It's Not Paranoia If They Really Are After You
April 10, 2005 ... 1:49 p.m.
Oscar: “So, if you think about, that’s like your mom and dad ...”
Eibisch: ““Hey! You know what?”
Oscar: “What?”
Eibisch: “If you never again speak of my parents having sex, I will STILL be irrevocably traumatized!””
And so it begins.
Again.
Some more.
Yesterday, I saw it -- the first Wasp Of Spring. It was just hovering outside the deck doors. Looking for a way in, no doubt.
Stupid Noah and his stupid two of every stupid creature stupidity. My friend assures me, though, that God has a reason for wasps.
Of course, who's to say that reason is not sheer amusement from my terror?
But, darling readers, do you remember how you scoffed at my assertion that the desire to torture me is passed from wasp generation to wasp generation? Remember? Oh, silly Eibisch! Silly, silly Eibisch, you all tut-tutted. Do you remember? Because I do.
What say you now? That’s right. That is a wasp. A baby wasp. A tiny wasp. A teeny wasp. A waspette, if you will.
Picture it. April. 2005. I’m cleaning my bathroom with a delightful Green Tea scented cleanser. As I wash the counter, I move the larger of my two Guzmania plants (which are dying, so I’m sad but my mom said I could get a palm tree, so I’m happy) and what to my wondering eye should appear? Why, it appeared to be a housefly upon barely glancing.
La la la la ... I kind of flicked it into the sink (yes, it was dead -- thank the Lord for small favors), intending to send it down the drain with some nice, hot water. It only made it halfway down the side of the sink and I realized it ... wasn’t ... a ... fly.
Okay. Deep breath. Count to 10.
Perhaps it was a sweat bee.
It was not.
Perhaps it was a small honey bee.
It was not.
And now we’re entering new territory. Frightening territory. Eibisch-has-lost-her-already-tenuous-grasp-on-reality territory.
Aaaaannnndd ...... *snap*
Maybe it’s a model ... or ... or papiêr maché ... but the wings ... it could be a tiny collectible statue ... or ... or a huge mutant flea ... but the thorax ... it could be a Transformer ... an Autobot or, you know, a Decepticon .... yes, a Decepticon. Because it totally (deceptively!) looks like a small winged, stinging creature’s corpse sitting on my bathroom counter! And I know that just cannot be. It isn’t April 19th yet. That’s when they come. 2002 -- yes, the HORROR OF 2002. 2003. 2004. Not a day earlier. See? Also, I’m not hyperventilating and doing that thing I do, where I totally immobilize my self and start screaming.
So, see? Decepticon.
Except ... do Decepticons have stripes? Yellow stripes? Brown-black stripes? I don’t thinks so. That must mean ... DEAR GOD!!!!!
WASP! WASP! WASP!
IN! MY! BATHROOM!
It’s true! TRUE, I tell you! The proof is in the photo. They ARE passing their hatred on to the next generation and are now using their infantile hordes to infiltrate my living quarters!!!!!!!!!
When, oh when, will my warnings stop falling on deaf ears?????
Bootsie and I were out and about today and some guy cut us off in traffic. My sister honked at him, because she has an overdeveloped sense of road rage and using her horn instead of her words is one of her 12 steps.
Anyway, the guy pulls up to us at a stoplight and called me a whore. And by “called”, I actually mean “screamed hatefully”.
I was shocked. I’ve heard it before, of course, and I’ve heard in context where it is intended to be humorous. But it is a truly ugly word to say to someone, let alone someone you don’t know. I just ignored him the first time he did it, although I may have given him a Look.
I ignored him the second time he did it at the second light. Not even a Look.
I ignored it the third time he did the exact same thing at yet another light. My sister was ready to ... well, I don’t know exactly, but she was MAD.
The fourth time he screamed that I was a whore, I reacted. I thought of the absurdity of this person calling me of, all people (dude, I live with my mom, the last time I whored it up was the 12th of never), a whore, and I just started laughing. I laugh long and loud and I really giggle more than laugh. Have you read the phrase “peals of laughter”? That’s me. Well, peals of giggles.
And this guy, for a second, didn’t know what do. Then, he turned crimson and started calling me every filthy thing he could think of, which only succeeded in making me laugh harder. I could barely breathe and this yahoo was apoplectic. Then Bootsie started laughing and it was a giggle fest.
It was a good thing the light changed because, right as it did, the jerk made to get out of his car.
Some people.
I’m redoing my bedroom. It has this ugly tan carpet, sky blue walls, denim blue valance and blue blinds. Which is nice for a 10-year-old boy.
Unfortunately, I am neither ten years old nor a boy. So, out it goes.
I’m keeping the plans a secret, but photos will be posted. It’s an extreme makeover!
However, if Ty Pennington pops up, I may be unable to post photos as I will be incarcerated for beating that Ritalin-deprived crackhead into a coma with his own megaphone.
Currently Reading: Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flag
Listening To: the oldies station
...we'll do the Twist, the Stomp, the Mashed Potato too--any old dance that you wanna do, but let's dance ...
