, cup of tea.

As she prattled ranted talked I think I began to lose consciousness. I caught myself and shook my head.

"Umm hummm. Yes. Ummmm hummm." I said into the phone to show that I was indeed still with her.

Like a kid with ADD, or a dog who sees a squirrel, my attention turned to the tv in the living room. Hannah Montana was performing that Hoedown Throwdown song. It's a catchy tune that my kids obsessively sang for weeks and inadvertently taught to me.

"Pop, it lock it, polka dot it...."

"Blah, blah, blah....."

"Ok, I'll let you go," I heard, a clearly uneasy voice, say to me.

OH SHIT! Elvis completely left the building and the phone conversation. I don't know how long I was gone but apparently it was long enough that she caught on. For all I know she was telling me that martians had landed in her backyard and were experimenting on her children. She could have just called me an effing whore and I would be none the wiser.

"Oh My God! I am soooooo sorry! That was so rude of me!!" I apologized while trying to think of an excuse other than, "I just couldn't help myself, I was listening to this like totally cool song by Miley Cyrus, you understand, right? It's like soooooooo awesome, like Oh My God!"

Okay, I totally dated myself. I'm sure the valley girl lingo is long gone, but you get my drift.

I looked around in a panic. T. was sitting on the couch, picking at the scab on his knee.

Ah, children are always the best scapegoats. "Really, I'm sorry, T. was picking at something. And I was trying to figure out what he was doing. He's always picking at something."

"Oh, that's okay," She replied with a much chipper voice. She then, I'm assuming, picked up where she had left off.

I accepted my penance and turned off the television.