Update: Swimming with Count Dooku With a Sack'a Rocks Around my Neck.

Ya wanna know what's funny? When I got up this morning I was thinking I'd cheer myself up with a lil Wookin Pa Nub. Haven't done that in fuckin AGES, and I always feel so beautiful afterwards, don't you? :) But you're getting this instead. Enjoy.

Yes, I've admitted that there's shit I don't tell you. And it really shouldn't bother you. Because the shit I DO tell you is fuckin brilliant, right? You love it.

Sometimes, the only thing good about something shitty is that it falls into the category of Shit I Can Blog About. There's plenty of Shit I Can't Blog About, like my utterly phenomenal ChickDate Debut which included dinner, drinks and a drag show and ended with R fixing all three of us post-coital waffles the next morning. Nope. Not goin' there. Sorry.

(And I just heard the sound of jaws all over the world dropping simultaneously.)

This morning, loyal readers, I actually found great comfort in the fact that, even in the eye of the shit storm, I could cling to the bloggability of the whole fucking thing. I truly believe that I can laugh in the face of danger, as I formulate the anecdotal narrative in my head, peppered with every fucking expletive I can fucking think of. I even think of words that sound particularly fuckin delicious next to the word Fuckin. That's one of my fuckin favorite pastimes, actually. Try it.

This morning started off rather typically, at about 9:30am I heard the garbage truck coming down Wisteria Lane and I suddenly remembered, Oh shit, I forgot to put the trash out. So still in my jammies, I slipped into my Hella Sexy pink Crocs and went to the garage, and saw that I needed to move the Odyssexy before I could get the to the trashcans.

(See, all this seems unimportant now, but trust me.)

So I moved the van into the driveway, dragged the cans out to the curb in the pouring rain, and went back to my life, which, on a typical weekday morning, is chatting with Cool Kevin. Yeah, I knew I couldn't fool y'all, you're onto it. It's cool, though. That relationship's another for the Shit I Can't Blog About pile, more just because it really kinda just defies description than because of anything particularly steamy therein. Hell, I don’t even understand it half the time, but I digress.

At this point it's about 10, and I'm still in my jammies (Shut up.) and my doorbell rings. I figured it was the garbage people telling me that the slimy wet rug that R and I pulled out of our wet basement after the major flooding around here two weeks ago was too big for them to take, and that I was going to have to somehow load the smelly, dripping wet thing into the Sexy Minivan and find a place to abandon it.

So that's what was in my head when I answered the door. Where am I going to dump that nasty rug? How am I going to get the smell out of the van?

And then I opened the door.

FUCKIN SWAMP THING.

I had actually kinda been thinking it'd been a while since we'd last seen her, (click here to refresh your memory) so I was about due.

BUT SHE SHOWED UP AT MY FUCKING FRONT DOOR.
UNANNOUNCED.

A SWAMP THING HOME INVASION.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKIN FUCK.

Dammit, WHY the fuck didn't I move the van back into the garage and close it? Then I could have pretended we weren't home. Fuck.

I was so stunned, as I stood with the door open in my Hella Sexy jammies and fluffy pink bathrobe, that it took my brain a second to process who she was. And then I heard her unmistakable voice, reminiscent of a blender full of gravel, full blast.

Oh, Hiiiiii, Sarah!

Um, hey... how's it, um, goin?

(Those are the words I said out loud. Going forward, I shall distinguish my inside-my-head-voice with italics, just for clarification.)

Well, we were just in the neighborhood and little Camille said MOM! THAT'S PIE'S STREET!! STOP!!! STOP THE CAR!!! LET'S GO ASK HIM FOR A PLAY DATE!!! so, y'know, I said Ok, Camille, calm down... so I thought we'd just drop by and...

No. NO. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

... since we haven't had a play date in a while...

And I really hadn't missed you, other than that you're such fuckin PREMIUM blog fodder.

... Camille's been bugging me...

And we mustn't let Swamp Thing Junior be disappointed. You know what, that's exactly it. Camille's actually the Swamp Thing here, she's the one running this fuckin dipshit puppet show.

... so, anyway...

(Notice I haven't invited her ass IN. Here's my out loud voice coming up.)

(Cough, cough) Oh, well, I'm kinda sick...

So, tomorrow, then? What time to you get back from dropping Tito off?

HELLO!!! How fucking creepy is it that the woman knows my fuckin schedule? I don't even remember where I'm supposed to be, most days. I'm sleepin with one eye open, from now on.

About 9:30. That's fine, you can DROP HER OFF at 9:30.

That's DROP OFF, Bitch, and I swear to God, if you invite your own ass to stick around, I WILL OPEN UP A FUCKING VEIN IN MY NECK, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, you fucking psycho stalker freak.

(end scene)

Ok, coupla things here. First of all, Jesus Christ, ever hear of a FUCKIN PHONE? Ever hear of maybe TELLING YOUR KID NO? Who's the grown-up?

Tell your kid, We'll call when we get home. I myself would have thrown in the words Jeez, SHUT UP ALREADY, but that's just my personal parenting style. It's not for everyone.

Secondly, it's important to note that the distance from her house to my house, according to Mapquest, which allows for traffic and speed limits and whatnot, is a whopping 1.02 miles. Fuckin WALKING DISTANCE, people. A 3-minute drive, at most. Probably not even that, if you drive like I do.

And, yes. I gave in. I did. I'm not proud of it. What would you have done, when ambushed by a Swamp Thing Surprise Attack in your own home? I just wanted her to LEAVE. I really thought she'd hit the pinnacle when she called and attempted to crash Pie's playdate last time, but no. I'm not safe anywhere.

I suppose there's something to be said for the CONVENIENCE of not having to leave my own house to get some pretty good bloggable shit. I didn't even have to get dressed. And here I was thinking the best I'd have to talk about this week was how much fun it is to take two little boys along on a Tampon Run. ("What ARE those, Mommy? What are they FOR? Can I have some? You always buy stuff for YOURSELF, Mommy! Dat not fair!! You MEAN!!!")

Go ahead and say it, I'm a spineless jackass. I know. And it's funny, too, because you can see that I talk a big game inside my head, what with the Open Up A Vein In My Neck talk, but deep down, you know I'd pass out at the sight of it and then I wouldn't get the fiendish delight of enjoying her reaction. I'm such a pussy.

Yeah, I'll tell everybody listening that I'll fuck somebody up if they fuckin fuck with me, but anyone who truly knows me (and really, I think you ALL do), knows all they'd have to do is call me out on it with a "Aiiiiight, Bitch, let's fuckin TANGLE!" And I'd be all... um, just kiddin'... I'm pathetic. I'm all talk.

But it's great for blogging, innit?

Seriously, who fucking DOES that???!!!? I mean, me and Anti-Stella are tight (although recent unbloggable revelations just might make her re-think that - but would it help at all if I told you I think you're gorgeous?), but I'd NEVER just show up at the woman's house. EVER. I know I could in an emergency, sure, and she could do the same at my house, absolutely. But neither of us would do that to the other, just because we have this thing called Social Graces.

And WANTING TO HAVE A PLAY DATE TOMORROW is NOT an emergency, Camille. It's not.

God, now I'm wishing they hadn't taken that smelly wet rug. I could have wrapped Swamp Thing's body in it and tossed it down a fucking mine shaft.