"Not Helping"

My neighborhood seems to be an extension of the Weirdness Magnetism I exhibit. And, of course, the nuttier the thing, the more likely it is to be at my house (or on my phone.)

Case in point: Bonk's Mom, likes animals, and was the proud and happy owner of a rat, a dog, and a mole.

Domestic pet rats have a limited shelf-life, and of course, this rat is coming up quickly on his expiration date. She calls me and tell me that the rat is sick, and do I know anything about rats? I tell her, honestly, my sum-total experience with pet rats is that they make college girls scream when used in speech class as a visual aid. (There's a direct correlation between poundage of face makeup and shriekiness.) "Not helping," she says.

She finds a vet in the area who treats pet rats. The rat's expiration date is up. While the rat is dying, the mole moves in. Tit-for-rat, I'd say, but she doesn't think I'm funny.

Now she's on the phone, calling to ask me what I know about moles. I tell her they get married to Thumbelina. "Again with the Not Helping," she says.

She calls back to tell me it's an Eastern mole, as if this helps ME. She knows it's an Eastern mole because it's noticeably lacking a hat-and-shitkickers in its tiny little luggage. But what do they eat? (obviously not BBQ, since it's an Eastern one) How does she catch it? (lasso? corral? nope.) I think she should just charge it rent, but she says that this, too, is "not helpful." What does she expect from me--there are way fewer references to Eastern than to Western in our culture, and this is my fault?

And the Saga of the Rat continues. The rat needs to be buried. Luckily she doesn't ask for my help. She calls me, after the supposed burial, to tell me that rat is currently presiding over the popsicles in her freezer, triple wrapped. I crack a rib laughing, and resolve to make excuses if she ever invites me for lunch.

While she's discussing her freezer-burnt rat, Bonk begins sneaking up behind her, whispering, "it's the mole and he's gonna get you!" Again with the cracked rib. Tit-for-rat, like I told ya.

She spends the night with a bowl of live mealy worms as bait for the uninvited mole and a dead rat in her freezer. I won't go for dinner, either.

And I thought MY family was weird.

It's for You

The wind is blowing...no, it's REALLY blowing. Enough that it's wicked cold and not fun to be out in it. My mom's power is out, but ours isn't. Which is nice, because she is sitting in the gathering dark, and we're able to post about how she's sitting in the dark.

Anyway, the Howler has discovered that one of her classmates lives one street over from my mother. Oh, and directly behind our favorite of favorite places to order greasy, bad-for-us, food.

What do those things have to do with each other?

Well, I'll tell you.

The Howler decided that she needed to call her friend to make sure they were okay if their power was out. (It is.)

I listen to the Howler on the phone, chuckling...then breaking a rib trying not to laugh. It hurt! The Howler's end of the conversation went something like this:

Hi. Is your power out? Is everyone OK though? My grammy's power is out too. She lives near you. But are you guys all OK? So what are you doing if your power is out? But that's OK? Oh, this is the Howler. Well, if you guys are OK, OK.

Yes, it's adorable. And yes, it's very sweet that she was worried about her friend. But it's hilarious that she calls, and with no preamble, jumps into a discussion about the power being out. Everyone, of course, should recognize her voice, and know immediately who she is.

She's fan-flippin'-tastic, she is.

Newsflash!

The Toad FINALLY cleaned his room. This is great, because, since opening the window, the stench of Ass Caverns has been crawling down the hall.

This is great, because he actually did IT, not just said he did...or just did a quick pretend cleaning.

This is great, because we now know how long it has been since he did last clean (and My Sweetie did most of that) because he explained the detrius strata he discovered as loaded up garbage bags (about a dozen of them, I think--oh, now he's blathering while reading over my shoulder that "there was significantly LESS than a dozen." oops. Sorry. He, and the garbage bags, go 11. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Go to work already, and stop reading over my shoulder. I hate that.

Anyway, the bestest part of the whole thing was, at 11:15pm last night, in the drizzling rain, he left the building...then came back, with a previously disposed of garbage bag. Of course, it was the bag on the bottom of the can...the first one he gave the ol' heave-ho to.

He cleared the crap and clutter off the card table that has been illegally ensconced in his room...and that bag now contained his uncashed paycheck.

Classic. Mumple Classic. (Seriously, My Sweetie, God love him, spent two hours one Christmas night cracking his ribs on a dumpster...to try to find a light switch cover that we believed had been swept up in the piles of wrapping paper and tossed. And he's done searches through bags for discarded birthday and Christmas money, too.)

He kept reminding the Toad, "At least you didn't have to crack a few ribs." And, as an after thought, at least it was a bag of PAPER, even if it was a large bag of paper, because every grown up has had to dig through bags of garbage that were very much NOT paper.

I'm headed up there now to crack open windows and fight back the stench with Febreeze.

Wish me luck.