Backstory

My daughter likes to sneak up behind me and say Hi! It scares the shit out of me. I think she might be trying to kill me. To test this premise, I decided to call her bluff. I was scrambling eggs when she snuck up behind me and said Hi! I dropped the spatula and grabbed my chest and fell to the floor.

She didn't believe me.

This Sandra Bullock/Jesse James thing also scares the shit out of me. What scares me is that I care about it. But I can't help it, I keep seeing Sandra (is it Saaandra or Sondra?) telling Barbara Walters how she's finally found someone who's got her back, and it turns out the problem is what the guy's been doing behind it.

I mean, what, that's his real name? Jesse Fucking James? Who can believe that? This should've been Sandra's first clue. The fact that he's a bottom-dwelling egg-sucker is written all over the guy. Literally. Which should've been clues two through ninety-seven. I mean, this is Sandra Fucking Bullock, people, she might as well live next door. We should take Mr. James' betrayal of the wee lass very personally. It should irk us no-end that he looked her in the eyes and fucking lied like a rug.

Who says that anymore?

I got a rug burn when I fake-coronaried after my daughter snuck up behind me while I was scrambling eggs. The yayhoo who previously owned this house laid carpet in the kitchen, and my knee took it on the chin when I hit the berber. Not only that, this yayhoo carpeted the bathroom, too. Who can believe that? Even as I write, a new lifeform is evolving beneath the pile outside the shower door.

Once when I was a kid I snuck up on my mother while she was sewing my dance costume. She was sitting in a corner of the dinette at the old Singer, which spent most of its life disguised as a small curio table, until, when needed, it rose up from the bowels of its curious little home like the Phoenix. I remember taking many minutes to tiptoe across the living room to a spot inches from my mother's back, at which point I opened my rosy red mouth and said Boo!

Is it snuck or sneaked?

Speaking of rug burns. You'd think Ms. Bullock would be more evolved than to fall for a guy whose second ex-wife is a porn star and who stars in a show called Monster Garage. I mean, what, is this guy from Chisholm? A town renowned for driving a car out onto the ice of Chisholm Lake every winter, then making book on when the car would sink, which event heralded the arrival of spring. No robins or crocuses or pussywillows for that bunch, nosireebob. Need I mention Chisholm Lake was a source of drinking water for the surrounding populace? Who, in their wisdom, eventually figured things out and stopped using cars for this dubious tradition.

Now they use snowmobiles.

Speaking of dubious. You know how certain childhood events stand out in your memory as if a hidden camera filmed the whole thing? Here's the difference between my husband and me: my husband once snuck up on his mother, too...when she was playing the organ. My mother was sewing, for crissakes. On a sewing machine. With a rapidly pulsating needle. I mean, somebody might think I'm from Chisholm. Where kids have been known to sneak up on people cleaning guns. After my little surprise attack, my mother went on to sew again, but needles, er, needless to say, the finished costume did a good job of hiding my rosy red ass at the recital that evening.

Speaking of rapidly pulsating needles. I wonder if you could rig up a sewing machine to give tattoos. I have a tattoo, I got it when I turned forty. Now that I'm turning eighty, I'm thinking of getting another one. I wonder if Sandra Bullock has a tattoo. God I hope it's not on her back.

Speaking of new lifeforms. I wonder if anyone from Chisholm has ever been a porn star. I'm thinking Pussy Willow sounds about right.

Speaking of getting laid in the kitchen.

Speaking of piles outside the door. This post is one of them.