Monday, January 10, 2011

The Light of Elendiel Ain't Gonna Save Us Now, Precious


"Yikes! Did you destroy it?"

"It is currently trapped under a bowl and a puddle of Raid," I informed The Boy shortly thereafter via Skype.

"I am sorry. I wish I were there. I would kill it for you." He proffered.

Look, I know.

I know in this day and age I am supposed to pick up a copy of Euell Gibbson's Stalking The Wild Asparagus and squash the fellow with little more than a sniff and flexed bicep; or that I should broil him in a sumptuous array of port wine, strawberries, and cucumber. Or array myself in appropriate hunting attire and refuse to let the little rapscallions get the better of me. Stiff upper lip, being British, and all.

Then I remember that I am NOT British and there is not a single reason petitioning to which I should be. Which is as British as you can get for saying I AM AN EFFING AMERICAN MUTT, EIGHTCRAWLERS, AND I AM TERRIFIED OF YOU.

The true American response would be to find several compulsively-loaded guns, wait around corners, and go out blazing only to inexplicably win through because Truth, Justice, and the American Way always prevail. Barring that, I could fall in a hail of ineffable justice-free wrong-person-running-the-show-and-that'll-show-them hail. Since really it's me versus Shelob in there, I have come to realize that I am a crappy American and a worse Bearer of the Ring. Either of those require sense of self, a willingness to persevere. Me? I may have given myself some sort of heavy poisoning from leaving that eight legged predator in half an inch of poison.

I want to have the stiff upper British lip. Believe me. You sound so much more erudite quoting Chaucer in Middle English with a Modern British accent. Frankly, you sound more erudite yelling at the milkman about his current delivery in a British accent than you do American; it moves from vulgar to sublime.

But I have yet to meet an arachnid of Charlotte's composition, who no doubt would have embraced the bicoastal thrills of international interaction, but probably also would not have died by drowning in half an inch of Raid.

Either way, I am so not taking to my bed tonight. You win, arachnid. The field is yours.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

A Heist For Help

Christmas was...well, the Best! Christmas! Ever!

I had to first reassure my dad that the Best Christmas Ever was now officially different than the one his kids reference, sadly the one where he was too sick to emerge from the bedroom. No. Really. Best! Christmas! Ever!

I guess I had never got to share a Christmas officially with the Boy I Love, so naturally we were as disgusting as expected. We were, apparently, not as disgusting as my mother wished, since she expressed a thwarted desire to shoot us with the kitchen hose while shrieking "PDA! PDA" (which rumor has it she does at high school lunches, rumor being truth held from her mouth).

The Boy I Love has officially announced his intentions toward me, which despite common belief do not include him strangling me and trying to hide the body, so all is well.

I decided not to send pictures until my sister, who does AMAZING photography, sent us photos of us. We took them, but I may have behaved badly. Oh. There is a shock.

Speaking of The Sister, her current pet project, Project Elevate, is looking for sponsors or fundraising ideas. If anybody has any great ideas or sugnificent dying relatives or anything, wouldja letme know? This is an incredible resource. Please visit their website for additional thoughts.