This is, by no means, a comprehensive list..
- I am no longer allowed to fry things of any kind in my parents’ kitchen.
- I am not allowed to drive the streets of Bellingham, WA past 11pm on any night of the week.
- I’m not allowed to hold the credit card (or look at it in any manner, or even acknowledge its presence) while we are at Costco. Or the mall.
- I am no longer allowed to drive Mille & Fille’s Audi. (this one is related to #2.)
- I am not allowed to operate the radio in Mille & Fille’s Audi. (Totally related to #2 and #4.)
- I am not welcome in the Babies R Us in Bellevue, WA. (this one may or may not be legally viable, and may or may not have to do with my mother and I trying to see if Short Stack would fit in one of the strollers to justify purchasing a dual stroller before Chuck was born.)
- I am not allowed to sing karaoke at one particular dive bar in Las Vegas.
- I am not allowed to use my dad’s power tools.
- I am not allowed to try and see how many people that my dad’s engine-lifter-outer tool will hold before collapsing.
- I am not allowed, under any uncertain circumstances (and possibly under punishment of death) to drink 151 rum in any quantity.
- I am not allowed to use the public computers at a particular library in my hometown.
- I am not allowed to dance on the tables at Pure Las Vegas. (although, I think that’s an actual rule there. I discovered this the hard way. Also, broke my tailbone.)
- I am not allowed to wear high heels in establishments where alcohol is involved.
- If alcohol is involved in any outing, I must have a previously designated chaperone, who will prevent me from injuring other people. (it’s inevitable that I’m going to injure myself when I drink. Noone, except maybe Bubble Boy, can prevent that.)
- I am not allowed to run any fundraisers at Short Stack’s school. (This is actually a serious rule. I’m not allowed to run them because the one I DID run raised almost 11 times as much money as the year prior. And Bellevue moms do NOT like being outshined by the mom with tattoos piercings and vintage clothes, who drives a car with a bumper sticker that says “I❤ PIRATES. And they can all eat me.)
- I am not allowed to leave notes on the windowsill at the Space Needle restaurant. (The restaurant rotates, and you can leave notes on the windowsill so as people’s tables move by, they can read them. I was 11 when this rule was enacted by my mother.)
- I am not allowed to feed my children. (Mille has enacted this one because she’s pretty sure I’m trying to murder them with the things I feed them. Like green beans made with BUTTER. Or non-low-fat Triscuits.)
- I am not allowed to mention certain litigious family members on the internets. (Since I have a family full of lawyers, this is a fun rule to sneak around. Also, being threatened with a lawsuit at Christmas is the worst present ever. And? One of my uncles is an assmonkey.)
- I am not allowed to play football with my cousins, or the boys at my high school. (I hit too hard.)
- I have to ask permission if something funny happens to someone else in my house and I want to blog/tweet/facebook it.
- I am not allowed to grocery shop by myself.
- I am not allowed to use Chef’s fancypants culinary awesomesauce knives. (This one, I’m OK with. I chopped my finger yesterday, roasting pumpkins for pie.)
- I am not allowed to experiment in the kitchen without constant supervision and prior approval from a board of directors. (Which consists of Chef. And just him. Maybe Mille.)
- I am not allowed to give Fille any more regular coffee. Or sugar. Or candy.
OK, I need to put Chuck to bed immediately, before she morphs into a banshee.
If y’all want reasons behind these, leave a comment with which one you’d like