What up? Damn. It’s been a while.

So after being gone for like, two years or something can you just pop back in and start blogging again (more than two years? I dunno, I have to look. OK, just under two years).

Well, I don’t think there are any official laws against it or anything, so I am. I thought about starting a new one, but that would be my third, and frankly, I just don’t want to have to pick out a theme right now.

Anyway. It’s September now. This makes me so sad you guys, you don’t even know. One, it’s the end of summer. I know, the official end of summer isn’t until the 21st or something (I’m so good at remembering dates!), but for me it always feels like the end. When I was little, summer was over when I went back to school. Now, it’s just over when it’s September. Event though it’s supposed to be like 817 degrees today and tomorrow. Whatever.

I hate winter. Not the months themselves actually, I guess. I hate the winter in OHIO. Because Ohio winters suck balls. The are cold and long and gray and icy and snowy and I won’t get to see much daylight until, like, May and that makes me so grumpy. I’ve thought about getting one of those sun lamps or whatever they’re called, but THEY ARE EXPENSIVE. And what if it didn’t work? Then I’d have a really expensive ugly lamp that I wasted money on and, well, then I’d be more grumpy.

It’s a dilemma.

So, yeah. Winter is coming and I’m wasting the end of of my not-yet-the-end-of-summer getting all worked up about it.

Logical is what I am.

Also, this month, I turn OLD. At the end of the month, I will hit the big three five. I’m not sure how I feel about this yet. Sometimes I’m all “Oh, hey, whatever, it’s just a number”. But then other times I’m all “Thirty-five? Is this the age when I have to start getting my boobs smashed in that machine to look for cancer? I’m getting OLD. I’m halfway to seventy and that’s REALLY OLD! What about the test where they stick the camera up my butt? Do I have to do that yet? Isn’t there something else I’m going to have to do now? Something I won’t want to do becasue I really dislike going to the doctor?” Not because my doctor is mean or not attentive or anything. Just because I always feel like I’m going to get in trouble.

Can a doctor give you a detention? Or ground you? Because I should totally be kept after school or locked in my room or something. I don’t exercise enough, and I like foods that are greasy, and also beer and sometimes wine. And probably my pants are a few sizes bigger than they should be.

Maybe it’s my cholesterol I need checked?

Thirty-five. My sister-in-law is there already, and she seems all cool with it, ready to pop out another baby and whatever. My husband is forty-seven (!) for Christ’s sake. And he’s all fine about it. So what is my deal? I mean, I’m generally happy, so that’s good right? Being happy is good for you, and worry is bad, so I guess I shouldn’t worry about it, right?

OK. Right, then. I’ll just stop worrying about it, I guess. I mean, because I’m SO GOOD at not worrying.

Thirty-five. Not such a big deal, right?

Things for which I am thankful, in no particular order.

I am thankful…

…for the fence around my yard that keeps my dog in and the neighbors out.

…for the recent weather that lets me pretend I live somewhere that doesn’t get snow after (or sometimes before) Halloween.

…that my boss thinks I’m good enough to keep around.

…for my level-headed husband who keeps me from going over to THAT side of crazy.

…for the cow that died so my husband could have a new valve in his heart.

…for my pug, even though she barks at everything, because at least I’ll know if someone is trying to get in. Or get in the neighbors house. Or drive down the road.

…for the “goodie boxes” my mom always gives me for Christmas. Because I’m always out of something that just happens to be in that box. Like tissue, or toilet paper, or dish soap.

…that my husband is good at painting, otherwise I would live in a very bland, white house, or a house that looks like someone painted while having a seizure.

…for funky socks. They let me feel cool, while not making me that lady in denial who dresses like a teenager.

…that my dad is eligible for health care, since he is a Vietnam Vet, because strokes are horrible.

…that I can be proud of my dad for being a Vietnam Vet.

…that my brother and his wife have a beautiful daughter so I can buy Barbies for someone.

…that my Mamaw and Papaw told me what it was like growing up and getting married as two young poor people in Tennessee.

…that my roof doesn’t leak and I don’t need to stuff my homemade bed with newspapers to keep warm like Papaw did.

…that I don’t have to know how to make my own mattress, either.

…to be able to stop and take a deep breath whenever I want.

And finally, the pepper spray story.

So.  Pepper spray.  Where do I start?

First, I need to provide a little back-story.  Otherwise, this is going to end up sounding like a story about two grown sons who are pissed at their dad for moving in a woman not even two years after their mom died.  It might anyway.  Here we go.

A few years ago, the Mister’s parents decided to sell their home and 6 acres with a pond and move to our humble little community with tiny postage stamp-sized lots.  Citing the abundance of yard work and the Mister’s mom’s near round-the-clock need for care, it seemed like a fine idea.  At the time. Turns out, maybe it wasn’t so much a good idea after all.

Mister’s mom, from now on known as “B-Ma”, had suffered from numerous strokes in the last few years of her life.  Unfortunately, the one robbing her of her speech happened before I met her, so I never did get to have a proper conversation with the lady.  Her boys absolutely adored her, though.  She died in September of 2007, crushing both of them.  R-Dad (Mister’s dad) was properly sad for a short time, and then started seeing a new lady.  That only lasted a few months. In the summer of 2008, he met another new lady, whom the boys not-so-lovingly call “the Craisin”, due to the fact that her skin has seen too much sun and better days.  R-dad met the Craisin through his new neighbors – the Craisin’s daughter and son-in-law.  We all became friends with the new neighbors and their extended family, and had many great times during last summer celebrating what we now call “Lime Fest 2008”.  That would be our introduction to Bud Lite Lime and the many summer evenings we spent drinking said Lime around various neighbor’s fires.

Apparently at some point during Lime Fest 2008, I somehow came under the wrath of Pepper Spray woman.  She decided that I had made advances at her husband (not it) and proclaimed me the village whore.  The rest of the village, however, was quickly able to determine that I had not made said advances, and also that maybe, Pepper Spray woman had a bit of the problem with the bottle.  Her husband started calling her Twisted Sister, due to the large amounts of Twisted Tea she consumed.  Lime Fest 2008 came to an end, winter started and I thought not too much about her.  She did leave a couple drunken messages on my voice mail around Christmastime.  Mister spoke to her husband, and asked him to tell her to please not call me anymore.  The calls stopped, but R-dad was still dating the Craisin.  It did make for a very uncomfortable holiday season, but with wine and the boys on my side, we made it through unscathed.

Fast forward to this summer – which we were hoping to call Lime Fest 2009.  R-dad dropped the bomb that the Craisin was moving in.  The boys were up in arms, and told R-dad that perhaps he was moving a bit fast, and perhaps he wanted to think hard about moving in a woman who lives on disability and has an alcoholic daughter living next door – one who accused his daughter-in-law of being unfaithful.

One day we were minding our own business at home, when we happened to look out our kitchen window.  Did I mention that I could probably throw a rock out the window and hit R-dad’s house?  He’s that close.  So anyway, we notice all kinds of fun happening, including the evil Pepper Spray bitch herself, walking into R-dad’s house.  Mister got pissed.  He called his dad, and arguing ensued.  Mister’s point was that he could not believe that R-dad would allow Pepper Spray in his house after all she’d said about me, and that he’d better think long and hard about this or he may end up having to choose between her and him.  I was watching out the window and I saw the Craisin storm out up the street.

I said, “Uh, Mister? The Craisin is on her way over.”

Mister told his dad he’d better stop her right now, that she shouldn’t come to our house.

Also, did I mention that R-dad is non-confrontational, and, well, a bit of a coward?

So,  he did not stop the Craisin and she rang our doorbell.  I said “Now is not a good time.  You don’t want to come in here.”

Apparently she heard “Hey! Come on in!” and opened the door and came up the steps.  She then proceeded to lecture me, in my home, the home into which she was most certainly not invited, and even told me to “Stop. Yelling.  Pepper Spray is my daughter.  I am moving in with R-dad.  There is nothing you can do to stop it.”

At this time, her drunken son showed up on our door step and opened the door.  I said “K.  You do NOT want to come in here, nor are you welcome.”

At the mention of his name, Mister started down the steps and out the door.  Luckily, K’s wife was right behind him, attempting to drag him off of our property.  The Craisin finally went down the steps and out the door, and the Mister and the Craisin and K and his wife all exchanged words.  Many words.  Many mean words.  Our neighbors (postage-stamp sized lots, remember?) heard the commotion and were starting to come over to assist Mister.

At the notice of the neighborhood backup, the Craisin and her family retreated, yelling and scowling along the way.  Shortly after, we saw Pepper Spray leave R-dad’s and thought, “well, that’s the end of that.”

Not so fast.

Apparently Pepper Spray returned to her house (which I could also hit with a rock) and informed her husband (you know, the one I was having the supposed affair with)  that – insert whatever crazy story she made up – Mister was calling the cops on him.  WTF?  So he came out of his house and started yelling “C’mon Fuckboy! You wanna start a fight?  You wanna call the cops?  C’mon!”

Teh child and I heard it, and I said “did he just say what I think he said?” and she said “Yes, he did”.  Her eyes were as big as saucers.  I informed Mister of what just transpired and he decided to go straighten things out.  So he walked over to the neighbor’s house, knocked on the door, and saw H (the husband) sitting on the couch.  He said “Hey, H.  Can I talk to you?  I think someone’s telling lies.”

Well, H flew up offa that couch like a bat out of hell.  Mister backed up on the porch, and said “Wait a minute, just let me talk.”  So he told H all that had transpired (H was fishing during all of the earlier events) H told him what Pepper Spray said, and H apologized for calling him out, they hugged and all was well.  Chatting ensued.  I was standing in their driveway, having followed Mister in the event that something ugly happened, and, I don’t know, someone needed an ambulance or something?  Suddenly I realized Pepper Spray was standing in the doorway.  She said ugly things to me and told me to get off her property.  I said ugly things back (not very mature, I know), told her she didn’t own the house (they rent) and retreated to the street.  She slammed the door and went back inside.

Again, that’s the end of that, right?

Well, no.  As Mister and H traded tales, and I stood back in the street, Pepper Spray flung the door back open to earn her name.  One hand holding a phone to her ear, and one hand armed with the evil spray, she screamed “the cops are on their way!  You’re all going to jail” and proceeded to spray Mister and me.

If you’ve never been sprayed, I can assure you, that shit stings.  Luckily, I had my glasses on, and I turned in time for the spray to miss my face.  She got my arms and legs though.  I scampered home with my tail between my legs and washed the shit off.  Mister followed shortly after, and after some discussion, he decided “two can play at this game” and made a counter-call to the police.

Next thing we know, we’re filling out police reports with good cop and bad cop – good cop clearly believing us and bad cop saying I was trespassing.

Turns out it isn’t trespassing when your husband is talking to the husband of the house, and he never asked us to leave.  Oh, and you can’t spray people just for talking to your husband.  Especially if they are standing in the street.

Take that Pepper Spray.  I hope you enjoy your community service.
Oh, and your divorce.  Hope you enjoy that too….

My Crazy Neighbor (2)

She goes to court on Monday. Two counts of assault. I’ll try to fill in details this weekend, I’m such a bad blogger.

In keeping with the running…

For loser mom of the year….

The evil wench borrowed $40 from teh child yesterday for groceries. Can you believe it?

Do you think Mister should say anything to the wench? Let it go? She claims she’s paying her back on Thursday, but my God. Borrowing money from your 14 year old? Where does that rank? Like just a little above abandoning them at birth?

My crazy neighbor

She pepper sprayed us last night. I can’t even believe it. It is all so very insane, and I am so angry I can’t go into detail right now. Maybe later.

Pepper spray!!!! Honestly. WTF?

Here’s hoping…

The Mister gets the call from work that they are going back.

Not sure how much longer we can last…