:-)

Just saying.

I love my life sometimes.

Well, today has been quite a lovely day. And so was yesterday.

Hannibal is gone to "visit his family in the distance" for four days (which means he is probably cheating on me with that Clarice woman I found in his cell phone, whoever she is), and Johnny is "gone on a business trip" (which means he's gone on a business trip - I'm just so used to putting things in air quotes now. Hard to break a bad habit).

So for the past couple days, it's just been Robert and I, plus a grounded Michael, alone in our big mother of a house. Just the three of us. I decided to let Michael keep his phone during his grounding. He can't call anyone, but he can play with it all he wants. Now, I know this might sound like I "went soft"... but if it sounds like that, then, you obviously have never met Michael. You try taking away everything my borderline insane son who probably has intermittent explosive disorder loves for three and a half weeks. Try keeping your house standing up and everyone in the neighborhood alive if you do that.

Sorry, moment of brutal honesty there. I HAD AN ELLEN DEGENERES MOMENT.

Sorry. Moment of talk-show dorkiness there.

Anyway, letting Mike keep his phone was probably the best decision I ever made, because for the past couple days, he, Robert and I have been doing nothing but veg comfortably in the living room watching cheesy scary movies from the 70s, and also truly frightening movie-length home videos the boys made. And while we have been vegging, we have not heard one peep out of Michael. He just sits on the loveseat in his cute little blue jumpsuit and texts all day on that phone of his. It's like he is transfixed. Robert and I were actually able to have a decent conversation about Jaws this morning without being interrupted by a constant stream of "wench" and likewise "cool" teenage proclamations. Because it's like we don't even exist to him when he is texting. He is in his own little world.

Truly.

Do you know what that reminds me of? This one time a couple years ago when one of Michael's innocent little cousins stabbed him with a hanger, and he proceeded to have a complete nervous breakdown, brandishing knives around and such, and Edna's husband Sam Loomis was forced to intervene, and then Michael was given Thorazine. Y'know? Texting is the new Thorazine.

Actually.

Maybe, as a reward for his good behavior lately, I'll go up to Vonage tomorrow and get unlimited text put on his phone. Yes, that sounds like a plan. After all, his unusual silence is a welcome break and is currently enriching my life.

Or at least it will until Hannibal and Johnny return.

Oh, the drama! The catfights! Sweet lord!

Even though my child is currently grounded for three and a half weeks, there still manages to be drama of the utmost ridiculousness. In other words, there still manages to be drama worthy of Mary-Sue Vrees.

Mary-Sue Vrees, in case you didn't know, is the mother of all drama queens. To give you an example of this, she once took a fit after Jason was smacked in the head with a baseball bat in math class and proceeded to spread a city-wide rumor that the perpetrator of this frankly childlike assault was actually a child prostitute. Long story short, the whole thing got way out of hand. The poor girl never recovered from the accusations, started shooting crack and is now in juvey for fraud. Also, that math teacher got fired from his job for "pedophilic tendencies", the principal is in long-term therapy, and one of the secretaries only has three fingers on her left hand now. The other one is dead.

Please don't ask me to share the long story. Please. It will take me five hours and I am not in the mood for this nonsense at the present time.

Anyway, so yeah. There is a continuum of drama queen-ness, and it pretty much goes like this:

Teen idols -> Britney Spears -> the paparazzi -> Johnny -> Oprah -> Hannibal -> Jessica Simpson -> Michael -> Mary-Sue Vrees

Yeah. Pretty much.

About forty or so minutes ago, Michael burst out of his room and barged into the living room going, "WHAT THE MOTHER OF GOD."

I sighed and I'm all, "What now." He's been acting rather awkwardly (read: irritably, irrationally, inconceivably) for about a week now. I don't understand. Is this puberty??

Michael then proceeded to look kind of like a beached whale. "C'DWARD EULLEN IS A WENCH AND SO IS HIS MOM."

I'm all, "DO NOT talk like that about Matilda! Or her step son! For the love of God, Michael, what on Earth did that poor boy ever do to you?"

"HE IS TRYING TO TURN JASON INTO A BUTT PIRATE. JESUS LORD ALMIGHTY OF ALL HEAVENS. WENCH."

There is one sure-fire way to know when Michael has gone into what we like to call his "dark zone". He begins to punctuate his ravings with Biblical terms and names of the Holy family.

Dear sweet mother, what has become of my poor angry child? He was so sweet before he learned to talk. WHAT HAPPENED?

"Michael, stop quoting Father Whatshisface and talk to your MOMMY," I pleaded. And then I realized what he had just said. "Turn Jason into a what now?"

But Michael did not answer because he had picked up the phone and, before I could say a word about his being grounded, had dialed and was impatiently waiting. After a few seconds his mask becomes pure evil and he's all, "JASON! WHAT THE WENCH! ... You know exactly what I'm talking about. What did you do after you left my house on Christmas Eve? Huh? ... Oh yeah, I'm sure. I'm sure you watched A Nightmare on Elm Street. Bitch. You had phone sex with Cedward, didn't you? (At this point I very clearly heard Jason's strangled voice going "WHAT????!?!?!?!!" with multiple exclamation and question marks from the other end of the line) ... BITCH PLEASE. Do not lie to Michael. Michael knows when you are bullshitting him! Traitor! You defected to the side of the awkward gay losers who pick their noses. ... Don't act all confused. Matilda posted it on her blog! You were WOOED, Jason! ... Oh my God, why am I even friends with you? ... Fuck off. Your mom's a whore. ... Shut up. ... Jason, please. I'm not handicapped like you, so stop BULLSHITTING ME. ... I never thought you would stoop this low. ... You can act all grossed out all you want, you fugster. ... Yep, pretty much. You're ugly as fuck. No wonder the only person who's ever liked you ever is Cedward Effin Eullen. ... You play with CRAYOLAS. ... You're hideous. ... Fuck off. Freddy would not have had PHONE SEX WITH CEDWARD AS A PRANK CALL, BITCH. STOP BLAMING OTHER PEOPLE FOR YOUR LEWD ACTIONS. ... Yes, I've met Freddy. What the MARY MOTHER OF JESUS CHRIST are you insinuating? ... Mother of God. You whore. I no longer enjoy you as a person. Go wench yourself on streetcorners. ... You can't come over in a month and play Manhunt anymore. Hah. Haha. So there. ... It wasn't Freddy, bitch, it was you. IT WAS YOU. YOU WHORED YOURSELF TO CEDWARD, AND NOW YOU HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. GO GET RUN OVER BY A PLOUGH."

Michael hung up the phone and ran (and by ran I mean walked awkwardly slowly and stiffly) upstairs into his room, where he proceeded to blast the following playlist:

Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Mr. Sandman
Korn
Korn

I now have to go up there and make sure he doesn't Korn himself into oblivion. Please excuse me. I must go tend to my motherly duties.

Oh, the drama! 

We made a song.

Me and Jason were extremely bored out of our wits (like my deceased grandmother would say) at his mom’s tiny-ass Christmas dinner (since she has no friends aside from my mom, who really just feels sorry for her. Really she doesn’t actually like her that much. Lol. Epic fail, Pam. BUT JASON AND I STILL LOVE YOU. EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE A NUTWENCH. :)), so we slipped away into the living room and decided to destroy “Santa Baby” and re-write the lyrics. Lol. So we did. And we are now going to share our masterpiece with you.

And before you say anything, I am getting grounded for like twenty years sometime today anyway, so I really don’t care that this is “horrible”. And neither does Jason, because he is a spoiled momma’s boy who never gets grounded, and also his mom does not even know the basics of how to get onto the Internet. So she’ll never see this anyway. So yeah. We don’t fcare. kthx.


“Santa Baby – the REAL version”
rectified by Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees

To the tune of “Santa Baby” by... that awkward female hooker “singer” with two ferrets up her nostrils, legit, whoever she is.

To be sung in the point of view of C’Dward Eullen.


Santa baby, just slip your fat ass under the tree
For me
Because I’ve always wanted a fat,
Old man to slide right down my chimney at night

Santa baby, you’ve got the cutest hat in the world
Yeah I’ve got
A little hat fetish here
Santa baby, just slide right down my chimney tonight

Think of all the joy you bring
To me, ‘cause I like fat guys in winter coats
It sucks I only see you once a year
That’s how long it takes to get your mind unblown

Santa baby, you’re carrying one hell of a stick
I like sticks
And furthermore I’m a hick
Santa baby, you sure you’ll fit in the chimney tonight?

Santa sweetpea, you picked a good gerontophile
To love
I’m shinin’ like the yellowest star
I don’t think you should eat all those damn cookies tonight

Santa sexy, you know I love you more than I should
Because
You have a lot of cash and I am
Pretty much the most h-core gold digger ever

Come fulfill my Christmas dreams
And by dreams I mean naughty fantasies
I really think you’re sexy shit
Do you think I look fat in this?

Santa baby... forgot to mention one little thing
Viagra
Because you’re gonna need it tonight
Santa baby, get your ass down my chimney right now

Get your ass down that chimney tonight!



Isn't that epic?

Merry Christmas! :)

Merry Christmas everyone!

May you all have a wonderful holiday filled with presents (and by "presents" I mean the love of family and the spirit of Christmas joy. Really! I do!), togetherness and joy. And may you not have your houses egged, set on fire, or otherwise damaged. And may your turkey dinner not be poisonous. And may there be no time bombs in your packages from Montana.

In short, have a lovely, lovely day. For your old Gertie, if nothing else. :)

With love,

Gertie, Robert, Johnny, Hannibal, Michael and Jason (and Mary-Sue too, we suppose).

What do C'Dward Eullen and the McDonald's at the big Wal-Mart have in common? They're both awkward a-hole fuggers with two mommies.

Oh, and they both charge you for sauce.

Yep. I'm not kidding.

Jason showed up at my house at seven o'clock in the morning today and he's like, "TsgodosomeChristmasshopping." He's been sounding like a possessed demon - in other words kind of like Edna's kid Damien - and understandably so ever since we found out that that wench, C'Dward Eullen, apparently is in lurve with him.

Isn't that gross?

And since Jason has a purple cell phone with pink stars and red hearts, as well as a baby pink cloud van which he actually WOULDN'T rather die than drive in public, I have come to the conclusion that we must rid ourselves of C'Dward before the latter succeeds in wooing our poor simple Jason. I've been telling him at every opportunity, "Jason, listen to me, man. You start chilling with that Cedward fellow on a regular basis and you will - not might - catch the swine flu. And by swine flu I mean an infatuation with C'Dward Eullen. Who is gross."

Jason always smiles and nods when I tell him this shit, but I can't help but be afraid for his safety. He smiled and nodded when I told him not to go to the big mall on Boxing Day last year, and guess who went to the big mall on Boxing Day last year and escaped its indecent claustrophobia and unnecessary solicitation only to go outside and get run over by a road-raging cell phone user? Now, I'm not the type to say "ITOLDYOUSO!" like a snotty three-year-old... but you catch my drift.

As much as we all like having Jason around, sometimes... well... he ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Let's put it that way.

Yep. Getting rid of C'Dward is the only way to get us all out of this period of nonsense at this point. Dude, sorry Matilda.

So I took Jason's little gay cell phone and I called up our little effer and invited him to come to the big Wal-Mart with us. Figured we'd have to suffer a bit in order to obtain just reward. C'Dward was like... weirdly, stupidly excited to come with us. I cringed and hung up the phone.

I said, "Okay Jason, all you have to do is be really gross and retarded all day. If that doesn't make Fugward stop oggling you, nothing will."

"So basically, just be myself right? That's what you're going to say?" Jesus Christ, this dude gets so defensive for no fucking reason all the time. That's what happens when you live with a freaking menopausal borderline-schizophrenic woman.

I'm like, "Holy PMS. No, actually, being yourself probably won't be enough to get this mofo off your tail. We have to surround ourselves by an environment that will allow you to reach your full grossness potential."

"You mean like McDick's?" Jason gasped.

"Stop calling it that. It makes you sound almost as homo as that phone makes you look. But yes. McFucker is exactly where we're going."

"McDonny's is where it's at."

"You're trying to sound chill and it's not working."

"But I don't understand."

"But you don't have to. Oh... and I'm pretty sure this has a way better chance of working if we drag Freddy along."

Jason laughs and he's like, "Yeah. He tends to scare a lot of potential friends and crushers away."

I'm all, "Yeah, that too. I mostly meant he's pretty much the only way we're ever going to get to the big Wal-Mart. Ever."

"Oh. Yeah."

So once we had our little plan all figured out, we called Freddy up and at first he was pissed off because he was busy filming some shit that's probably really epic, but once we informed him of the situation at hand, he departed into hysterics and told us he'd be over (with his inconspicuous camera-fedora, which is almost awkwardly red, and thus makes him look like a very evil, Mexican Santa Claus) in five minutes. When he showed up, Jason’s all, “THE FUGGER!” I ran to the living room window and, indeed, Freddy’s car was in the driveway. So we, like, bailed.


“Dude we’re not going to the tiny, awesome Wal-Mart like usual.” I told Freddy this when we hopped into the back of the vehicle. We always lurk in backseats. Freddy would be stuck with C’Dward as shotgun. Sucks to be him. We weren’t about to tell him this, though. “We’re going to the huge, efftarded one attached to the big mall.”

He’s all, “Yeah, gathered that when you kept saying ‘BIG!’ over and over again on the phone.”

I ignored this. “Yeah and by the way we’re picking up Fugward. Can’t risk him not being able to find a way there.” Freddy gave me an awkward, stick-up-my-ass face. I’m like, “He’s kind of the whole point of our excursion, dude.”

“Like actually,” Jason added for good measure.

So we showed up in front of the little mother’s house and had to honk like fifteen times before his brain finally turned on (if that’s possible) and he came skipping through the door. He epic failed on a patch of ice on the way out of the driveway, which was, um, AWESOME.

He’s all, “Helloeverywuun” very nasally. We all grunted in response. Except Freddy, who is always annoyingly vocal about everything. He was like, “Hi, bitch.”

Freddy calls everyone “bitch”, even his four dads. It’s really awkward. But slightly awesome as well.

We sped toward the big mall at around twelve thousand miles an hour. Then we got stuck in traffic for like twenty minutes, all because a fucking eighteen wheeler was trying to turn left, which requires like six lanes and people were too moronic and jello-brained to let the poor fucker through. Then this dude actually passed in front of the buddy in front of him to turn left, cutting us off. We all gave buddy the finger. Except C’Dward, who gave him an awkward Spock sign.

This is how we found out that C’Dward is a huge Trekkie. Yeah. Which is awkward because Pamela Voorhees is not only Jason’s mother but also the mother of all Trekkies, which means that, by association, Jason is kind of slightly a Trekkie as well. Which makes Cedfucker twice as likely to be able to woo Jason. Which makes him twice as likely to be poisoned by a bad batch of Demon Squares; sorry buddy, but that’s how it works around here. Tough luck for you. I shrug at your protests. You don’t just woo innocent Jasons like that. Actually? No. Fuck off.

RIGHT FREDDY? FUCK OFF!

Cedward’s like, “Why didn’t we just go to the small mall?” He’s been yapping at Jason the whole ride, which is awkward. And Freddy and I are just sitting there. Lack of manners much?

Jason’s all, “Because we wanted to go to McDi – OUCH! I mean McFucker!”

“Ooh! I love their McChicken sauce!” You fucker. You flirt like a granny. I’m sure you love Jason’s McChicken sauce, too. Huh? That’s what you were insinuating by that disgustingly suggestive remark. Don’t lie to me. You can’t lie to Michael. Michael knows when you are bullshitting him, you asswench.

I could not wait until we got this bastard out of our masks once and for all. Apparently, Freddy couldn’t either because he started honking like nuts at the truck.

Eventually, we got to McDonald’s. We had to park in the sticks, but that’s okay, because it allowed Jason to bring out an exaggerated version of his “burlesque deformed handicapped limping man about to kill you” walk. Freddy looked sceptically at me and I hissed, “Don’task.”

C’Dward just stared at the poor, sorry fellow.

WITH LUST.

There was a lineup the size of my mom’s friend Edna and all her husbands combined at McDonald’s. I said, “Jesus Christ, all we want is a couple of McChickens.” And for this fucker to be traumatized all the way to bloody demon hell, I added in my head in regards to Freddy, who was repeatedly clicking two of his claws together nerve-grindingly.

And about C’Dward too, obviously.

So we finally get up to the counter and the lady’s like, “Can I help you?”

I jumped in front of C’Dward. “Yup! I want a Crispy Chicken.”

Then Jason, Freddy and C’Dward ordered. Typically, C’Dward ordered Snack Wraps. Snack Wraps are potentially the gayest thing ever to be offered on the McDonald’s menu ever, so it seems fitting that C’Dward would order them. And three of them, no less. They look like sticks full of ranch sauce.

C’Dward Eullen has three sticks.

I had instructed Jason to order something which requires a lot of McChicken sauce to properly consume... so the fucker gets an upsized quarter pounder meal. What. The. Fuck.

I hissed, “WHOPUTSMCCHICKENSAUCEONAQUARTERPOUNDER.” Jason’s all shrugging like, whatever-too-late-now-I-already-ordered. As we stood there waiting for our grub, I decided Jason slobbering all over a McChicken-sauce-filled quarter pounder was pretty much the grossest thing ever. Which was our goal. So it was all good.

So we got our food and the lady’s like, “Have-a-nice-day,” and I just stood there and I’m like, “Can we get some McChicken sauce? Like lots of it?”

And I swear to God this happened. The lady looked at me like a cow looks at an oncoming train and she was all, “Actually, I have to charge for McChicken sauce.

We, all four of us, were like, “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?” The world had just come to an end.

“McDonald’s is a prostitute!” shouted Freddy inappropriately. Everyone just kind of looked at him for two seconds before going about their business, a.k.a. pigging out on McShit.

I looked at the lady. “Are you serious, wench?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Well, it’s not like I’m just going to NOT get McChicken sauce. This is a power play. I do not approve.”

The lady nodded solemnly again.

We all pitched in and got ten bucks worth of the white shit.

Jason goes to take a straw and this pimply employee dude who looks like he probably jizzes to a poster of Ronald McDonald at night is like, “Wait, now. It’s fifty cents a straw.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

I’m all, “Take this fucker down, Jason.”

“Wait,” said Jason. He looked at the straw like a stranded moose. “I’m so confused!”

“Are you the only effing McDonald’s that charges for straws? And McChicken sauce?” exclaims Freddy. “Because I’m pretty sure you are.”

“WHAT A TRAVESTY!” yells C’Dward, who is obviously trying to impress Jason with big literary words. It isn’t going to work, you jaundiced hermaphrodite. Jason has to my knowledge never read a book in his life. His dyslexia stops him. So save your big dictionary wooing terms for someone who actually reads the whole dictionary every night like you. Kthx. Go masturbate to your mommies’ old-ass Webster’s. Kcool.

We went to sit down, but not before being charged 8.50 to use the table. We go to sit and he’s like, “Fifty cents for the chairs.”

We gave him the fifty cents, grabbed the chairs and left the store with our McShit and our pile of McChicken sauce. In your face. McFuckOff.

We get to that one aisle of like towels that no one ever goes into in the big-ass Wal-Mart, and I’m all, “Let’s park here.” We set down our chairs and then Jason immediately starts shitting the McChicken sauce onto his burger. Like ON THE BURGER. Not even inside. Right on the damn bun. Then, when the top of it looks like it got snowed on, Jason’s all like “YUM!” in a tone very reminiscent of Hannibal, and he actually picked up the bun and slathered the whole patty with sauce.

“Appetizing,” commented Freddy.

Jason basically squatted very disgustingly on his chair and tried to shove the whole nasty mess in his mouth at once. He had to sort of peel off his mask slightly to do this. Which is why my mask is so much better than his. Mine actually has a mouth hole. His is a hockey mask, so if he made a mouth hole it would just look retarded.

This is epic. This is going exactly according to plan.

C’Dward was just entirely traumatized at this point, trying not to stare at the massacre currently happening before his eyes. His lust appeared to be replaced by disgust, WHICH IS WHAT WE WANT.

Just for good measure, Jason belched about fifteen times on the way out of Wal-Mart. He also scratched his ass a lot when he was walking in front of C’Dward. But apparently, C’Dward has a higher grossness tolerance than I do, because once we got back in the car, there fucking Cedward was, talking to Jason again the whole way back!

Motherfucker.

We dropped him off first and I yelled “WENCH!” out the window at him as we drove off.

Then Jason has the nerve to say, “Dude, maybe you shouldn’t be so mean to C’Dward.”

I’m all, “What?”

Freddy’s all, “Oh bitch. Bitch bitch bitch.”

Jason’s like, “What? He was nice to us like, all day.”

“Jason. What doesn’t your little fluffy pink and purple brain understand? HE IS TRYING TO WOO YOU. HE IS OBVIOUSLY GOING TO BE NICE. HE IS TRYING TO GET INSIDE YOUR PANTS. DO I NEED TO SKETCH YOU A PICTURE.”

“Well -”

“Look, I know you’re not used to being fawned over, so I’ll give you a bit of a break, but FUCK OFF WENCH. It’s C’Dward Eullen. It’s like feeling bad for a corpse. Do you feel bad for corpses, Jason?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be nice to corpses, Jason?”

“No! Jesus fuck!”

“Do you want corpses in your pants? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you get all nice and friendly with Cedward. You will get effed by corpses.”

“I really do not care to be effed by corpses. Okay. Fine. So we’re not going to be nice to C’Dward. Cool. Jesus Christ.”

“Great,” I said. “Glad we have an agreement.”

Freddy – who’s been like “oooooooooooooooooookay...” the whole time, by the way – dropped us off at my house. Jason kind of looked like he wanted to come in and maybe play Manhunt for a couple of hours, but quite frankly, I, and not C’Dward apparently, was rather disgusted with the asshole at the moment.

So I just called him Shitface and went home.

Since apparently NOTHING grosses this fucker (C’Dward) out, we now need another plan to get him the eff away from us (and especially Jason). If anyone has any ideas, let us know.

kthx.

Ironically enough, C'Dward saved the day!

So Michael and Jason were fighting for like a week and it was awkward.

And by "fighting" I mean they stayed shut inside their rooms and avoided each other like the plague. Which is what they always do when they fight, and which is so much more awkward than if they were to just bitch each other out every day and plot to egg each other's houses like they do when they get into disagreements with Frederick.

I hate seeing Michael and Jason have a fight because Michael always gets extremely "Oh-my-God-eff-my-life-I-have-no-friends-everyone-hates-me-even-the-deformed-hockey-fanatic-across-the-street-who-drives-his-mommy's-pink-cloud-van!"

And I'm afraid to get a phone call from Mary-Sue Vrees informing me that Jason climbed on top of Alfred Benedict's shitty green snow plough and jumped.

So obviously, I, having quite enough on my plate without this nonsense - and without Johnny literally SCREAMING at the wok downstairs for the past four days - I've been trying to get them to reconcile. So after a couple days of Michael blubbering and trying to be a "tough guy who doesn't give a shit about anything so eff off wench" in his room, I knocked on the door and quite frankly invited myself in because he wasn't responding.

He's all plopped on his bed with his face in the pillow like someone who needs medical assistance, and I'm all exasperated like, "Michael... why can't you just call Jason and TALK to him?"

Michael blubbers, "Because we don't TALK. That's not what we DO. GOD Mom."

I shrugged like a science nerd who is socially awkward and exaggerates her movements. "But WHY? Michael, you didn't even go to school this week pretty much because you didn't want to have to face him. Isn't that cowardly? You're never going to fix things if you hide out like kicked puppies in your room for a year! You know that!"

Michael just sits up stiffly and glares at me. "TheonlyreasonIstayinmyeffingroomalleffingdayisbecauseifIgotoeffingschooleffingFreddyandothershittyeggfreaksaregoingtomakeusdoa"Michaelvs.Jason". And there is NO WAY we're making a "Michael vs. Jason" because Jason and I made a frigging spit swear when we were like four that never in the entire history of our lives would we EVER fight on camera. A SPIT SWEAR MOM. You just don't go back on that shit, like actually."

I smiled fake-sweetly. "Awww, that's touching. NOW GO ACROSS THE STREET AND TALK TO THE POOR CHILD BEFORE HE COMMITS SUICIDE."

Michael crosses his arms. "Or what?"

"Or you're grounded for fifty years," I said.

Michael plopped back down handicappedly onto his bed, muttering "wench" under his breath.

He didn't go across the street. Apparently, not ever the menace of being grounded for fifty years could make him talk to Jason at this point. Then randomly, he came home from school on Friday, slammed the door behind him and said, "Oh by the way mom me and Jason are friends again."

I just made a huge smile and said, "OH THAT'S GREAT HONEY. You finally talked to him?" I was all proud of my boy. Having the courage to admit responsibility for whatever it was he'd done? Yeah, that's what I teach my child here. I've taught him well!

And then he was all, "Nope. He called me last night at like seven while you were out playing poker with Edna. Apparently they got invited to C'Dward Eullen's house for dinner, and - OH BY THE WAY C'DWARD EULLEN HAS TWO MOMMIES. Isn't that awkward?"

"Michael! Stop discriminating!"

"Sorry, it's just fudging hilarious. Anyways... so like he calls me from the bathroom on his awkward purple phone with pink stars and red hearts on it which he says belongs to his sister, but he doesn't have a sister so that makes no sense -"

"Michael! Get to the point?"

"Jesus Christ mom, let me talk! ... Anywaaaaaays, so he was all like, 'Okay so I know we're not speaking to each other right now, but EDWARD CULLEN HAS A CRUSH ON ME. AND I'M IN HIS HOUSE. HELP.' And I was like... 'Dude who the FUCK is Edward Cullen?'... but he meant C'Dward obviously. He's just dyslexic and it's awkward and annoying, but whatever. So then it was so incredibly hilarious that C'Dward Eullen apparently has a thing for Jason - because it's JASON and he's a fugster - that we were like AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA and we totally forgot we hated each other. So yeah. We're friends again!"

I said, "YAY!" and it was like a small yet giant weight was lifted off my slightly robust, chair-like shoulders that have an air of bittersweet triumph to them. And that sounded like Margaret Atwood. Which is really very silly because she is Robert's favorite author and I hate her and want to burn her books at the stake.

I am only now realizing that I have no sweet clue what this giant week-long feud between my Siamese twins of a son and an "adopted son" was actually about. As in, at all. I should probably ask Michael about this tomorrow. Then again, I might not because quite frankly, I am seriously tired of this bullshit.

No really. I am.

Got laptop battery back from China! Oh and also, tree is up! Finally!!

So on Saturday we all got up and realized two things. The first thing was that the Special Christmas Dinner we have every year was that night. The second thing was that our stupid green piney excuse for a Christmas tree was not yet up and decorated.

Yep. Hannibal forgot.

It was approximately eight AM when I bolted up in bed and shouted, "WE HAVE NO TREE!" It was an epiphany of sorts. I suppose Hannibal must have heard my shriek of terror from the barn because five minutes later, he was inside the house, shouting about "silly American traditions" and "Christianity", and also at Johnny, who was in the kitchen mentally wrestling the wok into submission.

Michael came downstairs, and by this time I was pacing in the living room, and I was all, "Michael! We have no tree." And he just shrugged like the arrogant teenager he is, picked up the cordless phone and hit speed dial. "Yeah. My mom's taking a total shit fit because Hannibal forgot the tree. ... Yeah? Yeah okay, right. Just get a tree. I don't care how tall it is. Shut up. Yeah well your mom's a bitch. Whatever. K."

I frowned and said, "Michael."

He's all, "What? Jason's house has woods in the back."

I could have argued with him for about seventy-six minutes on the subject of unlicensed tree-chopping being an absolute, complete felony, but what would have been the point really? After all, my son is a fourteen-year-old rebel, and as a result, he obviously knows everything, MOM.

So I just said, “One day you’ll get your bachelor’s degree in applied forestry just like your infirm aunt Beatrice wants, and then you’ll see how wrong it is of you to impose such a liability on your poor dear dyslexic friend Jason Vrees.”

Michael just looked at me like my face was a toxic waste plant in its disgusting, smelly entirety, and he’s like, “Oh my God mom you’re embarrassing can you not speak English for two seconds?”

So Jason shows up ten minutes later in a hijacked baby pink van with the inscription “Crystal Munchies” in big huge swampy green bubbly letters on the side. Atop the van was one massive mother of all trees. It was nice and green, but it shedded a lot into our driveway and that made me assume it would also shed excessively onto our living room floor, and I felt kind of bad for Hannibal, who would have to clean it all up in January.

“Jasonyouactuallychoppeddownatree?” I exclaimed, shocked beyond my wit. That’s an expression my mother used a lot, “shocked beyond my wit”. And by a lot I mean teeth-grindingly, nerve-splittingly, horrendously OFTEN. She’s dead now. My mother, I mean. She was murdered by a group of teenage boys in the woods a few blocks down. It was disastrous. They cut out her jaw.

Jason just got out of the van and he’s like, “Yup. Well – actually I kinda got my drunk dad to help me out. That’s why the bottom of the stump is a little bit jagged. I hope you don’t mind.”

Michael came outside and looked at the tree and then looked at me and then at Jason and then back at the tree. He was all, “Dude, the HELL is up with your van?”

Jason’s all embarrassed. “Tsmymomsasshole.”

I don’t think Michael noticed his justification for the fluffy pink cloud-van, unfortunately for Jason. He lunged toward the tree on the roof of the van and I had to somehow hold him back so he didn’t harm himself. Hannibal came out with his duster and several portions of a vacuum cleaner and started untying the tree in the frigid cold. We pretty much just went inside.

The actual decorating of the tree was fairly uneventful, so instead of wasting your precious Christmas-season Wal-Mart-hopping time (speaking of, would anyone be willing to give Michael and company a drive home from Wal-Mart on Sunday night? I’m afraid they might just steal some poor sap’s vehicle if no one picks them up. I promised Johnny I’d go to his thing. Which thing this is, I’m still not too sure.), I will simply condense my rambling into a clear-cut, simple point-form summary of what happened.

Actually no, you know what?

I’M GOING TO MAKE A TOP TEN LIST! Like the ones on Yahoo! News every second day, except way more accurate.


The top ten happenings during Gertie’s Christmas-Tree-Decorating Shenanigans (this one’s for you, Edna!)

10. Tree goes up with rope Michael keeps in his room (look, they’re even in present tense!). Slightly drunk Johnny comes into living room and says “Shiznatch”.

9. Michael and Jason have slight quarrel over who gets to hang the sandy bell. Everyone holding breaths hoping the tree and house stay up.

8. Frederick Krueger shows up. This is an event upon itself.

7. Robert starts singing “Jingle Bells” from upstairs; everyone laughing and spilling eggnog all over the place (non-alcoholic eggnog – what kind of a mother do you think I am?). Hannibal gets mop.

6. Mary-Sue Vrees calls me to warn me not to give her child alcoholic beverages because his “life-threatening fear of water” is “worse when he’s loopy”. Dear sweet Lord mother of all that is holy was that ever the most awkward phone conversation.

5. Jason has slight breakdown over crystal ornament shaped as raindrop.

4. Frederick “goes to the bathroom” and now there are no eggs in the fridge.

3. Hannibal announces halfway through that he needs to go take a piss. TMI, Hannibal.

2. Hannibal very nearly drops the bucket of hooks and goes “UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHH!” like a legitimate hippopotamus in heat.

1. Michael pretty much in hysterics over Hannibal’s hippo noises. Angry Hannibal takes large bucket of dirty mop water and throws in Michael’s face, thereby splashing Jason. Michael goes to the bathroom for two hours. Jason in foetal position on living room floor for three and a quarter. Upon getting out of the bathroom Michael tells Jason to “fuck off and get out of my house”. Jason still on floor until people get here for dinner.


Oh, and since you asked, the dinner went well, too. I mean, it went so much better than expected, considering. We had turkey, stuffing, cucumbers... you know, the regular. Sam Loomis now has a healing black eye, Stephenie Meyer had to put Sella in therapy, Freddy refused to eat his cucumber, the house is now three feet farther away to the left than it used to be thanks to Samara and Sadako, Edna’s son Damien pretty much recited the entire Necronomicon to us, Michael and Jason currently are not speaking to each other, and Johnny is still drunk.

But hey, it’s better than last year! Right folks?

Update you again soon! Time for a little shut-eye... that is, if Johnny ever stops dancing with the broom and humming “Here Comes the Bride” downstairs.

Love you all! :)


Hugs,
Gertie

P.S. – I’m feeling much better now that my battery is in my computer and not in China. Thank God Sella Bwan’s relatives didn’t get their hands on it, is all I have to say!

OMFG.

Looks like Freddy finally got tired of watching Sesame Street with his baby cousins while babysitting!

Oh Freddy. We love you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ug0Lc0SHehw

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! No, actually Freddy, I'm pretty sure I actually love you now. Let's get married. HAHAHA! Epic win. Epic fudging win.

Freddy Krueger = GENIUS. XD

Jason and Michael have issues

Johnny's gone. I've stolen the desktop in the master suite. I'm listening to Boney M on it! RA-RA-RASPUTIIIIN! She's no Susan Boyle, but hey. The CD's downstairs and I'm too lazy to go. I'd ask Michael to but he and Jason are giggling like schoolgirls about something or other in his room... and do I want to know? I think not.

Wait, is that "Mr. Sandman" I hear? Dear God. Dear Lord.

You know what? On second thought, I think I might have to just go and see what's going on in there. Be right back.

... Well, I'm back, and slightly traumatized. Soon as I walked into the room, Michael leapt up from the desk, where he and Jason were busy doodling on a sheet of paper like the conniving masterminds they are. He goes, "MOM! HAHA! Check this out..."

So I walk up to the desk, right? And all I see is a sheet of paper full of messy handwriting and glue-sticked pictures of people.

I'm all, "What did you two do?"

Jason's all giddy as usual. You'd legitimately think there were caffeine fumes in our house. He's all, "WE TOOK PICTURES OF AWKWARD PEOPLE LIKE BEORGE GUSH AND CINARY HILTON FROM NEWSPAPERS AND WE STUCK THEM TO THE RAPER -"

"Jason!" I interrupt, alarmed. "Jason, honey, calm down, your dyslexia! George Bush, honey. Hillary Clinton. PAPER."

Jason blushes and then he's all, "Sorry Mrs. LSD. I got a bit excited."

Michael rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah so ANYWAY, we took the pictures and we put captions next to them - like dictionary captions! Like what word in the dictionary these people would be next to."

I'm still shaking my head. "Oh, you boys. Must you always make fun of people?"

Michael and Jason just kind of exchanged a look and then just kind of nodded.

"Okaylet'sseeit," I said, holding out my hand to receive the sheet.


George Bush - Monkey

W. Desnay - Senile

Richard Anderson - Alzheimer's

Hillary Clinton - Partridge

Sam Loomis - Pedophile

Sella Bwan - Illegal Immigrant

Pamela Voorhees - Awkward

Adam Lambert - Flamingo

Hannibal Lecter - Hideous (I said "Hey! That's not nice!")

Rob Zombie (one of Johnny's work frenemies) - Gargantuan


I'm all, "Not cool, boys."

Michael grimaces and he's like, "You have no sense of humor. You're frigid."

Jason's like, "Difgrif?"

Michael's all, "No."

Yep, they have issues. I think I might tell Hannibal that it might not be a good idea to have both of them helping him with the tree... let alone Frederick. That might prove to be disastrous, don't you think? I don't know. I just don't know anymore. Y'know?



 

  

[Insert title here]

All right everyone.

We are home from the hospital. Jason is obviously not dead. My mom really likes freaking people out for no reason. This is because she is an attention whore.

I wasn't even worried, for God's sake. Everyone knew he was gonna make it. Obviously. After a couple days he just kind of sat up in bed and said, "Did I miss something?"

Meanwhile, my mom drained her laptop's battery so much during our stay there (no outlets in the waiting room, awkwardly enough) that she now has to get it replaced. She called HP and they're making her like send her "defective" one to China or something and then probably some relatives of Sella Bwan who work at the awkward Chinese HP factory are going to send her a new battery. Personally I don't really get why she can't just get one at fucking Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart has everything. Including crutches. We got some crutches for Jason because he's not expected to keep his balance for a few weeks. I personally think the doctors are crackheads because how on Earth are crutches supposed to help you with your balance? Won't you just fall down anyway but get like battered with your crutches on the way down? Fucktards. But whatever, it's not like we could just ignore the doctor's orders. We couldn't just be like, "NO" and throw a sheet of plexiglass at them. Though I did suggest we do that.

Anyways, my mom just wanted me to update everyone because she can't, since her laptop is currently a corpse. I'm writing this from Jason's. Awkwardly enough Johnny never wants to share any of his five desktops at home. My mom is pretty miserable without her blog - and her computer. She actually had to go buy Susan Boyle's new album at Wal-Mart because all her Susan Boyle songs were on her iTunes and without them she starts twitching after a few hours.

So yeah. Jason's fine, my mom is confused due to her lack of a computer, Hannibal is at the casino, Johnny's working late, and Robert is at home practicing for his speech at Harvard on Monday. Which is why I'm currently not in the house. Jason's mom just baked us some pink cherry muffins. I asked her if we could make some Bloody Demon Squares earlier but she just looked at me like I was dumb.

Oh! One more thing. Hannibal decided that Jason, Freddy and I get to help him decorate the Christmas tree! :) Epic win.

Aaaaaaaand also everyone in the neighborhood is invited to our big-ass Christmas dinner next Saturday with a freshly-murdered fat turkey. My mom actually just called me to tell me, in a strangled-sounding voice, to pass this on.

Follow-up on Jason's condition (read "Bad news" for the beginning)

Emotions run rampant here in our waiting room camp-out. A nurse just came in and told us Jason had to be put on life support. Sad... but I'm sure he'll pull through... I mean, when you think about it, life support is really just a technical term for "you got five blades in the side of your head and we must now help you breathe while we attempt to repair the damage." No biggie. They should really stop trying to scare us with ambiguous hospital terms! Golly gosh!

This news caused Michael to swear at the nurse, wish death on her and run (and by run I mean walk awkwardly slowly and stiffly) out of the room. Hannibal immediately got up and muttered, "WHY THAT LITTLE RUNT" and stomped out after him. Robert stood and leapt out into the hallway, alarmed. I could see his frantic eyes searching his mind for the best possible moral to deliver. I for one was more preoccupied with his knees. I'm all, "ROBERT! YOUR OSTEOPOROSIS!" He slowed down a little bit, probably more to shut me up than out of concern for himself.

Sigh. Men. I'm fortunate enough to be stuck with four and a half of them (the half being Jason Vrees, who I am only partially stuck with and might soon not be stuck with at all anymore).

Before the nurse came in, Michael and Frederick got into this big argument along the lines of, "Why did you have to go shove your HAND into his EAR?", so to be fair, Michael was already on edge when she delivered this news. Not that it excuses his behavior, though. I'll have to chat with him once this entire ordeal is over.

I will update you again soon.

Love,
Gertie xox 

Bad news

Jason Vrees is in the hospital in serious condition after an accident during their filming last night involving a glove, our set of kitchen knives and Alfred Benedict's old rusty machete. At this point we're all still kind of waiting in limbo to see what's going to happen with him. Michael is also in the hospital now, technically, because he refuses to leave. So is Hannibal because he refuses to let Michael refuse to leave. So is Johnny because he refuses to let Hannibal make an utter fool out of himself in front of professional doctors and such by refusing to let Michael refuse to leave. So is Robert because he feels that without regular philosophical citations, this entire situation will soon become a full-blown family crisis. So am I because I'm afraid of sleeping alone in my large-ass house. And finally, so is that miscreant Frederick because he's all "OHMYGODWHATHAVEIDONE." Yes, of course he's the one who caused the accident. The film was "Freddy vs. Jason 3.5" after all.

Oh, and Mary-Sue Vrees is here too, obviously, although Alfred Benedict complained about lack of sleep and stayed home. I keep forgetting about Mary-Sue because although she is in the hospital, she is not here in the waiting room with us. Upon arriving she was hysterical and attempted to attack Michael and Frederick with a spork. She is now in the psych ward under observation.

Michael keeps asking me, "MomwhatifJasondies?"

I reply in different variations of "That would be sad." Which is true, because Jason is Michael's best friend, and as such he is kind of like my adopted son. Not that this adopted-son thing doesn't have more to do with Mary-Sue's insanity than anything, but let's not rub that in right now. Except on my blog.

Also, if Jason dies, I think we might as well just give up hope entirely of ever getting the mask away from my dear child. We will also have to move away from Mary-Sue before she goes on a rampage (one-sided conversations included), killing all the children in the neighborhood, wearing a bright pink tee which reads "If I can't be a MOTHER, NO ONE CAN!"

I just got through changing the gauze on Michael's shoulder. He came running home last night all of a dither, going, "OHMYFUCKINGGODJASONLIKEDIED! MOM! MOM!", and apparently, his panic was so great that he did not notice the small knife in his shoulder. I pulled it out and placed gauze on it. I have been having to care for his wound because apparently, he could not care less.

I'm going to have to have a talk with these three about why they feel it's necessary to create such violent films. I mean if you want to make a movie, fine, but Jesus Christ do you really have to kill each other in the process?

This whole thing was probably Frederick's doing. Maybe I should just talk to him.

At this point it doesn't matter much... we're just hoping with all our hearts that dear Jason Vrees makes it through this (and also that Michael does not get gangrene in his shoulder, because it's his writing arm). Our fingers are all crossed for you, honey! Get better!

I'll let you all know as soon as the nurses stop being understaffed and we receive more news.

Love,
Gertie xox 

Now I know what to get Michael for Christmas - a dream dictionary! :)

This morning Michael came down to the living room a little earlier than usual. His eyes - which are the only part of his face I ever see - spoke of nightmares.

"Mom..." he said tentatively, sitting down on the couch beside me and my knitting equipment. "You've read one of those dream dictionaries front to back, right?"

"DID YOU HAVE A NIGHTMARE?" I exclaimed, dropping my knitting. This was extremely shocking because Michael has not had a dream he could remember since he was three and he dreamt this evil psychiatrist with a trenchcoat and a chubby face with a few remnants of beard was chasing him. I remember this because one week later, he donned the mask. I also remember it because oddly enough, the evil psychiatrist turned out to look exactly like one of Edna's more recent husbands, Dr. Sam Loomis. Which is weird because he is also a psychiatrist.

"No," said Michael quickly. "I did not have a nightmare. I had a dream, is all. Jesus Fudge."

"Watch your language."

"Man, whatever."

So I'm all, "What was your dream about?"
Michael looked profoundly disturbed for a moment. And then suddenly he started talking, and it all spilled out. "Mom, I had a dream I was twenty-one and I broke out of a mental institution on Halloween and then Edna's husband was chasing me and then I killed people and then I got caught and I got shot six times but it didn't hurt because it was a freaking dream and I just got up and walked away!"

I smiled at him. This was the most emotion I’ve seen in Michael’s eyes probably since he yelled the shit out of Sella Bwan this one time. “Hon, it was just a dream. Now, you know that’s never going to happen.”

“HOW?”

“Because Edna’s husband would never chase you, you would never kill anyone, and I would never have you committed in the first place."

The look in Michael’s eyes clearly stated he doubted all three of these statements. I ignored this and went into the kitchen to make some grilled cheese. Turns out Jason Vrees likes grilled cheese better than pancakes. Whodathunk? Jason Vrees went home yesterday, but still, this restores some of my faith in my most beloved breakfast item and my ability to successfully cook meals.

On his way out the door to catch the bus, Michael informed me that he would be staying late at school to work on a project.

“Oh, you’re such a hard worker,” I said. “Which project?”

Michael grinned. “English movie thing with Jason and Freddy. We’re filming ‘Freddy vs. Jason 3.5’ today. It might take a while. Don’t expect me home until 7-ish.”

“Okay honey. You have lunch money?”

“Yeeeesss, moommm...”

“By the way, did you get your results for the cooking project yet?”

Michael slowly turned his head to the side. This is what he does when he is confused. Personally, I think he may have a neurological imbalance of some sort. Then he was all, “Oh, that. Yeah, I got an A-.”

“Well that’s good!”

“Yeah, she said I would have gotten an A+, but I guess I forgot to use the damn peanuts. Oh well. Anyway, how the hell did you know about my cooking project?”

I trudged back into the living room. “Have a nice day at school, honey!”

I'm a proud Mama!!!!!

Today, I found this in Michael's room while I observed Hannibal cleaning it. Apparently, it's his project for cooking class (!). From what I can see, my son is going to be the next Gordon Ramsay!!! I thought I would share it with you, since it's so rare that we get a first-hand look into our children's creativity and imaginative power. You can even try baking it if you want to! I'm going to ask him to bake me some just as soon as he and Jason return from Wal-Mart.


Bloody Demon Squares
A recipe by Michael Myers
For Cooking & Nutrition 101

Ingredients

Firstly, you will need to gather the following demonic ingredients:

1 cup of crushed peanuts
1 1/2 cup of powdered milk
3 eggs
About ten-ish strawberries
1 cup of sugar
1 tbsp of butter
1 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp veggie oil
4 cups of flour
2 tbsp of that powdered chocolate stuff (note from Gertie: cocoa, honey)

Instructions:

1. Take a bowl.
2. Throw the sugar, the butter and the milk into the bowl, then mix it. Don't be afraid to stir. Stir it like it scorned you!

3. Take your three eggs and viciously brutalize them on the countertop until they crack. Once they have cracked, you just rip them open like an eviscerated cow and drop their contents into the bowl. Take that whisk of yours and slaughter the eggs until they have created a perfect mixture with the rest of the mass.

4. Twist the neck of that bottle of vegetable oil until it snaps open and you may pour some of the stuff onto your spoon and then THROW the shit into your bowl.

5. The vanilla now needs to be shamelessly drowned inside your thick, oxygen-lacking batter and stirred until it croaks and you cannot see it anymore.

6. Slowly murder those large quantities of flour by battering them, bit by bit, by whisk into the rest of the mixture. Your mix should now look like a very bad, very squishy batch of bread batter. Looks good on it!

7. Now, finally, place the chocolate shit over the mass like a shallow, quickly-made grave you're only using to cover the bloody mess up temporarily until some poor sap comes across it. Then mix the chocolate in!

You're done! All you need to do now is cook that mother in a square pan - or a round pan, if you like round squares - at 500 degrees for 20 minutes, or until the mess gets to its desired consistency. Sad your glorious massacre is over? While it is cooking, you can amuse yourself by taking one big spoon and crushing those strawberries in a bowl until they scream for their mommy and have been reduced to a sobbing, unrecognizable, semi-liquid blob.

You probably guessed this, but the strawberries are the "Bloody" part.

Once your gravesite gets out of the oven, all you do is smother it with the blob of strawberries, which will at once degrade the gravesite and burn whatever life is left out of those strawberries. NOW you're done! You've got yourself a batch of Bloody Demon Squares!



... Isn't that wonderful? Sure, his artistic streak is a bit... eh, morbid... but at least he has one! See, Hannibal? I told you he's not hopeless! Oh, I'm so proud of my Mikey!

   

If you give a Vrees a pancake...

Well, last night ended up being quite a story. Do you want the long version or the short version? Take your pick.

Short version: Jason Vrees is now staying in one of our guest rooms for a few days.

Long version: Mary-Sue and her husband, Alfred Benedict, are getting separated. Why? Well, according to Jason, it's because Alfred snores too much and apparently just got a DUI for driving his snow plough at ridiculous speeds down Main Street after consuming steroids, and apparently, Mary-Sue was all, "THAT IS THE LAST STRAW." and a huge fight broke out, ending in a ten P.M. call to the lawyer's home to receive divorce papers.

I'm not sure I entirely believe Jason, though - or Mary-Sue, for that matter. I do believe this whole situation is probably more Mary-Sue's fault than Alfred's, because everything always seems to lead back to Mary-Sue at some point, and of course, Jason is far too much of a momma's boy to not believe everything that comes out of her mouth. I always knew her overtly intense protection of this boy due to his "delibitating, life-threatening dyslexia" would someday harm him... Oh well. It is neither my business nor my place to make judgment, which is why I only do it here, on my blog.

So this is what's going on: last night, Jason fled from his painfully small home across the street because he just couldn't take the infernal spoon-throwing and "Wellwhat'sgoingtohappentoJASONNOW?"s in the kitchen. He's always been a fairly sensitive boy. So I took pity on him and told him he could stay with us until the whole thing is resolved. I'm not entirely sure Michael knew about all this until this morning. As typical, he'd been "doing his homework" (and listening to Korn on maximum volume) in his room when it all went down... and we put Jason straight to bed, afraid the poor dear would asphyxiate himself with all that hyperventilation. So, judging from Michael's excited display of "OHMYGODWHATTHEHELLJASONWHYAREYOUINMYKITCHEN!!" this morning, I think it's safe to say that that infernal Korn made him pretty oblivious to everything until just recently.

Come to think of it, I'm starting to regret letting Jason stay a little. It didn't seem like such a bad idea until I saw the kitchen and had to tell an irritable Hannibal to go clean the breakfast items scattered on the ceiling and walls. Oh well. As long as I don't have to clean it, I'm good. Still, Michael and Jason are the type of kids you tell teachers to separate in school if they want them to learn any semblant of a thing throughout the entire school year. And also if they themselves want to avoid their classroom becoming a smaller version of hell.

Meh. I'm sure it's nothing I can't handle for a few days. As long as they don't get into any little quarrels... that is not something I ever want to bear witness to again, thank you very much. Once was quite enough.

Things are going according to plan so far, though. Because we have company, I didn't want to make the regular, boring old grilled cheese I always serve up for breakfast, and so as soon as I woke up, I went outside to the barn where Hannibal sleeps and I delicately shoved him, trying to wake him up.

He's all, "Hmmmmmuuuhhhh?" and I said, "Hannibal! Wake up!"

He opened his eyes, and I said, "Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?"

He's all, "I WAS sleeping well, before you rudely interrupted..."

I decided to ignore this. "Can you please come to the kitchen and make pancakes?"

"WHYYYYYyyyyyYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYyyyyyYYYYYYYYYY?" Hannibal grunted whinily, variating the intensity and volume of his Ys like a woman PMSing, or like Michael this one time when some jerk from school shot him in the head.

I sighed and crossed my arms, annoyed at his immaturity. "BecausehoneywehaveGUESTS. And the only thing I can cook is grilled cheese!"

Hannibal threw his head back like someone was repeatedly electrocuting him. "Some housewife you are! ... Ask Johnny to do it?"

"You lazy ass..." I sighed again. "Johnny is at work, slaving over camera angles, and we need to be grateful because he is the primary breadwinner for this household."

"AskRobert," Hannibal hissed.

I looked at him like a deer might look at an oncoming scooter that it thought was an eighteen wheeler from far away and that scared the shit out of it - or like my dear son might look at some crazy girl at Wal-Mart hitting him across the head with a two-by-four, like, Is-that-really-all-you've-got? This actually happened. We had to get a restraining order. "Hannibal, have you SEEN Robert's cooking? Come on, for poor little Jason Vrees's sake, GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MAKE THE BOY SOME FREAKING GOSH DARN PANCAKES."

Hannibal got up. "You know his name's Voorhees, right?"

"I. Don't. Freaking. Care. Make. Pancakes. Now."   

Hannibal Lecter cannot write the next "1000 Baby Names"

There is a terrible baby name generator. His name is Hannibal.

"If-we-have-a-child," said Hannibal just now, "Can we call it Bertha-Loomely? Or, if it's a boy, can we please call it Stanislas?"

I said patiently, "We already have a child."

And then Hannibal said, "WTFTHATTHINGISNOTMYCHILD."

And then Michael said, from upstairs, "If you value your life, I seriously hope you're talking about the wok!"

I just thought I'd mention that, because now Jason Vrees - oops, excuse me, Voorhees - is knocking madly on the door going, "HELP ME HELP ME HELP MEEEEEEE!". I shit you not. I really must go open the door to the poor child now.

Rolling on the road

It was slightly drizzling as Stephenie Meyer and her Chinese adopted daughter Sella Bwan rolled down the street. This wouldn't have been nearly as awkward as it was if they had actually been in their vehicle.

I saw them and I was all, "Whaaaaaaaaaaat?", so I went outside onto the porch and I said, "Mrs. Meyer! Are you all right? Don't you think you might catch the swine flu?"

"Sella has a fever!" shouted Meyer. "She is not okay! She probably already has the swine flu!"

And then as I watched, Sella Bwan actually stood up and started hyperventilating like Mary-Sue Vrees would if her poor sweet innocent dear child was run over by an eighteen-wheeler and then shot by a tank and then trumpled by five angry werewolves the size of cows, all of this in the slight drizzle.

They are still out there now. I just told Hannibal, who is not yet gone "to the casino", to please barricade the door. And now Michael is angry because he wanted to go to Wal-Mart. So I told him that if he gives me his mask, I will momentarily take the bars off his windows so that he may head on over to Wal-Mart in the slight drizzle.

As I look out the window, Johnny is screaming at the wok in the kitchen again, and I am not sure quite what the angry man expects the wok to do, but he sure is raging... and Stephenie Meyer just tackled Sella Bwan, screaming, "GET BACK ON THE ROAD AND ROLL."

So I told everyone to please stay inside.

Yup, Gertie's a coolster...

Hi mom, what the hell is this? I love how you have a blog. That's so embarrassing. And I love how you talk about me on it. And I also love how you bash me because obviously you hate me for some reason. Actually, I know what "arrangement" means. Why do you think I don't have a brain?

I'm obviously smart enough to hack your blog. Hah. Haha. Hahahahaha!

I just feel so sorry for you sometimes.

People, don't listen to anything that comes out of my mom's mouth. Obviously, the fumes from the cooked human body parts in the fridge and the broken ugly-ass wok have gone straight to her brain. Listen, kay?

1. I do not steal wallets.
2. I do not "run away from home". I'm seriously not that lame.
3. I do not need immediate psychiatric aid (Jesus mom you make me sound like I'm some sort of psycho!).
4. I do not have a fixation with kitchen knives (saying this in advance because I know she's gonna bring it up).
5. WTF I do NOT say big words to impress my friends.
6. I am going to Camp Crystal Lake this summer and there is nothing anyone can say or do about it because I am not a freaking baby. And why the hell would anyone dig up crystals at the bottom of a lake? Someone needs a hearing aid...
7. Freddy Krueger is neither an arsonist nor a house-egger. The only house-egger on this street is you, mom. And maybe Jasper. And also his name is not Frederick. That is disgusting.
8. The reason my mom spends "SO MUCH MONEY" on doctor's appointments is because I have arthritis in my knees. Well, nice to know I'm such a burden, mom. You can stop using like, 0.1% of Johnny's money on me, it's okay. I'll just die. No biggie.
9. My last name is Myers. I don't care what you say, mom. I refuse to go by "LSD". That is completely f-tarded.
10. I am pretty obviously adopted.

Nice to know how you portray your own son. Cool. Very cool. Mom, just... just go fix a wok.

Just for the record, I am not related to anyone in this ridiculous family.

Your evidently adopted "son",
Michael

P.S. - your password was really hilariously obvious. Just by the way.
P.P.S. - Jason's last name is not "Vrees". It's Voorhees. WTF. And by the way his mom's name is PAMELA. What the hell is this Mary-Sue business?

Eff my life.

"All we have to do is convince my mom to drive us to Wal-Mart, and then we'll take it from there," were Michael's first words when he came in from school yesterday. Peeking surreptitiously around the corner, I saw Jason Vrees was with him. I just imagined Mary-Sue popping up around the corner with her dagger and having a one-sided argument with herself as she pointed the thing at my throat. I mean wouldn't you be a little paranoid if she basically had a restraining order against your child and her child was in your house with your child?!?

So if this all wasn't bad enough already, then Michael said, "I took a twenty from one of the awkward guys that are married to my mom. Y'know the one thing that's great about this arrangement" - he tries to appear like some big genius when he's with his buddies, but I seriously doubt he knows what "arrangement" means - "is that any one of them could be my dad, which means it's somewhat morally acceptable for me to take money from all of them."

Somewhat morally acceptable? "Well hello Webster's Dictionary," I said, popping out right in front of the two little snots in the hallway. This scares me somewhat - what does it say about a mother when she's picking up tricks from her own son? Nothing good, that's for sure. "What are you two up to? Jason Vrees, go home. Please. Your mother is about three playdates away from filing a legitimate restraining order."

Michael scoffed in a very you're-embarrassing way. "Playdates? Seriously?"

We actually heard the infernal vaccuum cleaner in the hallway shut off and then stomping footsteps as Hannibal appeared in the hallway. He looked like he may have just eaten a very sour pickle. He was all, "Yousmartassstopgivingyourmotherahardtime!" And Michael was all, "YOU can't tell me what to do because YOU'RE not my FATHER." And with very bad timing as always, Jason Vrees said in a very matter-of-fact way, "Well-technically-you-don't-know-that."

So anyway Hannibal basically threatened Michael to have him be the meal at dinnertime if he didn't go up to his room immediately and clean the closet for punishment. So he went to his room, followed by Jason Vrees, who, I’m sure, is only always at our house because he doesn’t want to be in the presence of his mother. Which I completely understand. I mean hell, if I had Mary-Sue Vrees for a mother, I’d rather help clean out a sketchy-looking closet than be at home, too.

They were speaking extremely loudly from upstairs, which very conveniently allowed me to inconspicuously keep following their conversation.

“Which one of the guys did you steal it from?” Jason Vrees said, and then my dear child was all, “The one that’s awkwardly in Pirates of the Carribean.”

Jason just absolutely went apeshit then, squealing, “OHMYGODWHATTHEFUCKTHAT’SMYFAVORITEMOVIE!”, which Michael totally ignored as usual, saying, “Yeah and pretty much every Tim Burton movie too.”

Jason Vrees didn’t seem to understand this, because he didn’t say anything.

While I was listening in from the living room doorframe, Johnny barged through the front door and, completely ignoring me, went into the kitchen. I heard a loud BANG-CRACK, indicating that Johnny had taken the wok from inside the oven and slammed it against the counter.

“Bad day, honey?” I asked him.

“MmmmmffffIdon’treallywanttotalkaboutitokay.” I assumed this meant that “that bitch at work” was giving him a hard time about camera angles again.

“Did you notice something bizarre about your pocket money, hon?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He’d started yelling at the wok. “CAN YOU TELL ME WHY YOU WON’T WORK.” I didn’t really understand what he wanted the wok to do, for it was basically just one big pan, but considering Johnny’s bad mood I didn’t say anything.

I clued in. “Wait a second – MICHAEL!”

“What?”

“Come down here!”

He came down, and – God forbid – Jason Vrees actually wasn’t walking on his heels. “Whatnow.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why did you want me to drive you to Wal-Mart?”

This is how I discovered that Frederick was in the hospital after yet again burning his entire face in yet another house fire that he probably started. According to Michael, they had to go to Wal-Mart immediately to get the delinquent a get well card. I wasn’t very impressed.

“I don’t feel sorry for him at all,” I said somewhat contemptuously. “Maybe this time he’ll finally learn to stop being a miscreant and start leading a productive life. And maybe then I’ll let you hang around with him.”
Michael looked completely unfazed, although he kind of always looks like that. His face always looks like a cold, dead version of William Shatner. I know, I don’t understand either. “Freddy is not a miscreant. You’re a miscreant. Stop getting up in my business, wench.”

I’m all, “Excuse me?”

They took the bus and I’m not quite sure where they are at the moment. I’m not worried. Michael does this every couple of months. He goes out for a few days after we argue and then comes back with a shitload of money and credit cards. I don’t know. I sent Robert and Hannibal out to hunt for him, but only Robert went because Hannibal made a huge scene about the fact that I “didn’t understand his hobby”.

Mary-Sue Vrees has called me exactly thirty-eight times, demanding what has happened to her dear sweet child. The last time I pretty much lost it, I’m ashamed to admit. I basically yelled, “IDON’TKNOWWHEREYOURBLOODYDEFORMEDCHILDISSTOPBEINGAPSYCHOBITCHI’MCALLINGTHECOPS!” I know, it was a bit extreme... but she was sort of asking for it. So it’s not that big of a deal.

I’m listening to Susan Boyle’s new album. Because that’s what I do when my child goes missing and when my $350 wok from Wicker Emporium gets broken my my raving, angry workaholic husband. I depress myself further by listening to Suzie. As the teenagers say these days, eff my life.

Important Notice

Hello everyone,

This is not Gertie. This is her husband, Hannibal Lecter. Gertie is currently in the kitchen, putting out a small fire on the stove. There is no need to worry about anyone's safety (except perhaps Robert's, because who cannot successfully cook Mr. Noodles?). Since Gertie left her weblog open and I spotted it here on the coffee table, I decided it would be best to use this given opportunity to clear something up. After all, we don't want a good man's name (read: mine) tarnished for no valid reason, do we?

I go to the casino a few times a week, for about an hour at the time. I do not go out to consume human beings. Whoever tells you/insinuates that, Gertie included, is just one big liar.

I'm so glad we are understood. Have a lovely day.

- Hannibal

Curious crystal-digging business and conversation with Mary-Sue Vrees

The day has been relatively peaceful so far. Mike got up this morning and noticed there were no Froot Loops, but he didn't get angry. Not openly, at least. This, as I soon found out, is because he had a piece of "important news" for me which he wasn't sure how I was going to take.

Michael is now under the impression that he, Jason and that miscreant Frederick are going to a four-week camp this summer located in what I imagine must be in or near Montana. From what I understand (which is not too much considering he was speaking like a robot on a caffeine high), they are going there to dig up crystals at the bottom of a lake. Sounds pretty fishy to me. Let me tell you, I am now under the impression that this is both not a legit camp and that it is also not a place I will ever allow my only son to go spend one day, let alone his entire month of July. So I let him finish his little I'm-an-independant-big-kid-now-and-this-is-what-I'm-gunna-do speech, then I looked at him and I very calmly said, "Over my dead body... unless you want to give me that mask."

Michael is now at school, doing algebra problems and plotting my death.

I actually just got off the phone with Jason's mother, and only now am I realizing that I probably should have asked her about this curious crystal-digging business, since the whole thing was probably her idea in the first place. It sounds mean of me to say, but trust me. That woman is crazy. Insane. Completely off her rocker.

She called me disgustingly early this morning, right after Michael had caught the bus. Hannibal was the one who answered the phone, taking a break from his power-dusting. "Gert-phone," he said quickly and without any trace of a comma, as usual. I answered from the living room. I barely got out the "hello" before she was all, "This is Gertie?" in a very icy, snobby voice. I said, "Oh, hi Mrs V," which I know sounds like something a loser of a 39-year-old mother who's trying to be "hip" and "in touch with the teenage culture" would say, but it's not. I just can't pronounce her last name.

And not only that! I also don't know her first name, despite the large number of infernal summer barbecues I attended at her house this past year. I swear to God, the first time I met this woman, she threw out her hand and said, "HelloI'mMissesVrees". She never said, you know, "Call me Cathy" or "Call me Carla" or "Call me Bob". Nope. Just a cold, impersonal, "Missesvrees" for Gertie.

I gave her a name. I did! I will admit I baptised her. I called her Mary-Sue. Now, in my head, every time Jason's mom calls, or when I see her, I'm all, "Ahp, there's Mary-Sue comin' along." I think it's a fairly fitting name for this woman considering she looks suspiciously like Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies. But that's just my opinion. For all I know, her name's "Deidre" or something along that line of naming. So it's not like I can just answer the phone, my normal bubbly self like I always am when the house is this empty, and be all, "Oh hiiiiii, Mary-Sue!" That would quite possibly cause her to come to my front door with a dagger in the middle of the night and have an awkward conversation with herself in several different high-pitched voices on my doorstep before killing me. So I can't do that. And I can't say "Mrs. Vrees" either, because that would make me sound like I am on a special underground type of opioid drugs.

So I call her Mrs V. Sue me.

Anyway, so I say "Hi, Mrs V.," and she's all, "WHATDIDYOURDERANGEDCHILDDOTOMYPOORINNOCENTJASON."

I considered this for a moment, quite shocked at her loud, expressionless tone. My ear still hurts a little bit from that. Honestly woman, the last thing this family needs is another trip to the family doctor's office. So I said, genuinely confused, "I'm-not-quite-sure-I-know-what-you're-talking-about." And she's all, through gritted teeth, "Last night... Jason came home... from hockey practice..." - which she forces him to go to, by the way - "and he refused... he refused... to remove his hockey mask."

I said, "Exactly what are you insinuating?"

And she was all, "Michael. Is. A. Bad. Influence. On. My. Dear. Sweet. Child. You. Keep. Him. Away. From. Us. Or. I. Will. Go. Out. And. Get. The. HOSE. And. I. Will. Douse. That. Little. Psycho. In. Cold. Garden. Water." She hung up the phone.

Well, so much for being civilised with each other! Golly-gee! Whatever happened to "it's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood"?

As soon as I hung up the phone, Hannibal, who had obviously been "inconspicuously" eavesdropping the whole time (in other words he was standing in the doorframe and staring at me as I conversed with Mary-Sue Vrees), came up to the couch and began his regular ceremony. "What was that all about? What did she want? What's she insinuating about me? What's she bitching about now?"

I went to bed for about an hour with a cup of hot tea and a good book, and now I'm back downstairs, waiting for Michael, Johnny and Robert to get home so we can pick from a hat and figure out whose turn it is to cook dinner.

I think we need family counseling.

Today, my son came home from school crying because someone had "politely informed" him that Halloween was in October and that it was November now. He flew right through that front door and said, "Mom, am I an idiot or something?" and I said, "No honey, why?" and he said "BECAUSE EVERYONE AT SCHOOL HATES ME AND THINKS I HAVE AN IQ OF THIRTY-SEVEN BECAUSE APPARENTLY I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT MONTH IT IS!!" He then ran upstairs and slammed his door, which I will have to have a talk with him about tomorrow after school because I am tired of having to get Johnny to replace the damn hinges every two weeks. It's not that it's annoying to fix the door - I wouldn't know because I'm not the one fixing it - but it's rather that Johnny absolutely goes apeshit every time I very politely ask him to do so. He's all, "Damnit Gertie, I have a full time job which requires me to do a lot of thinking like very bizarre people! Why can't you ask Hannibal to fix the goddamn thing? It might stop him from 'going to the casino' so much! God knows the kid is not my child anyway! Those bad habits? He gets those from Lecter, not me! I have no bad habits!"

To which I ceaselessly reply, "Except your obvious anger issues?"

Last time Michael broke the door, we actually had to enlist professional aid in getting Johnny to some long-overdue anger management classes. Even the police, who took a break from chasing this house-egging miscreant from two houses down, Frederick, to come solve our little "domestic dispute", said it was pretty much required that Johnny attend anger management immediately. So off we went in the car, leaving poor Robert alone with Michael. On the way out I whispered through gritted teeth to him, "Look, I know you have your huge PhilosoFun presentation tomorrow, but try to get the mask." And Robert was all, "WHAT?" and he made a grimace like I was asking him to move the moon, and I said, "WHATEVER HAPPENED TO HUSBANDS DOING NICE THINGS FOR THEIR WIVES????"

I think that soon, if this nonsense doesn't stop, Johnny may not be the only one who needs anger management.

So a raging Johnny and I get into the car, and at this point, Hannibal is still "at the casino". About four minutes in, when I'm turning onto the street where Michael's dyslexic buddy Jason and his mother used to live before his mother had a midlife crisis and sold her shitty green house to buy a similar shitty green house on our street, Robert calls my cell phone. I answer, all pissed off and snotty-sounding, like, "Hello?", and he's all, "How do I get the mask." He says this very emotionlessly and without a question mark in his voice, which indicates that Michael is somewhere nearby, probably drinking ridiculous amounts of milk in the kitchen again.

So I'm all, "Do what I do. Threaten to withhold his allowance forever until he takes the bloody thing off."

And then Robert gets all snarly like, "Well, obviously what you do doesn't WORK because he still has the MASK."

So I avoid, because obviously, he's having a bitch-fit and there's no talking to Robert when he's having a bitch fit. "RobertIcan'ttalkrightnowI'mdriving!" I say very quickly and snappishly, like a piranha plant from Super Mario Brothers, which I used to be addicted to, by the way. Only the Game Cube version though. I snap the phone closed before he can say ONE MORE WORD.

So now I'm home, about to get ready for bed. Hannibal's late tonight from the "casino". He's going to come back soon and Robert will put him on another of his guilt trips seasoned with philosophical quotations from people that could be Jesus's grandpa, and we're all going to be up until two. And Michael is going to be grumpy in the morning, both because he "didn't get any sleep" and also because I just realized we have no Froot Loops left and that is going to make him angry.

It never ends! I think I'm going to have to play some Super Mario tomorrow, just can't take the stress.

Until next time,
Love,
Gertie.