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!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
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."
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."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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.
"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.
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.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
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?
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.
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.
Friday, November 20, 2009
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
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
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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.
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.
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