First off, I’m completely impressed by the pleas and demands appearing on Levontaun’s guestbook. Some of them made me giggle like an insane elf. Particularly the one that promised a plague of, well, plague. You’ve all made me blush. And now my rosacea’s all flaring and stuff, but it’s worth it to know what great readers I have, so there.
So yesterday…
I broke my new kitchen wall.
I was in the middle of my pissy snit and went to make a pizza for dinner. My throat hurt. My hair was wet. I had no Starbucks Guy. Viggo didn’t appreciate the Scully suit. My kitchen cupboards are empty, have no doors, there are boxes full of various kitchen implements everywhere, and there is a sink full of dirty dishes. It was the mother of all pissy snits.
I’m not proud of this but I’m telling you anyway. That’s how much I love you guys. I let you see me when I have a configuration of I Was a Teenage Pizza Face zits and goofy deflated wet hair and a very poor attitude.
There was a paint roller sitting on the stove, minus the fuzzy part you apply the paint with. I don’t know the technical jargon for that but we’ll just call it the Fuzzy Condom and leave it at that. Not that I really needed to actually provide a name for it but it makes me feel better to be comprehensive.
Anyway, a sane normal person would have picked up the paint roller thing sans Fuzzy Condom and placed it gently over by all the other construction garbage. A logical adult with dry hair and clear skin would have not tossed the paint roller over to the pile of dirty buckets, rags, and various tools.
But that’s not what I did. Because I am not such a person.
You knew that.
I whipped that mutha like a tantrum-throwing three year old. Ok, it was supposed to have been a gentle arc but it turned into a javelin event Olympic tryout. It hit the new wall and left a big old indent that screams “A Pissy Snit Tantrum Was Here”.
Oh the shame. And the worst part was that I knew that I shouldn’t have done it. And even worse was that I knew that the second Esteban saw it, his voice would reach freak out proportions and he would start getting mad at the contractors or my mom or what have you because there’s a big freaking hole in the new wall. And I really couldn’t blame him for that. So I did what any sane 30-year-old coward would do.
I called my mommy and said “I broke the wall.”
Luckily, my mother is an artist in deception. She relishes it. She distrusts the happy marriage that Esteban and I have, mostly because functional relationships are foreign to her. So it made her giddy to know that I was covering something up. She immediately came over and fixed the dent in the wall and then moved a bucket in front of it, so you can’t tell. Then she’s going to paint it so it matches the rest of the kitchen.
And don’t any of you go and tell Esteban that I broke the wall! This is hush-hush, people!!!
Oh, I’ll probably tell him.
When the kitchen is done.
Maybe.
I bought some green face powder stuff to reduce the amount of redness on my Triangle of Shame. It’s the color of Cr’me De Menthe but it says it’s created by physicians, most likely Dr. Frankenstein.
I tried some this morning and guess what? There must be a specific technique that you must use because I looked like I had been snorting some green cocaine or perhaps sticking my face in a leprechaun’s butt crack. Seriously. No one will be looking at my red zits because they’ll be too busy wondering why I look like the love child of the Jolly Green Giant and Princess Fiona, Post Ogre-ing.
Actually, the resemblance between me and Ogre Princess Fiona is rather striking. I should probably be bothered by that, but I’m not. She’s got a groovy auburn braid that I covet.
And she knows karate. And can make birds explode with the sound of her voice. That might come in handy someday.
Although, it would make my attempts at karaoke very messy indeed.
Warning: this next bit has been declared PG-13 by Tipper Gore, because she has nothing better to do these days
Because you were all so very good at urging Levontaun to update, I will give you a Weetabix extra. Something I have been hesitating to write about because I don’t want to be slapped soundly by the primary player in this story.
I know, I’ll give her a pseudonym so no one will know it is her. A second pseudonym, actually. We’ll call her Jo.
So when we were kids, my mother had an English bulldog named Scooter. Scooter was a fabulous animal, all jowly and drooly and underbitey. But Scooter had a slight personality defect. He was a humper. He loved to engage in a little hump action. We also had a collie named Seamus and the funniest thing was to watch Scooter, who weighed 50 pounds and stood approximately 14 inches high, try to mount the very tall, slender Seamus. It could entertain one for hours, and sometimes, it did.
Hey, that was when we lived in the country. There wasn’t a lot to do out there, you know?
Anyway, on Saturday mornings,my sister JO and I would watch cartoons, like any normal kids did. I would sit on the sofa and Jo would spread out on the floor, on a big floor pillow.
That was her big mistake.
From down the hall, I would hear Scooter whine in my mother’s room. She’d be sleeping in and would open the door so Scooter could get out of the room and theoretically, we would let him outside. I distinctly remember how vivid it was, hearing the sound of his toenails on the linoleum as he ambled down the hall. Then he’d pause and I could almost picture him, sniffing the air, listening to the jubilant sounds of the Smurfs coming from the living room. I’d hear the sounds of his toenails picking up speed and then I’d see him round the corner at a gallop, eyes wild, tongue lolling out greedily as he spied Jo sitting on the floor.
I must interject here and point out that Jo was six years old and weighed probably forty-five pounds. She was short for her age as well. Scooter was fifty pounds of pure canine muscle.
They say that in moments of high suspense, all of your senses are heightened. You remember tiny details. I still remember the way the dust sparkled in the morning light, the strange smell of our burnt sienna shag carpeting, the sounds of Scooter grunting as he tried to get his stubby legs up to speed.
Jo would look back over her shoulder, her face still frozen in a smile as she laughed at the antics of Gargamel and Azriel. Then it would slowly contort in surprise, then a look of horror would pass over her face as she’d realize what was about to happen.
Once he had her pinned, she was at the mercy of his hot doggy lovin’.
I’d usually laugh and laugh and then laugh some more. I was cruel. I was mean. I realize this, but you must also know that this happened every damn Saturday morning. And it’s not like Scooter was a terribly bright animal. You could foist his humping by simply not sitting on the floor like an inviting temptress. You sat on the sofa instead. The animal had three inch legs. He couldn’t jump up there to get you. It was simple physics, really.
Eventually, I would wipe the tears from my eyes and pull Scooter off her. She’d usually kick me then, for not moving sooner. I’d tell her that it wasn’t a good idea to kick the person that was saving her from a randy English bulldog. Then I’d corral him outside and she’d scurry up to the sofa.
Thus, Mo may not have been made a woman until her teens, but her legs lost their virginity a decade earlier.
Um, I mean…Jo.
Now she’s going to hurt me.
It’s a good thing I can still kick her ass.
Oh I can not wait to see the Googles I’ll be getting from this here entry.
