Anyone know how deep your standard moat needs to be? I’m talking the Keep the Black Knight at Bay variety here.
I can’t sit down for five minutes without someone ringing the door bell, triggering 30lbs of dachshund fury unlike any this world has never seen, and making me crawl out from under my Snuggie and put on my Pretending Not to Hate You face as Calvin and Theo scream bloody murder directly into each of my ears. Because, you know, I might have missed the doorbell.
They just want to be sure I’m kept in the loop. Loudly.
And yes – I have a Snuggie. It was free and I love it and just try and judge me you sonsofbitches. Your looks can’t hurt me under its fleecey goodness. And yes – it really does make answering the phone, changing the channel, or reading a book as easy as it looks. However, the designers clearly wanted to kill anyone who attempted to move from the sitting position into motion on hardwood. I have almost died many painful, fuzzy deaths.
But just so we’re clear, when lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, it wouldn’t be the Snuggie keeping me from being able to call 911 the way a regular, unsleeved blanket would. It would be the fact that my elbows would be in shattered pieces on the floor.
But back to my need for Medieval defenses. Between the Mormons who call and visit once a week and the Jehovas whom the newf has now also offered visitation rights, our home is a hub of spiritual awakening and I’m the moral-less sinner with no gag reflex that everyone has to pass on the way in.
I’m annoyed to the point of moving out yet I can’t bring myself to leave. I’d hate to think I’d miss the uptight, religious dance-off I know is coming. Picture it. Seriously. I’ll wait…
But I got a pleasant surprise over the weekend though when the doorbell rang: CHEERLEADERS.
Now, you have to understand that as a high school student who was relatively low on the high school totem pole – The Gay wasn’t cool yet – I’m predisposed to like any social group that made me feel shitty once upon a time.
Anyhow, they were doing a bottle drive in support of Thinspiration (or something) Camp slash giving the creepy, suburban dads the thrill of a lifetime.
It was like a gaggle of Miley Cyruses delivered straight to their doors.
And just like high school, the cheerleaders were nice to me until I gave them whatever they asked for and then they left, never to invite me to the spring formal or watch their boyfriends wrestle in pudding down by the creek EVEN THOUGH THEY SAID THEY WOULD.
Seriously….they must have made $300 off the crates of empty bottles we gave them.
But that’s a red flag for another day.