It is the weekend, so the internet is going to be a sad abandoned carnival again... but as G-d is my witness, as soon as my weird little head cold retreats (don't worry kids, not pregnant, just some sort of black plague) I'm going to catch up on all my reading. And writing. And arithmetic.
I anticipate being up and running, and all up in your uteruses (uteri... uterus.. uteruses) with a flashlight at some point this weekend. Should you be minding your own business on a weekend afternoon and suddenly feel your soul overwhelmed with sarcasm, the spirit of muppets and general shenanigans, that's me. You should be creeped out.
And now, a few letters.
On November 1st I was very excited when I woke up and heard moaning. As I am a twisted pervert, one of the things I miss the most about apartment-living is hearing the neighbors' arguing, making whoopie, or doing both simultaneously.
I was terribly disappointed, however, when I discovered that the moaning was coming from my very loud zombie woman decoration which I had apparently left on for 12 hours. In her defense she only gets to let it all out once a year - but just the same, thank you for not egging our house.
Happily Eggless, For a Change.
Dear Trick-or-Treater dressed as Mitt Romney,
I'm sorry that my initial response was to be horrified, but it's Halloween.. right? Isn't the object to scare me?
Be thankful I didn't deny you candy and then chase you down the street shouting about how asking me for treats leads to a culture of dependency.
Dear Girl Dressed as Dumbledora-the-Explorer,
You win Halloween. Maybe even life.
Shamefully didn't get it at first, blames headcold.
Dear Parents of Trick-or-Treaters,
A few things. One, if you're in your 40s or above, I think it's safe to say you shouldn't be asking me to put candy into your plastic bag.
Two, though Kali is stunning and dressed in a SWAT outfit, please, Dads, do not take pictures of her.
Three, though it is Kali & I's third year of handing out candy together, we are not your friendly neighborhood lesbians. Again, easy on the pictures. Admittedly it's unfortunate that a hoard of you walked up as I was pretending to lick the candy and she was grabbing my boob, but it's all very innocent.
My husband is not the pimp you think he is
Dear Bub's White Blood Cells,
Look, you're German. You're supposed to have a crazed need for power and dominance. I get it. I thoroughly appreciate that you knock out enough shit to not get him sick, but if you could also knock out those last little traces of awful so that I don't get sick, that would be great. My white blood cells are Welsh. They would like to be left alone to herd sheep or something, please.
Dear Bub's Tonsils,
I can appreciate that you are the one thing those badass German white blood cells can't fix. You need to come out, I get it. But it's like sleeping next to an angry bear. An angry bear with a chain saw. An angry bear trapped under a boulder whose only means of escape is cutting off his own leg. If I could rip you out with my barehands without hurting Bub or having to wear him as a glove for all eternity, I would.