Greetings! This edition of Crap has been brought to you by bad grammar, run-on sentences, and some bellybutton lint (compliments of 2.0).
My sister and I were supposed to go to France in November, but our trip has been delayed. My sister broke her body pretty good and we figured it wouldn’t be fun to hit the streets of Paris if I had to wheel her around in one of those contraptions they kept Hannibal Lecter strapped to.
On the plus side I’ve got more time to a) plan grubbin’ activities in Paris, and b) think about how we’ll improperly influence my brother’s children.
We had a drip in our en suite bathroom and it was getting progressively louder so 2.0 decided to DIY the repair. It took the better part of an afternoon and when he was done I was very excited to enjoy our drip-free faucet. When I went to turn on the hot water tap I found it required considerable upper body strength to turn the knob.
movita: Wow, it’s uh… quite stiff.
movita: Like… what is that? 40 pounds of pressure required to turn the tap on and off?
2.0: Is it dripping?
movita: No, bu–
2.0: IS. IT. DRIPPING?
movita: No. It is as dry as a whistle.
2.0: You wanted the drip fixed, I fixed the drip. You made no other requests. If you wanted a tap that was easy to use you should have been more specific.
On the plus side I won’t be needing that weight training program I was thinking about starting in 2020.
This week I noticed that our house smelled a bit like rotten eggs. Actually, a lot like rotten eggs. I’m not going to lie to you: I immediately wondered why 2.0 smelled so bad. He has always smelled very good, but it occurred to me that maybe men get a little ripe as they age. A quick Google search indicated that it was more likely our water heater, so I called some repair dudes to address the stench because I was worried 2.0 would try to fix the heater himself and I think we all know how that would have turned out.
Remember that smoke detector I ripped out of our ceiling? Well our new smoke detector went off at 5 AM the other morning for absolutely no reason. 2.0 was there, so he reset the detector without destroying it, and I’ve since cleaned the unit and added a fresh new battery. But people? Let me tell you: if that sucker goes off again and scares my precious Dorey? I will take a sledgehammer to it and I won’t even feel bad about it. Not even if Tight Taps complains.
My enemies had to go out of town for a week so I agreed to help with some cat sitting. Tucker is the loveliest of all the Rutherfords, and knowing that the rest of his family would be far away made the opportunity far more appealing. But it also meant facing my fears. Not because I’d have to spend so much time in the lair of my enemies, but because Tucker had been under the weather and was on medication.
I know what you’re thinking: you have been medicating your geriatric cats for years, movita! You’re basically Nurse Catingale. So this might be a good time to tell you that many years ago when I was cat sitting the Rutherford’s cat, Tom, he DIED. It was very, very traumatic. Thus, my time with Tucker meant zero sleep for a week and a lot time spent checking his adorable belly for breathing. #hesurvived
Speaking of traumatic, the other night 2.0 hollered, “There’s a fire at Coastal!”
The thought of the dance studio I work at burning down sent me into a complete panic; my heart was pounding as I stood beside 2.0 looking at the photo he was pointing to on his iPad. Initially my eyes focused on smoke and the red lights of the fire trucks, but after a moment I could better make out what his finger was jabbing at.
movita: Jesus, honey. That’s a car on fire in the parking lot. Coastal isn’t on fire. A CAR IS ON FIRE.
2.0: Yah, but the car is in the parking lot. Coastal’s parking lot. That’s where you work, right? See? I recognized those stores.
movita: But COASTAL isn’t on fire. Can you see how what you said could have been confusing or panic inducing? My God, I thought the studio was burning down!
2.0: I didn’t say Coastal was ON fire. I said there was a fire AT Coastal.
movita: And if I called you at work and hollered, “There’s a fire at our house!” Wouldn’t you think our house was on fire?
2.0: Maybe. But I certainly wouldn’t freak out. Geez, calm down honey. Why are you so stressed out all of the time?
Each year I buy a Christmas ornament to commemorate another holiday with 2.0. I write the year on the bottom of the ornament and then we hunt them down as we decorate the tree every December. “Did you find 2010?” I’ll ask. And 2.0 will say, “Nope, but here’s 2015!” This year’s ornament perfectly reflects my desire to take on new challenges and kick ass in the coming months. Behold! The Narwhal Knight! (Thanks to that dude in London for the inspiration.)
Have you entered Ginger 2019? You’ve still got a week to throw a gingery piece of crap together, send it to me, and afford me the joy that only clowning on someone’s hard work and sugary passion can bring. Get on it, okay?