You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’s left automobile carcasses all over southern Arkansas. Or maybe you would think it. How the hell should I know what a car killer looks like? I’d never seen one (that I know of) until I married one.

We even look happy here. Don't be fooled. I'm thinking, "Oh, what the africa are we going to do for a car???" And he's drunk. And yes, I do know I look like Ma Ingalls in that hairdo. Shut up. He told me I didn't. Yeah. I owe him for that one, too.

I can’t even claim ignorance. Everyone in his family warned me. He’d already killed all their cars. But, you know, you always think, “Oh, he’s different now. He’ll change once we’re married.” Well, it’s been as true for this unfortunate trait as it is for anything else: THEY ONLY GET WORSE AFTER YOU MARRY THEM, LADIES.

Week before last he killed my car. The transmission in my three-year-old Jeep Liberty mysteriously just blew up. It was running fine the last time I drove it. Then he took off in it and I never saw it again.

Then last Thursday I received this text message:

“What are you doing?”

which in itself might not seem odd, but this is the rest of the conversation:

Me:  Sewing, of course. [Remember the Great Quilt Making Marathon of 2012?]

He:  Is Alice there?

Me:  No. She’s keeping [her friend from work]’s kids today.

He:  Oh. Is [Younger Son] home?

Me:  Of course not. [This was the morning after the bachelor party, which if you follow me on twitter, you know was themed “No Titties in Tennessee,” and the boys were still passed out in some hotel room in Memphis at this time, I’m sure.]

. . .

. . .

Me:  ARE YOU BROKE DOWN AGAIN??? [Italics added, because, you know, you can’t italicize stuff in texts, and ohmygod Apple needs to get on that right away]

He:  Yes, about 5 miles from home.

Me:  WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THE CARS???

He:  I don’t know. I’ll see you in an hour or so. I’m walking.

Me:  Good luck with that. [Yeah, it was only 104 degrees that day.]

He:  And now a dog just tried to bite me.

Me:  Fuck. We gotta start going to church or something.

So we’ve been driving Elder Son’s car that he was quick to inform us that we couldn’t get attached to because he was going to sell in a day or so (of COURSE he is, even though it has sat on his apartment’s parking lot unmoved for THE PAST DAMN YEAR), ha ha, like I would get attached to a car THAT DOESN’T HAVE A DRIVER’S SEAT THAT I CAN ADJUST SO THAT I CAN EVEN SEE OVER THE DASHBOARD and ROARS LIKE I’M ON THE STARTING LINE AT NASCAR. And this evening–this evening–I–I–can hardly bring myself to tell it. I got in the car with the Car Killer (aka my HUSBAND) and we went, like, two blocks to the Dollar General Store to get some laundry detergent. LAUNDRY DETERGENT. How innocent is that? I don’t even know why I went with him, except I’ve been in the house all day and if nothing else, that car does have some refreshingly cold air conditioning. And we made our purchase, and returned to the car, and he put the key in the ignition and the car ROARED its terrible roar, and he depressed the brake pedal and put his hand on the gear shift and pushed that button-thingy in on the side and pulled the gear shift back to put it at “R” for reverse, so, you know, we could back out of the parking lot, EXCEPT THE GEAR SHIFT WOULD NOT MOVE. At all.

And I might have screamed, “WHAT DID YOU DO THIS TIME???” and he might have screamed back “I DON’T KNOW!!!” and I might have said somewhat huffily, “Well, I am NOT walking home,” and maybe got out of the car and went back in the store where I possibly discovered they have a disappointing selection of magazines, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected much from a Dollar General Store. And Husband perhaps walked home and borrowed Younger Son’s car, which how stupid is he for letting a now confirmed-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt Car Killer touch his car? Husband came back with TOOLS, HAHAHAHAHAHA, like that was going to help anything, and I took the other car and went home. He arrived twenty or so minutes later. I don’t know what he did to the gear shift. All I know is Elder Son was not helpful at all when I texted him, which you would think he would be, seeing how he’s on his honeymoon and should be in a good mood. Right? Wrong.

Me:  Joe [my husband’s name; there, now you can protect yourself and your automobiles from the Car Killer] broke your car and I had absolutely nothing to do with it the end.

Elder Son:  I hope this is a joke or things are not going to go well. Dad was going to buy that car from me. [His other dad. Who is not a Car Killer. Who, in fact, still has the truck he was driving when we were married a million years ago and it runs with no problems whatsoever.]

Me:  Nope. Not a joke.

Elder Son:  There’s going to be a lot of mad people.

Me:  Yeah, they can get in line behind me.

Elder Son:  But lucky for you guys, I’ll cut you a deal and set it to y’all for a discount and save everyone the headache of telling them I let y’all borrow the car and it’s broken now.

Me:  IF WE HAD MONEY TO BUY A CAR WE WOULD HAVE JUST FIXED MY JEEP INSTEAD OF LETTING IT GET REPOED.

Elder Son:  So you’re not planning on fixing my car, I’m guessing.

Me:  Maybe it’s not broke. Maybe there’s some secret to getting the gear shift to move that you’ve failed to mention?

Elder Son:  No, I did not feel I needed to mention anything about anything wrong with my car because there was nothing wrong with it when I let you borrow it.

Me:  I don’t like how you say “you.” It wasn’t ME. It was JOE.

And I call foul on that whole last part of the conversation, anyway, because when I asked him about that car last Thursday, he said, “I don’t even know if that car still runs.” Does THAT sound like a car that doesn’t have anything wrong with it to you? But I’m still pretty sure my husband broke it.

 

 

 

31 comments

I thought I would write a wedding post today, or at least get started on it, because you know no one’s interested in that shit except for the parts that went wrong, and oh holy fuck, I could be writing for days telling you about everything that went wrong during the days leading up to and including the Big Day. Most of this I managed to keep from the bride and groom, as I did not wish to make the former cry nor the latter any more groomzilla than he already was.

But I inexplicably woke up this morning in the throes of an anxiety attack. What the hell, me? Now that it’s over and I finally catch my breath, now I have anxiety? Apparently the secret to my not having panic attacks is to keep myself so freaking busy I don’t time to take a piss, much less think about anything. Because this morning I was thinking about things, like how I was so busy cleaning up I didn’t hug and kiss the bride and groom and wish them all the best as they left the reception to start their married life—in fact, I missed the big send off entirely. There were glow sticks, I think? Because we’re under a goddamn burn ban so the sparklers had to be nixed. And now they have left for Key West for their honeymoon where, because of my lapse of etiquette and demonstration of motherly love, they will surely be eaten by a shark or kidnapped by pirates or at the very least stung by jellyfish.

I knew such thoughts were unreasonable and my impending sense of doom was just my own crazy brain doing its own thing now that it’s finally been left to its own devices for a couple of days, so I made myself get out of bed and I took a shower, even. Husband announced his plans for the day, which included leaving me home alone, a very bad idea when I’m in such a state, so I suggested he take me to Alice’s while he did whatever he was he needed to do to put money in the bank so we could once again buy groceries. Besides, Hellbaby’s nails needed trimming since I was unable to do it over the weekend as I usually do (haven’t I mentioned that cutting babies’ fingernails is one of my superpowers? That and folding fitted sheets).

Alice was cool with this plan and happy that I was bringing the nail scissors because lately Hellbaby has been learning the parts of the face, and she’s just a liable as not to poke you in the eye and scream, “Eye!” jubilantly, like she just discovered the cure for cancer or something.

Alice was also somewhat grumpy because this week we were supposed to go see Magic Mike. This is a movie that’s currently out with Matthew McConaughey? And someone named Channing Tatum? And they’re strippers? Not really my thing (I know, I know, shut up. I can’t help it. Nekkid men are kind of gross. And stupid nekkid men are worse.), but hey, sitting in a dark theater in the middle of the day sounded like a great idea, particularly since the theater we go to typically sets its thermostat on polar ice cap. But now that plan was off, because Shrek was being a doody head and didn’t want to keep the Hellbaby, who, while quite advanced for her year, is admittedly perhaps too young to be exposed to Matthew McConaughey. I’m pretty sure my husband would have kept the Hellbaby without complaint, but I think Alice just wanted to be a damn martyr at this point and have something else to hold over Shrek’s head so I quit suggesting it.

And she was already mad at him because she wanted to take Hellbaby to the zoo Saturday morning because she was off on Saturday for the first time in ever (she thoughtfully took the whole weekend off work, thereby relieving me of Hellbaby duties and allowing me to focus my little energy on the wedding), and she wanted them to take Hellbaby to the zoo Saturday morning, you know, as a nice family outing, but he said, no, it was going to be too hot, and then he turned right around and said he was going to play disc golf with his Geek Club friends. (Yes, he’s in a Geek Club. It’s an actual thing. I don’t ask questions because I’m afraid he’ll tell me.)

So I said, Why don’t we go to the zoo? I’m not sure if when I asked, I meant right at that moment, let’s go, but that’s how she interpreted it and she jumped up and slathered sun block everywhere and loaded up the Hellbaby and the stroller and off we went.

Only gorilla to be seen, since apparently it was "too hot" for the precious little fuckers.

Really. Worst. Idea. Ever. Compared to the last several days around here, the temperature was an absolutely mild 100 degrees, and it was almost four o’clock, after the worst heat of the day, but still. I quickly stopped being anxious about sharks and pirates and started being anxious that I was going to throw up. This was annoying the shit out of me. I used to work at a water park. I’ve hustled around carrying ice water to guests on concrete sidewalks when it was 115 in the shade. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me. Yes, I was drinking water. I felt sick. Like put my head between my legs before I pass out sick.

This is not sunburn. This is not the usual color of my face, and actually it looks better than it did, since this is after I'd been sitting in front of the air conditioner for an hour. And yes, I went out in public with my hair like this. Fuck you.

And we saw only three damn animals. It was too hot for them, too, apparently. Really, you damn elephant? How much cooler is it in Africa, anyway? While we were bitching about all the pansy-assed African animals, Alice remembered she’s vowed not to say “fuck” and various derivations of anymore, since Hellbaby is repeating everything anybody says these days like a damn magpie, and I, in my heat-addled brain, decided that “African” sounded a lot like “fucking” and proposed that we substitute “Africa” and “African” for all our curse words. And then I worried that that might sound racist. And then I remembered my sister-in-law’s dumb friend who didn’t know the proper word for afghan, and one day when they were still in high school my sister-in-law called her and asked her what she was doing, her dumb friend said, “Oh, I’m just laying here on the couch under this African,” my sister-in-law gasped and said, “Oh, my god! Where’s your mother???” (Yet she failed to comment on her friend’s shocking grammar–She was LYING under the African.) And that’s why we all call afghans Africans, which I guess is kind of racist, although we’re really not any more racist than the next person and a lot less so than most people in this part of the country, but it’s also funny. To us, anyway. I guess you had to be there.

 

Also? When you Google images for afghans, you best put "crocheted" in front of "afghan," or you'll get another type of afghan entirely, also one you probably shouldn't be lying under, unless, of course, you're into that kind of thing, or you're in a committed monogamous relationship, but wait--Wouldn't that be like fraternizing with the enemy? We are still at war with Afghanistan, aren't we? I mean, my son just got back from over there and he verifies that that is NOT the kind of afghan you want to lie under. But that might be racist too. Oh, shit, what is wrong with me today?

 

9 comments

1. If you’re thinking about making a bunch of quilts for your son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law for them to give as gifts to their wedding attendants, stop it. Do not think those thoughts anymore. Seriously. Knock it off, right this minute.

2. But if you can’t stop yourself from thinking about it, for god’s sake keep your crazy thoughts to yourself. Do not, under any circumstances, give voice to the insanity raging in your brain.

3. You just had to do it, didn’t you? Can’t keep your goddamn mouth shut for nothing. But it seemed such a perfect idea. The quilts could be used for seating during the picnic rehearsal dinner your husband has planned and afterward, surprise! Everybody take a quilt. As a matter of fact, before you even start thinking about making quilts, when your husband suggests a picnic rehearsal dinner, tell him he’s a fucking lunatic. Punch him in the nuts for good measure. Then tell him to book a damn banquet room somewhere. It’s 104 degrees in Arkansas at the end of June. There. Now you don’t even have a reason to think of making quilts.

4. When you ask your husband if the household budget can support the expense for the materials for all these quilts and he says yes, don’t, under any circumstances, believe him. Remember that you have never had enough money to afford to complete any project either of you have ever undertaken, and while you’re at it, recall that some household catastrophe always strikes just when you’re strapped for cash most. Like both your vehicles blowing up within a week of each other [this really happened, by the way].

5. WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME??? YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME. Now you’ve done it. With the (totally bogus) green light regarding the financial needs, you just have to go and tell your future daughter-in-law about this grand notion, and she says, yes, that sounds good. Good, she said. Not “great,” not “wonderful.” Just “good.” Your son is even less enthusiastic. That should have been plenty to convince you to scrap the idea right then and there. No one is going to appreciate the expense and effort than goes into making a quilt. So why bother?

6. Oh, but you just know that when people SEE these quilts, they’ll be falling all over themselves with gratitude. “You made me quilt? That is the most awesome thing EVER.” Like I was when my Great Aunt Merle presented me with a quilt she had made when I graduated from high school. I slept with that quilt until it fell to pieces, and I miss it still. So, anyway, you fucking hardheaded twit, go ahead and start planning your quilts. Microsoft Excel is an excellent program for drawing out quilt pattern. 2.21 column width will give you nice little squares with which to work, and you can draw borders around multiple squares and fill them with color and copy and paste and even make diagonal lines for triangles, but you’re making EIGHT QUILTS, so keep them simple, stupid. You can’t plot out curved pieces in Excel, but who the fuck wants to make a goddamn hokey Dresden plate or fucking wedding ring quilt? Fuck that shit.

7. Don’t make quilts that have a prime number for the number of rows or column. Seven is a very bad number. So is eleven. Nine is a much better number. Ignore me and see what a pain in the ass putting together a quilt with seven rows is.

8. Make quilts with big blocks. The bigger the better. Who cares if they look boring and amateurish? No one is going to adequately appreciate them anyway.

9. And borders? Sure, they add a little extra pizzazz and a finished look to your quilts edges, but fuck borders. It is a terrible, terrible feeling to be congratulating yourself at three in the morning—“That bitch is done, at least,”—and then remember that you STILL HAVE TO SEW ON THE GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING BORDER PIECES.

I just realized you can never spell “pizzazz” in a game of Words with Friends. But if you could, how awesome would that be? I just scored a kazillion points. Game. Over. Motherfucker.

10. So how long did you fuck around deciding and designing what kind of quilts you were going to make? A hell of a lot longer than you thought you would, right? Right. So, take the time you estimate it will take you to make these quilts—the cutting, the piecing, the layering, the quilting, and the binding–and multiply that shit by 3. At least. And then multiply by 3 again for good measure.

11. So now that you have a reasonable estimation of the time required for this ridiculous project, if by, say, Memorial Day you don’t have your needed materials and thus have not started on said project, and the rehearsal dinner is on, oh, say, June 29, it really is in your best interest to make a new plan. RENT A ROOM. GET THE BRIDESMAIDS AND GROOMSMEN $50 GIFT CARDS TO THE LIQUOR STORE. THEY’LL LIKE THAT MORE, ANYWAY (except that one boy, who doesn’t drink), AND YOU’LL COME OUT CHEAPER  TO BOOT.

12. Do NOT, under any circumstances, tell yourself, Oh, I can do this. Sure it’ll be a crunch, but I totally got this, because you’re feeling all nostalgic about those last three weeks of your sophomore year in college when you and your best friend partied every night until three a.m., came home and worked on all the projects you’d been assigned since the first of the semester (but somehow never got around to starting) until time for class at 8, went to class all day, came home and napped for a couple of hours, got up, ate dinner and got all slutted up to go out and party all night again. It was a bad plan then and it’s a worse plan now because YOU ARE NOT TWENTY YEARS OLD ANYMORE, JACKASS.

13. Buy a real pincushion. Yes, I know that magnetic pin holder seemed like such a fantastic invention at the time when you thinking of all the seconds you could save by not having to actually push a pin into a cushion, and it’s true it’s pretty cool to just toss pins in the general direction of the holder as you’re removing them from the quilt pieces and have them magically cling to their rightful place, but trust me, you’re going to knock that pin holder off the table at least once a day and often more times than that, and pins are going to go EVERYWHERE. That thing is a fucking pin cluster bomb, and there goes all that precious time you imagined you were going to save while you’re down on your hands and knees grabbing pins off the floor with your precious magical magnetic pin holder.

14. Don’t scream at your best friend. It’s not her fault you’re in this predicament. In fact, she strongly (and loudly) advised you against it from the start. Never mind that you keep her Hellbaby every weekend and stopped what you were doing long enough to wrap that giant birthday present for her nephew because she couldn’t find a gift bag big enough and she couldn’t actually wrap a present if her life depended on it, and she only asked because “It’ll only take you five minutes,” which just shows how little she knows about wrapping ginormous boxes, and her husband was being an asshole grump the whole time and you don’t even know why he came with her because he had to be at work in less than an hour. But because she’s your friend and understands breakdowns since she has them every now and then herself, she’ll overlook that you called her a selfish fucking cunt and change her plans and come help you as best she can.

15. So don’t be surprised and dismayed when her seam pressing is not up to your standards, as you have often heard her proclaim, proudly and defiantly, that she is not the least bit crafty. She says, “I’m not crafty” the way other people might say, “I’m not diseased.”

16. As a matter of fact, just quit having standards. You don’t have time to be picky. You are going to make mistakes, because you are exhausted and hungry and thirsty and sore and Losing Your Shit, but you’re just going to have to let it go. You certainly don’t have time for do-overs. Hide your seam ripper in case you’re tempted. You can return to your perfectionist ways when this is all over. No one’s going to know about or notice any boo-boos if you don’t point them out, so keep your goddamn mouth shut, you witless fucktard. And no one wanted these quilts in the first damn place; they’d rather have the liquor gift cards, remember?

17.  And when Hellbaby insists on dancing on your work table and flings quilt pieces and takes all the pins off the pin holder (which she would not be able to do if you had a real pincushion like I told you get in the first damn place), just laugh. Might as well. You’re too worn out to do anything else.

We don't have time for your adorable antics, Hellbaby. Now get the hell off my table before I fucking kill you.

18. For the love god, don’t decide to get all cute and creative with your piecing mid-quilt. So what if you’re tired of the blocks all going the same way. Too bad you’ve suddenly realized those stripes would look better if you turned them on their sides. It’s too damn late for that shit, like, six weeks ago. Trust me, you’ll end up ripping seams out, because it’s hard enough to keep pieces in the same order, particularly with a Hellbaby tossing them in the air like confetti, but if you go changing up the arrangement midstream, you’ll be ripping shit out later, and you don’t have time for that shit and you hid your seam ripper besides. Quilts are like puzzles in that the pieces have to go a certain way, but they are more like model airplanes in that if you go off trying to stick tab A into slot B, not only is the plane not going together right, that fucker is going to crash and burn.

19. Along the same lines, don’t try to take shortcuts. Stick to the original plan. You can’t cut sixteen squares at once, you can’t eyeball that shit so get the fucking ruler and measure, you dumbass, and don’t even think you can get away with not pinning something. All of these seem like timesavers, but down that path lies madness, because what they actually are are tragedy makers. Just. Say. No.

 

20. Don’t plan on getting any sleep. Or eating. Or drinking. But try to eat and drink, because not doing so will only make your tireder. And sick. Your meals should be something you can eat with one hand while pushing quilt pieces through the sewing machine with the other. And make someone else prepare them. Use any means necessary to make this happen. Cry, scream, curse, threaten, cajole, bribe, blackmail, because you don’t have time to be goddamn Julia Child.

21. Don’t take breaks to read A Dance with Dragons, even if you do have only 30 pages left and you’re dying to see that cunt whore Cersei Lannister get hers at last. Don’t take any breaks. You can pee, if you must. That’s a good time to jot notes for a blog post on your phone to help others avoid your folly.

22. That thing about not sewing over pins? Screw that. Get these thin pins that say “made for machine piecing.” You probably still shouldn’t sew over them, and you will occasionally hit a pin with your needle, but it’s an enormous time saver to speed right over them and take them out after.

23. Also, that old adage “Measure twice, cut once”? Fuck that noise. You can measure four times or forty times, and still you’re going to fuck up when cutting that much fabric and have to buy more. So don’t waste your time measuring twice in the first damn place.

24. Speaking of having to buy fabric, when you’re selecting your fabric, make sure there’s plenty left on the bolt after your purchase so the store will still have some when you inevitably fuck up and have to buy more. And measure the fabric after it’s been cut while you’re still in the fabric store, at the cutting table, because no one knows how to measure anything anymore and the people who work in fabric departments are a bunch of yay-hoos who don’t even know how to thread a needle (What? A third of a yard? That’s like, three inches, right?). Better yet, just buy extra fabric. However much you think you need, add a yard. Or two. You can always tell yourself you’ll use any leftovers for some other project later, even though you know you totally never will.

25. DO viciously spray your dogs in the face with a water pistol whenever they bark at a passing Fed Ex truck, cartoon dogs on TV, the light fixture, their water bowl, the floor, the invisible intruder. . . You will find this amazingly satisfying in your savage sleep-deprived state.

There. If sharing my experience can save just one person from these perils, my sufferings will all have been worth it.

Bullshit. I want a two-hour massage and a case of wine and a hundred hour nap. THEN my sufferings might have been worth it.

11 comments

My day started off with crap, literally. Husband had a colonoscopy this morning, and I have the pictures to prove it. I will spare you that delight. Nothing seriously wrong was discovered, but suffice it to say after a two-day cleanse. . . all was not as clean as it should have been. He’s under doctor’s orders to make a serious diet change. This is not surprising, since his diet consists of Coke, various expensive cheeses, Edy’s lime and tangerine all-fruit frozen bars, Lay’s Salt and Vinegar chips, and Jelly Bellies. After not eating for two days, my refusal to fix him a “plate of cheese” was not well received.

Then some man came into our back yard—and I’m not sure how he managed that considering our four protective dogs and the barricades that have been placed against the gate in futile attempts to keep said dogs from escaping and terrorizing the roads—and turned off our gas, which was confusing, because the bill is paid. Maybe. Husband says he is “pretty sure” he paid it. I don’t even know the name of the gas company, or I would have called to investigate. I suggested such to husband, but he was in the throes of cheese withdrawal and declared himself unable to deal with anything relating to household utilities, including telling me whom to call. I guess. So until he recovers, we will take cold showers and cook in the microwave.

Then I left to make yet another trip to the fabric store, and during my excursion I caused a motor vehicle accident. I was attempting to make a left turn. I had to cross two oncoming lanes of traffic. Two BUSY lanes of traffic. The car in the lane closest to me stopped to let me turn, or now that I think back on it, maybe they were also trying to turn left. Anyway, I was watching the far lane, waiting for an opportunity to dart across, and it wasn’t easy to see beyond the line of cars behind the stopped car, but I finally saw my chance and crossed the first lane and was entering the second lane when OHFUCKOHSHITWHEREDIDTHATGODDAMNCARCOMEFROMWE’REGOINGTOHITI’M GOINGTOHITTHEMTHERE’SNOWAYICANNOTHITTHEMFUCKFUCKFUCKHOWMUCH DAMAGEISTHISGOINGTOCAUSEFUCKSHITGODDAMMITALLTOFUCKINGHELLI’LLGET                                                                                                                                                                ATICKETIT’SMYFAULTOHMYGODDOESTHISPIECEOFFUCKJUNKTRUCKEVENHAVE                                  AIRBAGSWILLWEEVENCOLLIDEHARDENOUGHFORAIRBAGSTOGOOFFMULTIPLECARS                                                                                                                                           WILLVERYPROBABLYBEINVOLVEDBECAUSETRAFFICMOTHERFUCKERFUCKFUCKFUCK                                                                                                                                                                                       STOP?GO?NO?WHAT?SHITSHITSHITFUCKFUCKFUCK.

And somehow, miraculously, we did not crash into each other, for which I am eternally grateful, because damn, I hate the BANG sound of my vehicle hitting or being hit by another vehicle. But the other car, some ugly gold Nissan hatchback thing, did run crazy up on the curb and flew along half a block with two years on the berm and two wheels on the street and I zipped on across into the side street and stopped for a second, frankly astonished that there was no BANG, and craning my neck left to look back the way I’d come to see what had become of the other car. For a heartbeat I thought they were going to keep on going please keep on going, be okay, just go on your way and I’ll go mine and you can enjoy cussing the crazy jackass driver who almost killed you for the rest of the day but then I saw the car pull into a parking lot and I simultaneously had two thoughts:  GODDAMMIT, I’M FUCKED and JUST KEEP GOING, NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW. And then I thought, well, that’s really shitty. You could have KILLED them. You have to stop, you evil bitch.

So I pulled into the Backyard Burger that happened to be next to me and parked all backwards wrong-way across two spaces and got out of my truck and started walking down the sidewalk and I could see a man and a woman getting out of the other car, the ugly gold one I had just almost smashed, and then the woman was coming up the sidewalk toward me in a very determined manner with THAT LOOK on her face and I knew that this was not going to be pretty, this was going to be a CONFRONTATION, and I could see beyond her that the front right tire of her car was flat as a cow flitter but I could see no other damage, so I thought, well maybe this won’t be as bad as. . . Well, anything is bad, but it could be worse.

I started off apologizing, of course. She said, “We’re going to have to exchange information.” I said of course, asked if she wanted to call the police. They were a late twenty-something couple. Everything about them shrieked “geek.” Not chic geek, or Big Bang Theory geek. Just classic before-it-was-fashionable geek. Probably band geek. Not that it matters. Anyway, once I made it clear that I was assuming all responsibility and falling all over myself trying to do the right thing, the antagonism left her voice and her attitude. Her boyfriend wasn’t confrontational at all. He thanked me for stopping, saying that most people would have just kept on going. (Most people? Well, I am not “most people.” I didn’t reveal that for a split second I considered being one of those people.)

Anyway, after calling police and boyfriend changing spare tire and the manager of Backyard Burger coming out to see if everyone was all right and offering us drinks and telling us we would we waiting there for a long, long time for a cop to show up because she saw wrecks at that very spot ALL THE TIME and the police were never in any hurry to report to an accident without injury scene, we decided to exchange information and call it a day. I’ll pay for a new tire and front end alignment and oil pan and god knows what else that got broken on their car; they’ll probably need a whole new vehicle and intensive chiropractic treatment and years of therapy for their pain and suffering with my luck. . . Although they didn’t seem the vengeful litigious type, you never can tell, right? And I don’t think I was apologetic enough. I mean, I said all the right words, but I should have been shaking and crying and shit after such a near miss. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I went on to my destination, the fucking fabric store, and as I was leaving the store, a woman and her young son were coming in, and I said to her, “Better be glad you’re going inside. You don’t want to be on the road when I’m behind the wheel. I’m a reckless driver. I could kill you and your little boy. You might not even be safe in the store.” In my head I said that to her, anyway.

So I’ll let you know when I get the notice that I’m being sued. Right before I put my head in the oven. Oh. Wait. That won’t work, will it? Unless I can bash my head in with the oven door, maybe?

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I didn’t think I’d post again until after THE WEDDING (my son is getting married to a marvelous girl June 30, in case you hadn’t heard), but I’m in a particularly foul mood this morning so who better to bitch to than you guys?

First of all, I had to clean the kitchen. I mean, I was compelled to clean the kitchen in a way that lemmings are compelled to throw themselves off a cliff into the sea. The kitchen was disgusting. And I always am disgusted with myself with I allow it to get that way, even though at least 75% of the mess is unrelated to me. Or rather, it’s very related to me, because it’s made by my son, but I have long resigned myself to the fact that while he is a very stellar example of young manhood in many other respects, a cleaner he will never be.

We don’t have a dishwasher, so it’s not hard for the kitchen to quickly become a wreck. But the wreck part didn’t perturb me as much as having to wear GLOVES while I cleaned because I have this slice on the end of my finger where I ran over it with the rotary cutter the other night and now I have another slice on a different finger but same hand that I don’t even have any idea how got there. These stupid cuts are deep and still open at the least bit of pressure and I’ve been trying to keep my bandages dry. . . so gloves. And I hate wearing gloves when I clean. I am such an OCD control freak when I clean I have to FEEL that stuff is clean, and I also have a bad habit of scraping stuff up with my fingernails (I have wretched cuticles but AWESOMELY FREAKISHLY TOUGH fingernails) and my hands were feeling all claustrophobic which was making me feel even more anxious and stabby so I don’t even have a satisfactory sense of accomplishment after washing that big pile of nasty dishes (and I do mean nasty, I had to run three sinkfuls of dishwater, but have you noticed that dishwashing soap doesn’t do near the job it used to? I don’t remember ever having refresh my dishwater when I was a kid washing up after dinner for the six of us; it was still good and sudsy even after the last greasy skillet had been scrubbed. What the hell? Probably a plot by THE MAN to make us use more dish soap so that we run out more quickly and in turn have to purchase more, making HIM more money. Bastard man).

Also I asked the husband to find me a music station to listen to on our new cable TV. I always listen to music when I am forced to do household chores because like so many of us I was tricked by those Disney princess bitch-whore who were always having such a splendid time scrubbing floors and mending evil stepsisters’ girdles because they were singing and cavorting around with adorable woodland creatures. No adorable woodland creatures have ever shown up to help lighten my workload no matter what kind of music I’ve got going, just ants and moths and ohmygodthegnatsthegnatsTHEGNATSSOMEONEDOSOMETHINGABOUTTHEGNATS and my dogs underfoot, making mess about as fast as I can clean. Anyway, I requested adult alternative, and I’m sloshing away in the sink and I’m all, Is this Celine fucking Dion? I went to investigate, and sure enough it was. So now I am even more dismayed because apparently I am married to a man who thinks Celine Fucking Dion is alternative music.

AND THE RECYLING IS TAKING OVER THE HOUSE. Seriously, I’m going to have to throw all the goddamn recycling in the trash because it’s all stacked up in my mudroom (yes, I have a mudroom, custom designed by myself, try not to be too jealous–no, really, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to be jealous of me. Ever) and I can’t even get to my washer and dryer and did I mention the laundry is also piled to the ceiling? Now before y’all start hating on me for destroying the environment and all that shit, let me point out that 1) I live in the heart of Booniesville and there is no recycling center I don’t have to drive at least thirty minutes to get to, 2) my house is in a constant, never ending state of remodel/refurbish so there are already piles of construction shit lying around inside and outside this place, 3) I don’t even have curbside trash pickup (nor a curb, for that matter), so we either burn our trash or take it to the county dump down the road, and 4) and most importantly, ALICE HAS NOT FOLLOWED THROUGH ON HER END OF THE RECYCLING BARGAIN. Alice has been bitching at me about not recycling for a while, but it’s easy for her to recycle because the city picks up the recyclables with the trash, and now the city has provided these awesome bins to put the recycling in AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO SEPARATE THE GLASS, PLASTIC, PAPER, ETC. So she tricked me into agreeing to recycle by saying she would pick up my recyclables every week when she brought Hellbaby for me to keep and she would put it in her bin. All I had to do was not throw the stuff in the trash. So I was all on board and even got the husband and the son mostly trained to put the paper and plastic and beer cans in the recycling bag which is no small accomplishment since those two can’t even remember to close a cabinet door or drawer or pick their damn socks up off the floor.

But now—NOW, after a month, Alice says there’s too much recycling for her bin and I need to take it someplace else. Well, fuck that noise. I have already enumerated the reasons why this is not a feasible proposition for me, and she can be as judgey  and superior-feeling she wants, because I am quite certain her profligate use of paper towels, cleaning wipes, and disposable diapers more than offsets her puny recycling attempts. I USED CLOTH DIAPERS, BITCHES, BACK WHEN NOBODY WAS DOING IT. It was the 80s, man, and it SUCKED. And I don’t even have paper towels in my house. IT’S CALLED A DISHRAG, YO.

AND MY GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DOGS WILL NOT STOP BARKING AT EACH OTHER. I have four dogs, and these dogs have grown up together from puppyhood, and now in their middle age, they have decided that they either do not like or are afraid of each other. Husband’s devil dog was just now barking at my dog—who happens to be her father—for no reason that I could tell except that he was chewing on his foot. Maybe her eyesight is going and she thought it was a bone. Or maybe she was having a traumatic flashback to their one incestuous encounter, although I still say she enticed him. And the big dog was lying across the doorway to the hall like a big hairy moat that the other three are terrified to cross so they stand three feet from him and bark and whine and carry on while he ignores them completely.

And Husband is crippled up something awful. He’s going to the doctor this afternoon because his shoulder is hurting so badly he can hardly breathe, but I have a gloomy suspicion that the doc is going to say, Yep, you have advanced osteoporosis and neuropathy and bone spurs and that’s what you get when you’re sprayed with fluorosilicic acid. But that’s a stabby story for another day.  But when he’s feeling so poorly he takes to the bed, it blights my entire outlook and I just want to crawl into bed with him and hide under the covers.

BUT I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT BECAUSE I GOTS STUFF TO DO. Stuff to do with my sore fingers. Gah.

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I just awoke from a dream in which I told Husband about a dream I had in which I became very, very angry with him and when I tried to explain why the dream upset me so (still in the dream), I became angry at him for not being, in my opinion, understanding enough.

He made me angry because he put my Linda Hand doll in the oven and melted her. He melted or otherwise defaced some other toys, too, but only the Linda Hand doll was mine and it was the worst offense.

Now, in the real world, I do not have, nor have ever had, a Linda Hand doll. Who the fuck is Linda Hand, anyway?

[Side note: I just googled “Linda Hand” and in addition from the usual links for Facebook, LinkedIn, etc. found this disturbing video:

It’s most disturbing because THAT’S THE TEXTURE AND COMPLEXION OF MY LINDA HAND!!!]

In my dream, this doll was based on the actress Linda Hand, who starred in a TV series as some sort of (maybe) superhero crime fighter. I have a vague sense of Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman crossed with Farrah Fawcett’s Charlie’s Angel. Come to think of it, she looked a little like Farrah, but without the tan and I-do-my-hair-with-an-eggbeater hairstyle. Linda Hand had a blonde shoulder-length pageboy, no bangs, almost platinum but with a hint of ash. She was Barbie-ish in size and proportions, but lacked Barbie’s hard meth-whore skin tones.

Yes, I have very vivid and detailed dreams.

I discovered the crime against Linda Hand while I was cooking (this should have immediately alerted me to the fact that I was having a dream. Me? Cooking??? Maybe in Husband’s dreams.) I suspect though that someone else had started the meal preparation and I was taking over, maybe for Husband, because he usually does the cooking and in the dream he was asleep. Also there was broccoli boiling on the stove, and I would never, ever boil broccoli. I mean, EW. It was all mushy and slimy, too. DOUBLE EW. EW EW. And every time I went to check on the items on the stove (there were other pots, and some cornbread frying in a skillet, and I would also never fry cornbread), there was somehow broccoli dribbling down the front of the stove, and I was yelling, “How does this goddamn broccoli keeping getting out of this pot???” but no one bothered to answer me.

It was when I checked on the French fries baking in the oven (they were BURNT, and flat, like crinkly brown tapeworms, and again, French fries in the oven but cornbread frying in a skillet? dreams are fucking weird, I tell ya) that I discovered poor Linda Hand.

And this is where the dream really got bizarre (shut up!).  The dream stove was pretty much like the stove I have in real life (well, Husband has, the kitchen is really more his domain than mine), a big black and stainless steel gas number with six burners. But the oven door had a small wire rack on the inside, situated where the silverware basket is on some dishwashers. And that’s where poor Linda Hand was, melted. But she hadn’t melted like a plastic doll would actually melt in real life, all drippy and sticky and her face all run together. She had simply melted to fit the shape of the wire basket. She looked sort of like this:

Poor, poor Linda Hand, made more pitiful by my inept rendering. This illustration in no way captures her beauty, her grace, her kind heart and kickass crime solving abilities, even after her tragic disfigurement.

And because the wire was coated with some non-stick shiny black material and could be removed from the oven door for cleaning, I was able to remove Linda Hand’s deformed body from the rack with little difficulty.

WHO DID THIS???” I shrieked.

That woke Husband up.—Oh, I forgot to mention that the stove was in the room we had when we lived with his mother, so the bed where he was snoring was, like, five feet away.

He looked at the monstrosity I held and laughed. LAUGHED. “Oh, I did that.”

What. The. Fuck.

That’s when I noticed all the other mutilated toys scattered about the room. “You did all of this???” I asked incredulously.

He laughed some more and said, “Yep.”

“Why??? Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

He shrugged and said—wait for it—“I was bored.”

OhmyfuckinggawdIneverwantedtopunchsomebodybloodysobadasIdidhimatthatmoment. I was also a fairly good deal frightened, because mingled in with my red fury was the thought, “Oh, shit, this is just like something Joffrey Baratheon would do.”

My dream self knew I had to get out of there, and quickly, before something Very Bad Happened. Something worse than poor Linda Hand being turned into a pedicure implement, I mean.

I left the house and went for a walk. The dream walk was just as vivid and detailed as the rest of the dream but not that interesting so I will condense and say merely that at some points of the walk my dream self was familiar with my surroundings and at other times I was not, like I was either visiting or had just moved to this town where my stove and my mother-in-law’s house was. Oh! Now I remember. We were in the process of moving, but out of her house, not into it, so maybe that’s why the stove was in the bedroom? I remember this because during my cooking, I listened to four voicemails from a little boy (fourish? five?) who was asking to come to the house and play with my children. (My children in the dream were my children, at the age they were when we actually did live with my mother-in-law, but in that weird way of dreams, Hellbaby was also there, at her present age, but sometimes she was my youngest nephew, at her age). I called the little boy back (I don’t remember his name, only that he was cute and had red hair. Not carroty red, but that sandy red that comes with brown eyes and not-so-freckled skin as redheads usually have), but I got his stupid mother, and I could hardly understand or hear what she was saying, but the gist I got was that this little boy’s parents were desperate to foist him off on someone else and I was just as desperate that it not be me, because as nice as he was, I already had a houseful of children and a pan full of smushy broccoli and an asshole husband who was wrecking everybody’s toys. Anyway, one of the excuses I gave her for not having invited the little boy over was that we were in the middle of a move.

Anyway, I returned from my walk and somehow as I reentered the house, I realized that I had dreamed all that about Linda Hand and wanting to kill Husband before I packed all my shit and my kids and left his corpse forever.

And that seemed to be the case, because he was cooking, as things should be in a right and wakeful world, and I started to tell him the dream, thinking we would have a good laugh at the ridiculousness of my unconscious mind, but he cut me off, saying, “You already told me this.”

“Wha. . . ? I did?” I was genuinely confused.

“Yes. You told me you had a dream that I melted your stupid doll and were all pissed at me about it and then you got really pissed because I laughed at you for being pissed at me for being upset over a stupid doll in a dream. This is actually the third time you’ve told me. And the second time you’ve come back from running out of the house for ‘a walk,’ leaving me here with all these damn kids trying to make dinner for everybody.” (Dream Husband has much better grammar than Real Husband, but is also a condescending bastard that Real Husband isn’t at all.)

And then I got all freaked out because I couldn’t remember any of that, and if I couldn’t remember it, did it really happen and was this even really happening or was this just another dream and was I finally going really, truly insane or was I just caught in some endless repeating dream loop and OH MY GOD SOMEBODY HELP ME PLEASE.

And then I really realized I was dreaming, the whole damn thing was a dream, and I woke up and Husband told me I had been talking in my sleep. Probably bitching him out about melting Linda Hand. And I told him about my dream and we laughed and laughed. The End.

But I would really like to have a Linda Hand doll. She was pretty. Before she got all melted-y, that is.

 

 

 

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Sorry for the poor image quality. I'm too lazy to Photoshop it and it's the only wedding pic I have handy. Maybe the only pic I have at all, after the great potato room fire of '09. And shut up. It's not that much of a mullet. And no, I'm not twelve there.

Today is my wedding anniversary. That’s Husband and I cutting the cake at our reception. You might have already deduced that we didn’t go the traditional wedding route. I didn’t even want to have a wedding. I was divorced with two small children and I just didn’t think it was appropriate to have a big wedding, somehow, even though I didn’t have a big wedding the first time around, either. But Husband, then Fiance, told me quite emphatically, “You’ve had a wedding. I haven’t had a wedding, and I’m having a wedding.” (Yes, somehow he’d managed to escape nuptials until the ripe old age of 30. His mother told me she had never seen the face nor known the name of any woman he’d ever dated until me. She added that she might have thought he was gay if his sisters, who did a lot of restaurant serving and bartending back in those days, didn’t report seeing him out with women in what appeared to be romantic situations.)

So I said, “FINE. But I’m not wearing white and we’re not doing some big church thing and for god’s sake WE ARE NOT WRITING VOWS.”

And he said that was okay by him, he just wanted to stand up in front of friends and family and say vows and have a big party afterward with lots of drinking and dancing. His nephew, then four, was his best man, and his niece, then five, was my maid of honor. My boys, almost three and five, walked me down the aisle and gave me away. I did not wear white, as you can see. I almost did not wear that dress, in fact, because when I went to my mother’s home for a last fitting, SHE HAD MADE THE DRESS BY AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT PATTERN FROM WHAT WE HAD PREVIOUSLY AGREED AND THERE WAS NO MORE FABRIC TO BE HAD FOR A REDO. Her explanation? “The more I thought about it, the more I realized that dress you’d picked would just make your ass look broad as a barn.” I WAS A SIZE FOUR. It was the fucking Zoom Loom all over again.

But back then Bridezillas wasn’t a thing (hell, reality TV wasn’t a thing!) and I was the one who said I didn’t care about a fucking wedding anyway, and the dress was still pretty although not what I had envisioned. . .

And yes, that is a penguin couple on top of the cake. And penguin gummies marching around the top tier. I told you we weren’t traditional. Why penguins? Well, this also happened:

The summer before, Husband, then just Boyfriend, and I went to a mutual friend’s wedding in another town. This was our first out-of-town-weekend-getaway, and I was nervous as my damn neurotic dog in a thunderstorm. Well, maybe not quite that nervous. I wasn’t shaking uncontrollably and frothing at the mouth, after all. And turns out I shouldn’t have been nervous, because we had a lovely time, stayed in a beautiful historic hotel with a hot tub and within walking distance of a fantastic jazz club, where most of the wedding party decamped after the reception and where I proceeded to become very, very intoxicated.

On the stagger walk back to the hotel, we passed a gift shop specializing in knickknacks of the ceramic and blown glass variety. The name of the place should say it all: Chez Julie. I glanced in the window and saw these hugging penguins and decided they were the most enchanting things I had ever laid eyes on. “Look!” I cooed. (I never coo.) “It’s us.”

Yes, friends, those words actually came out of my mouth. I told you, I was DRUUUUUUNK. Husband then Boyfriend just barely refrained from rolling his eyes and said, “Mm hmm, come on, we’re almost there,” or something to that effect.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “You think they’re tacky!” I shrieked. (And why wouldn’t he?) “And you think I’m tacky for liking them!”

He: “No, no, of course I don’t. They’re nice.”

Me: “NO THEY’RE NOT. You think they’re tacky and you think I’m tacky and we should just end this right now because obviously we were not meant to be together!”

Seriously, is there anything more charming that a screaming, sobbing, suddenly unreasonable to the point of psychosis drunk?

This went on for several more minutes, me screaming and crying and him insisting that he did not think the penguins or me were tacky at all, but I KNEW HE WAS A LIAR AND JUST WANTED TO GET MY DRUNK ASS OFF THE STREET. (I was sober enough to realize I was making an embarrassing scene but just blitzed enough to not give a shit.) He even went so far as to start across the street in hopes that I would follow, but I obstinately sat on the curb and wailed even louder.

So there he was, my normally quiet and reticent boyfriend, standing in the middle of a busy street in the center of a busy tourist town at the height of the tourist season, pleading with me to please haul my drunk sprawling ass off the sidewalk and come with him. By this time we had attracted quite a crowd of spectators who were divided in their opinions: Some said, Aw, he seems like a nice guy, you should go with him. Others held my view, blurry as it was: If he thought I was tacky, he should be the one on the curb.

Then he took the deepest of breaths and yelled, “I DO NOT THINK YOU ARE TACKY. I THINK YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND I LOVE YOU.”

Oh. My. God. You’ve all seen John Cusack holding that boombox over his head in “Say Anything”? It was just like that, except without a boombox or John Cusack and was there rain in that scene? It wasn’t raining, even better, and even better than that, it was happening to ME, not that dopey Ione Skye. So then EVERYONE starting chanting “GO WITH HIM. GO WITH HIM.”

And I did. And here we are, almost twenty years later, because it’s only our nineteenth anniversary, and that happened almost a year before we got married.

Oh! And that year for Christmas? Oh, yes, there was a present under the tree that turned out to be THE LOVE PENGUINS to me FROM HIM. What else could we have put on top of the wedding cake??? Exactly.

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So Younger Son comes in the other evening carrying grocery bags. I scream, as I typically do when someone enters the house with evidence of shopping, “What did you get me?!!?”

He says, “Your voice is very annoying.” RUDE.

I say, “Well, your habit of making a mess in the kitchen and not cleaning it up is very annoying.” (And it is. Boy NEVER cleans up after himself. Not just in the kitchen. Anywhere. Ever. But he does make some killer nachos.)

He says, “Yes, but I’ve made my peace with that. ” And leaves the room. Leaving me to ponder why I let him live here.

Oh, yeah. Killer nachos.

 

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There’s not much to say about this, and nobody will think it’s funny but me, but I can’t help that it cracks me up everytime I pull into my driveway (well, it’s more of a cleared dirt track, but, whatever).

See that tree behind the building? The one with all the purple flowers hanging from it? (I included the building to give y’all some sense of the height of the tree. It’s not a terribly tall building, but it’s a respectable height. Y’all would call it a storage building, but we call it the potato room, because that’s what the previous owners of this place called it. Once upon a time it contained canned goods and berries and yes, potatoes, from their extensive garden; but now it’s full of books and toys from my and my boys’ childhoods and school papers and books and sewing and crafting scraps and oh my gawd did I mention books? Yeah. A lot of books. And yes, the potato room is looking somewhat dilapidated because of that time Younger Son let a pile of burning leaves get away from him and almost burnt the whole damn place down. The plan is to eventually tear it down, but first I have to find another place for all those books.)

That’s a VINE, y’all. It’s wisteria, and it wasn’t there when Husband and I bought this here little acreage almost fifteen years ago. It’s an pure accident of laziness. One day, what? six years ago or so? Husband and I decided we were going to do YARD WORK, and we were going to PLANT THINGS, and our motivation lasted just long enough for us to go to Home Depot and buy some azaela bushes and bulbs and a sprig of wisteria in one of those plastic bags with some dirt in it and get home and put those things on the potato room porch (yes, the storage building has a porch. Shut up. I didn’t design it) and forget all about them.

The azaelas shriveled up and died and I’m pretty sure the squirrels got the bulbs, but the wisteria burst from its sack and just sort of took over. There’s a lot more of it to the left of the potato room on the fence, but I couldn’t get a picture of that without getting a picture of the junk pile in front of the fence, and no one needs nor wants to see that. I’m confident the wisteria will soon cover this pile and hide it, thus saving me the trouble from hauling all that junk to the dump. Of course, there’s an equally good chance that it will infiltrate my house (we’ve already beat back tendrils that came in between cracks in the brick in the chimney) and smother me in my sleep and why was I laughing oh god I just realized I’m in danger send help and pick axes and I don’t know maybe herbicide.

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I know y’all were probably expecting part III of the lame conversation NotReallyAlice and I had been having, but really, was that going anywhere? I didn’t think so either, and frankly, now I can’t even remember what we were talking about.

And I need to write the post in which I accept my award from Flannery, and I’ll get to that, pinkie swear I will, but this is pretty funny, if I do say so myself, and something just about everyone can appreciate, since we’re all Draw Something crazy right now. I have only a dozen or so games going, so if you’re bored or masochistic or just enjoy really bad renderings, start a game with me. My user name is Ms Flappy.

Anyway, I saw on Facebook the other day a picture my niece had posted that her boyfriend had drawn for her to solve in Draw Something, and I thought, well, how fun would it to be to play her! Because, you see, my niece is wacky and funny and she lives in Florida now because she’s a big brave girl and I miss her but because she’s busy and I’m lazy, we don’t do a great job of keeping in touch. So Draw Something would be one way to sort of do that, right?

So I created a game using the user name I saw in the picture she posted, which consisted of her first name and her last initial. It took a couple of days and a couple of nudges before she took her turn. I don’t remember if she guessed my first picture correctly or not, but considering what transpired later, I’m going to say not. Then I eagerly waited to see what goofy rendering she would offer me.

Well, goofy is not even the word for it. I wish I had taken screen shots, but I will attempt to recreate to the best of my ability the “pictures” we drew each other over the course of three days or so with my new Bamboo tablet which I have actually had, what? three months? and my husband is sort of pissed that I have not used it before now because I was all, I have to have a drawing tablet because it takes SO LONG to draw pictures with my track pad on my laptop and I could be a much better blogger and get a KABILLION blog hits and THOUSANDS of COMMENTS and ADVERTISERS and make MONEY and you’d NEVER HAVE TO WORK AGAIN and he took me to Best Buy and bought me the best tablet because I HAD TO HAVE IT RIGHT THAT VERY MINUTE and I was berserk with excitement and tweeted about it and came home and installed all the software and actually READ THE INSTRUCTIONS and DID THE TUTORIAL and . . . I haven’t touched it since. But that’s how I am. I get these ideas in my head and husband does whatever he can to MAKE IT SO, and then I get overwhelmed with my own ambition and have to lie down for a few days. But now I am READY to USE THE HELL OUT OF THAT TABLET.

So, back to Draw Something and my niece. I sent her a picture, I don’t know what it was, but something brilliant I’m sure, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t guess it correctly, and I was somewhat nonplussed because I seriously thought she was much brighter than that, and then she sent me a picture, only it wasn’t a picture; it was something that sort of looked like this:

And I’m all, what the hell? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Wireless??? Obviously this is a clue of some kind, but damned if I know what she’s trying to get at. Then I looked at my letters, because a near-obsession with Words with Friends and Hanging with Friends has made me pretty good at seeing words in a jumble of seemingly random letters. (Again, Ms Flappy. Hit me up if you’re in the mood for an ass whupping. MAKE SURE YOU PUT A SPACE BETWEEN Ms AND Flappy.) And there it was. Huh. Wireless. Well, no points for effort or creativity there. But I entered the correct formation of letters and then it was my turn again and I thought I would jokingly chide my niece for her non-stellar performance. Before I drew my picture, I wrote

(Isn’t it fun to write notes to each other in Draw Something? I saw in the suggestions forum an idea to include a chat option, like WWF and HWF have, but really, why? Just draw/write it on the screen before getting down to real business.)

Knowing my niece as I do, which has been all her life, I expected her to laugh and come back with some smartass retort. Instead I got this (over several “pages”):

And that’s what she sent as her turn. Again, WHAT THE HELL? I mean, everyone in our family knows my niece has a tendency to be a drama queen—she’ll readily admit it herself—but it’s not like her to get all angsty and butt hurt over a GAME. And did you catch the dreaded and godawful “your” in place of “you’re”? Was she ’shrooming or what?

So no coins for that turn. Goddammit. I NEED those beach colors! I wrote back

I then I drew a picture of a very creditable stable and sent it off.

She missed it entirely, which really annoyed the helll out of me, because I put WORK into that picture, y’all. Very lifelike horses and everything.

I received

WELL. That smacks of downright disrespect. And to her favorite aunt, of all people! This called for A Conversation.

Damn! There is that "your" instead of "you're" again.

Ever on the alert for a blog topic. Like a professional, yo!

 Oh. My. Shit. My niece started a game with me, and it’s the same name, only she has a period after her last initial, whereas this other person doesn’t: Niece’s First Name Y as opposed to Niece’s First Name Y. I have been insulting a COMPLETE STRANGER. And probably a twelve-year-old girl stranger at that. I tried to explain to her what had happened in one last turn, but I’m not sure it sent properly, because you know how Draw Something is sometimes kind of glitchy, or maybe it’s just my iffy internet service out here in the boonies, because she (I’m going with the assumption that it’s a she; if it’s a he, bless his heart, he’s probably getting the shit beat out of him at school every day for being such a whiny ass) didn’t reply but just sent me something that resembled this:

 

and you know how you can’t get out of a game until you take your turn, so I just passed, even though I could have probably guessed it anyway from the letters, and I sent her a blank page because I had said I would leave her alone, but she didn’t get that message or she’s mentally deficient or she’s just fucking with me now, because SHE KEEPS SENDING ME SCRIBBLES. And stupid me, because her name is my niece’s name, I forget that that name is not the name that is the game I’m now playing with my niece (who draws quite well and hasn’t missed one of my drawings yet, thank GAWD), and I keep clicking on that game and then I have to go through the whole rigmarole (huh. I always thought that word was “rigAmarole,” but spell check says it is “rigmarole,” so I and everyone I have ever known have been saying it wrong our whole lives) AGAIN and it is just ridiculous and DRAW SOMETHING DEVELOPERS MAKE A “DELETE GAME” OPTION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Or is there a delete game option already and I just haven’t figured it out? As I’m amply demonstrated, I’m pretty stupid like that.

UPDATED BEFORE I’VE EVEN POSTED:  Okay, so apparently there is a way to get out of a game, because today I received a notification from the imposter that she had resigned and I had an X on that game and I clicked on it and it went away. Yay! I win!!! BUT how did she do that???

 

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