Friday, March 30, 2007

Swamp Thing

Yesterday morning, as I was cleaning my bathroom, the doorbell rang. Now, for most folks, this is a non-event -- for me, however, it is an apocalyptic intrusion on my daily routine. If I'm not expecting company, I do not answer the door. I don't take kindly to unexpected visitations.

So I was cleaning away, and happy to be doing so, I might add, when the doorbell rang, which produced the expected shrill shrieks of excitement from my boy. I went into automatic panic mode, as usual, and tore out of the john, Mr. Bubbles circling my unkept head in a frothy, almost holy halo, and loudly whispered to my son to be quiet. Shhhhhhhh! Ohmygod, SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Be quiet, son, for there be unwanted visitors among us! ShhhhhhhfuckshithellSHHHHHHHHH!

He would not comply. He kept shouting that it was "DADDY! IT'S DADDY, MOMMY! DAAAAA-DEEEEEE! Waaaaaaaa-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! DADDY!" And the more frantic I became, the louder his shrieks. I offered Pop Tarts, I offered Gummi Bears, I offered him a Harvard education and a BMW. He declined, and none too politely. As his shrieks grew louder, I knew that I had no choice but to answer the godamned door.

Warily, I approached the French door that separates the living room from the foyer and peered through to the front door's frosted window. I could tell immediately that the behemoth standing on my front step was not my husband.

Terror seized my very soul as I watched the looming shadow bend forward, ostensibly to peek into my home, then step back and ring the doorbell again. And again. So many thoughts rushed through my frazzled mind: Police? Dear lord, could it be the cops? I do have a sixteen-year-old, after all. She rides in cars with friends now, you know, friends who, although very nice, are still kids. Snippets of eleventh grade driver ed films depicting laughing youths, speeding tires, and sickening metal-crunching-on-metal slow-motion images danced in my skull. Tears began to well as I imagined the worst, but quickly dried up when my next insanely ridiculous scenario emerged...Oh, saints preserve us! It's G__ from across the street, and he's doing his yearly charity run and wants me to match or beat the $60 I sponsored him with last year! Shit! I can't very well tell the man that my generous sponsorship was due to my being mildly intoxicated, thus feeling exceptionally altruistic, and my husband, unfortunately, did not find my generosity endearing whatsoever. I can't say to G__, "G__, I'm very sorry, but the last time I sponsored you, I'd been hosting a lovely barbecue, and had been drinking Corona, you see, and well, you caught me at a vulnerable time, and, um..."

Weary of my own racing mind, I bravely answered the door, Clorox Bleach Pen gripped tightly in my left hand. At first, I was grateful to see that it was not a cop, nor the pleasant yet annoying G__, but that quickly turned to horror when I realized just who the beast before me was -- the meter man.

I loathe meter men. Apologies to any of you who might be meter men or women, but I just really hate you. You come unannounced, for one thing. Secondly, you refuse to give up and go away regardless of the fact no one answers the door despite your ringing the bell fifty times. Thirdly, you might be an ax murderer. Fourthly, oh, fourthly...You track mud and dog feces throughout my spic and span home. Yes, you certainly do.

So I let the fucker in. And the fucker, although not an ax murderer, thank goodness, proceeded to track great gobs of mud and dog feces throughout my freshly washed hardwood floors. And over my freshly washed kitchen tiles. And down my freshly vacuumed stairs, over my family room rug, through the exercise room, and back again.

I didn't know what to do with my rage. I was so enraged, I actually hallucinated, saw stars and red and decapitated Teddy bears...

I did the only thing I could do to release my rage -- I stabbed the fucker repeatedly in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen.

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

My boy, though, being the son of Ms. Lori the Obsessive-Compulsive Clean Freak, said to the fucker: "You made a BIG mess all over Mommy's floors!"

The stupid fucker Swamp Thing bastard didn't even acknowledge his dirty deeds. Didn't even muster a weak apology. That's when I lost it. I stabbed Swamp Thing in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen over and over and over again until he ran screaming from my home.

I feel no remorse.


At 8:38 PM, Blogger Carol said...

Serves the bastard right for not taking off his shoes. Fucker. Tracking mud all over the place....

At 11:08 PM, Blogger e-blackadder said...

HAHAHAHAHA! I can SO sympathize... a couple of months ago I mortally offended the cable repairman. The whole time he was in my living room I was looming over his shoulder with my vacuum cleaner and a bottle of rug shampoo.

"Dude, you gonna be much longer?"

I had that vacuum cleaner fired up before the door even hit him in the ass...

Fuck 'em, make him take his shoes off next time. He'll get over it. :P

At 3:52 PM, Blogger Ms. Lori said...

See that's why I adore all five and 1/2 of you who read this blog -- you're all nuts, just like me.

At 8:35 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Isn't that the reason Adrienne Barbeau couldn't live happily forever after with the Swamp Thing? She just got tired of mopping everyday.

At 4:43 AM, Blogger Justice said...

If I could, I'd have an invisible (just so there is no misunderstanding of the degree to which I loathe) electrical field all the way around my legal territory - for total shock value, of course. I'd only turn it off for people I really, really like, and only then if they announced their intention to visit at least 24 and a half hours in advance.

You and I are the normal ones, Ms. Lori. Everyone else is just got damn annoying.


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