Not a Meme - But Still Friday

There Was Drama

As a few of you may know, my husband, bless his annoying soul, likes to mess with me. (You know that when a Southerner says "bless his soul" it forgives everything you are going to say afterward, right? Like "Bless her soul, she's a heartless, bottom feeding, miserable waste of oxygen" should not be taken as an insult and can't be considered negative or gossipy. FYI)

The other day he was working on my car. I had a flat tire. My tires have all simultaneously decided to explode and I've been having massive problems with all of them. Certain family members I have believe that I have suddenly developed a penchant for driving over shards of acid-coated glass, but I believe it is more likely that rubber has decided it hates me. Bless it's soul.

Anyway, I had gotten myself stranded at the post office and walked home, so The Husband went to the Post Office to fix my van. After he had been gone for a few days, or maybe an hour or so, he called and told me, fairly calmly that he was worried and might run to the hospital.

"Why?"

"Well... I don't want you to worry."

"Why?"

"I sort of, well, I was working on the van, and I had the jack in the wrong place and the car fell and it didn't so much crush my hand, but a little it did and it's kinda swollen and it hurts to move."

There was a naggling voice in the back of my head telling me that I would have heard his screams all the way up the hill. Another naggling voice informed me that if I believed him, I would, once again, be playing into his sadistic little hand.

Unfortunately, the voice in the front of my head was busy figuring out how I was going to get to the hospital, stranded without a car, and who was home to watch the kids so I didn't have to take them with me and what was still packed from last night's diaper bag, so I wouldn't have to spend too much time running around the house frantically trying to find a bib. A bib, a bib, my freakin' nation for a freakin' bib.

I panicked. I freaked. I totally flipped out. Brynna started crying because I was so obviously upset and I wondered if I could fit both kids into the stroller and walk back to the post office so I could drive him myself, and OH NO!! The stroller's still in the back of the van.

Then, he laughed. The psychopath laughed and told me it was all a joke. A cruel, awful joke. And, you know, I had taken it before. I had taken it and taken it and taken it and I just couldn't take it no more.

So, when he came home I was ready.


I was ready to make him pay. Pay big time. It wasn't pretty. And then I had to run.










But, you know, as ole Johnnny said. I made a good run, but I run too slow.













Prison was not good for me. But, there was time. Oh the time. Glorious time. Tons of time. And I wrote. I finally finished the Great American Novel, and it was as great as I'd always hoped it would be. Upon it's publishing, the movement started to get me released. There were letters and celebrity endorsements and, of course, a vigil.





Finally, I was released. Dane Cook fell madly in love with me. And I lived happily ever after.

















So, not a meme, but a fun idea, inspired by The Bloggess. I really, really want to turn this into an assignment, because it sounds like fun and I'd like to see this be the next big thing. Anyway, you people don't seem especially good at assignments. You know, only three people signed up for the Crafting thing and it didn't hurt my feelings at all. Only, you know. A little.

If you want to participate, fine. If you don't, FINE. Visit photofunia, for all the well... fun...