Ooh, Speaking of Which ... Okay, Where Was I?

Oh, man!

I just spent two hours writing something that was really pithy and absurd, all about the week we’ve had here at the AssVac. And then, when I was this close to finished, I went to confirm a fact with Johnny, and he said:

“You’re not writing that, are you? You can’t write that! That person reads your blog!”

Balls.

Why does he have to be such a good, proud husband and tell absolutely everyone he meets about this stupid thing?

So, since I can’t publish what I wrote (but don’t worry, it wasn’t about you), and since I also can’t stomach the thought of coming up with another whole new topic and spending another couple hours in here on another snowy Sunday morning (ahem, by now, afternoon), I’ve decided to present just the digressions. The little parentheticals that distract me when I try to tell a tale. You won’t understand the context of them, but then, that’s probably the case most other times – n’est pas?

Without further ado, then, I present:

Blah blah blah something about how Johnny finally has a bit of work this week for the first time since almost June…

(It’s interesting to note that our kitchen, despite this respite, still isn’t finished yet. But we’re not going to start that fight here, now, are we? No. We will fess up, however, to throwing a little hissy fit last night when somebody suggested he might take our new Home Depot gift card and buy trim. “Maybe you should finish the painting first?” somebody else suggested. Then the first somebody got defensive and insisted “All that's left are bits and pieces!”

Um. Ahem?

 At least he found a minute in his busy schedule to hang potholders.

So you’ll forgive somebody if what she said next was less than civil, the jist of which was “Maybe you should finish up those bits and pieces before starting on new bits and pieces that also won’t get done!” Okay, yeah, that was pretty much verbatim. And then the drinking started. Anyway…)

I had decided to let this next bit stay because it was really a digression, too, even though it started off by pretending to get back to the point. But when I read it out of context, it just came across as angry and a little mean. Which is really not like me at all... So I took it out.

This next part had all the really hysterical, insulting stuff – none of it about you guys, relax. It was like, let’s see -- it was like if I said the reason George Bush's face looks that way all the time is because he’s constantly stepping in piles of his own doo, but he doesn’t want to take the silver spoon out of his mouth long enough to scrape it off. Like that, only funnier, and not about George Bush. (Also not about you guys, I promise. I love you guys! But maybe just a little about doo.)

And then this happened…

(On another little digression, may I just say this about Obama’s economic recovery plan? I don’t understand it and I won’t pretend to, but it seems to me that building roads and schools and bridges can only turn out to be a good thing, and if it puts people to work and gets the machine chugging again, that’s also grand. If I hear one more time, though, about how infrastructure-building “leaves the women out,” or “doesn’t consider the white-collar workers,” I’m going to start throwing hammers. During the Great Depression my great-grandfather hung himself because he couldn’t find a job or feed his family. His wife, who I’m sure found it much easier to raise their six children all alone, moved her entire brood into a one-room schoolhouse and did what she had to do in order to survive. I don’t even know all the things she did, but you can bet your ass that if someone had handed her a rivet gun in the middle of it all she would sure as shit have wielded it with pride. And if her husband, on the other hand, had been able to don any kind of collar – white or blue – he would never have wound up wearing the rope. So just shut up. All of you. Or I swear to god.)

So, um, that’s pretty funny, no? Plus look at me, making all these George Bush and Obama references, yet the original post wasn’t even remotely about the inauguration (it was not about you, either, okay? Jeez).

Unfortunately, that was just about the end. By which I mean, the two pages that came after more or less managed to stay on point. Which is something of a miracle for me, you understand, but there you go.

So maybe next Sunday I will actually manage to turn in an essay for you. Something witty and ridiculous but not insulting – not directly, anyway. Except to me. And maybe Johnny. And to YOU. Yeah, you. You know who you are. You have ruffled my tailfeathers one too many times, I tell you what. You are officially On Notice here. So watch your back.


In the meantime, we’ll get back to all the many reasons why I can’t write anymore. For example:

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Shit, man, I’m surprised I'm managing to keep the blood inside my ears.

(I kid. He worked really hard this week, and he was even working in the kitchen for a few days. He deserves a snowy Sunday off. And it's not like I'm doing anything productive either. As soon as I publish this piece of crap I'm taking to my bed for toast and popcorn. But don't tell him I said any of the above, okay?)