Princess of Irony

Squire of the Alley

Issue Date: Wednesday, Apr. 13, 2005

This morning I went and had that pro-seeeee-jure done on my arm. The place on my little t-rex* arm. Where Dr. T had previously shaved off the top of the mole was all healed up and pretty and new and pink. Shiny. Smaller than the circumference of the top of a pencil eraser� and yet� YET� they got all stabby with me.

Three stitches underneath and seven on top.

That�s ten stitches for a mole that was no bigger than a booger. And my arm is hurty and I�m pouty and don�t want to be at work. But, thankfully I am caught up. So I think I will tell you guys a story. Yeah, that�s smart. Use my arm for typing a bunch. See? I�m smart, S-M-R-T.

Mister and I live in a beautiful older home. Pure 1976 cheese. I love this house. I love the Dutch roof. I love its wooden beams across the living room ceiling. I love the large windows in the kitchen. I love the corny wet bar and cracked glass globe lighting fixture. I love how the hallway floor upstairs is uneven and makes you feel a little drunk when you are walking towards the guest bedroom. I love the big backyard and I love the half cul-de-sac we live on.

When we moved in my best friend from high school alerted me to the fact that I was living next to the father of her high school (and college) sweetheart. It is funny how things seem to move in a circle the older you get� no?

Mister and I went around meeting some of our neighbors.

We met the old man next door, such a sweet old guy and I refrained from telling him what a complete dick his son was to my friend for the last two years of their relationship. That�s the swell kind of gal I am. I�m sweet like that, yanno?

We met a family that lives directly behind us. The guy is a retired Marine and I actually went to school with is wife� (can�t remember her, sorry) and their two kids. We met a few more men who the Marine guy hangs out with on the weekends when they are finished doing yard work or talking about their tools (not like that ya�ll ew� or I don�t think it�s like that).

The main group of guys who hang out in our alley are Dave, Mike and Mike. (Ed. note: I�m not changing their names to protect the innocent, I can only remember one of them� and I�m not really all that certain about that one.) And yes, they hang out in the alley like they are trying to relive some sick and twisted King Of The Hill episode.

About two months ago Mister and I were in the driveway unloading groceries from Sam�s from the car and Dave and his family pulled to the end of our driveway and Dave rolled down his window to speak to us.

Dave: Hey.
Mister: Hey, how are you guys doing?
Me: Good afternoon.
Dave: We�re fine. I was just wondering� did either of you happen to see anyone messing with my recycling bin last night?
Mister: No why?
Me: No, sorry.
Dave: Well, somebody set it on fire and left it in the alleyway.
Mister: Well, come to think of it I did see some ash in the alley behind our fence, but I didn�t think anything about it.
Dave: Well, ok� if you see anything else, let me know.
Mister: Ok, have a good day.
Me: Bye ya�ll.

A few weeks later Mister and I came home from church and Dave, Mike and Mike were huddled together up against the far northwest corner of our fence, almost like they had been caught doing something. Mister and I, ever friendly, smiled and waved as we pulled into our driveway. As we got out of the car, we heard a bunch of, �SHhhhhhhhhhh!!!!�s Like they were shushing each other from talking about the big galoots that were getting out of the car� namely US.

We got out of the car and went inside. I shook my head sadly and Mister looked at me like, �What?� I asked him what he thought their problem was. They being the three grown men outside, standing on our property acting like teenagers. Did they think we had anything to do with the sacrificial recycling bin? Were they upset that our garage wasn�t in pristine �Tim The Toolman� shape like theirs were? Are they opposed to renters? Do they not agree with us delegating out our yard work to other people whilst they work so hard on their own? Mister was like, �Who knows and who gives a flying fuck?�

This brings us to the latest.

Sunday, two weeks ago, Mister and I came home from a wedding shower I was doing for some friends from church. We drove into the alley and there was Dave and his little family of four in his driveway. I smiled and waved and he� looked straight at me then turned his prissy ass nose up at me and turned away.

And Oh, how I wish I was kidding.

We parked and I barely got inside before my voice jumped up about nine octaves and I launched into my lovely rendition of, �What the fuck was that?� I went almost sonar and the dogs in the neighborhood were barking and Mister got me calmed down enough before�

Get this�

My wimpy ass started crying.

Because a neighbor snubbed me.

I was all, �Why? Why? Why? Would someone be so mean? We didn�t do anything to him!�

I told Stacey about this the other night over margaritas and she was laughing her ass off at me because she gets it. She understands. We can be all tough and try and handle everything, we can even try and save the world or at least fix it dinner, but the moment someone is deliberately mean and we don�t know the reason? Shit? Yeah, it�s Lost.

I wanted to march over and ask that scrawny fucker what did I ever do to warrant that kind of behavior from him� but that would have just given him all kinds of ammunition against me. It�s better to not care. And as you can see, I�m doing a great job of not caring.

Fucker.

He hurt my feelings.

*The t-rex arm description comes from the fact that my legs are all long and in comparison it seems that my arms are iiiittty biiitttyyy.

Back Issues ::: Current Issue

Please switch to the Suzannadanna.net site. - Friday, May. 23, 2008

- - Monday, Apr. 14, 2008

C'mon y'all - Friday, Feb. 22, 2008

C'Mon! - Wednesday, Feb. 13, 2008

- - Friday, Dec. 28, 2007

Follow this Link to the Cheese Club. Enter your photo in our Cheese Off Contest!

100 Things About Me

Sign the Guestbook

gmail me babies

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.


	Squire of the Alley Issue Date: Wednesday, Apr. 13, 2005 This morning I went and had that pro-seeeee-jure done on my arm. The place on my little t-rex* arm. Where Dr. T had previously shaved off the top of the mole was all healed up and pretty and new and pink. Shiny. Smaller than the circumference of the top of a pencil eraser� and yet� YET� they got all stabby with me. Three stitches underneath and seven on top. That�s ten stitches for a mole that was no bigger than a booger. And my arm is hurty and I�m pouty and don�t want to be at work. But, thankfully I am caught up. So I think I will tell you guys a story. Yeah, that�s smart. Use my arm for typing a bunch. See? I�m smart, S-M-R-T. Mister and I live in a beautiful older home. Pure 1976 cheese. I love this house. I love the Dutch roof. I love its wooden beams across the living room ceiling. I love the large windows in the kitchen. I love the corny wet bar and cracked glass globe lighting fixture. I love how the hallway floor upstairs is uneven and makes you feel a little drunk when you are walking towards the guest bedroom. I love the big backyard and I love the half cul-de-sac we live on. When we moved in my best friend from high school alerted me to the fact that I was living next to the father of her high school (and college) sweetheart. It is funny how things seem to move in a circle the older you get� no? Mister and I went around meeting some of our neighbors. We met the old man next door, such a sweet old guy and I refrained from telling him what a complete dick his son was to my friend for the last two years of their relationship. That�s the swell kind of gal I am. I�m sweet like that, yanno? We met a family that lives directly behind us. The guy is a retired Marine and I actually went to school with is wife� (can�t remember her, sorry) and their two kids. We met a few more men who the Marine guy hangs out with on the weekends when they are finished doing yard work or talking about their tools (not like that ya�ll ew� or I don�t think it�s like that). The main group of guys who hang out in our alley are Dave, Mike and Mike. (Ed. note: I�m not changing their names to protect the innocent, I can only remember one of them� and I�m not really all that certain about that one.) And yes, they hang out in the alley like they are trying to relive some sick and twisted King Of The Hill episode. About two months ago Mister and I were in the driveway unloading groceries from Sam�s from the car and Dave and his family pulled to the end of our driveway and Dave rolled down his window to speak to us. Dave: Hey. Mister: Hey, how are you guys doing? Me: Good afternoon. Dave: We�re fine. I was just wondering� did either of you happen to see anyone messing with my recycling bin last night? Mister: No why? Me: No, sorry. Dave: Well, somebody set it on fire and left it in the alleyway. Mister: Well, come to think of it I did see some ash in the alley behind our fence, but I didn�t think anything about it. Dave: Well, ok� if you see anything else, let me know. Mister: Ok, have a good day. Me: Bye ya�ll. A few weeks later Mister and I came home from church and Dave, Mike and Mike were huddled together up against the far northwest corner of our fence, almost like they had been caught doing something. Mister and I, ever friendly, smiled and waved as we pulled into our driveway. As we got out of the car, we heard a bunch of, �SHhhhhhhhhhh!!!!�s Like they were shushing each other from talking about the big galoots that were getting out of the car� namely US. We got out of the car and went inside. I shook my head sadly and Mister looked at me like, �What?� I asked him what he thought their problem was. They being the three grown men outside, standing on our property acting like teenagers. Did they think we had anything to do with the sacrificial recycling bin? Were they upset that our garage wasn�t in pristine �Tim The Toolman� shape like theirs were? Are they opposed to renters? Do they not agree with us delegating out our yard work to other people whilst they work so hard on their own? Mister was like, �Who knows and who gives a flying fuck?� This brings us to the latest. Sunday, two weeks ago, Mister and I came home from a wedding shower I was doing for some friends from church. We drove into the alley and there was Dave and his little family of four in his driveway. I smiled and waved and he� looked straight at me then turned his prissy ass nose up at me and turned away. And Oh, how I wish I was kidding. We parked and I barely got inside before my voice jumped up about nine octaves and I launched into my lovely rendition of, �What the fuck was that?� I went almost sonar and the dogs in the neighborhood were barking and Mister got me calmed down enough before� Get this� My wimpy ass started crying. Because a neighbor snubbed me. I was all, �Why? Why? Why? Would someone be so mean? We didn�t do anything to him!� I told Stacey about this the other night over margaritas and she was laughing her ass off at me because she gets it. She understands. We can be all tough and try and handle everything, we can even try and save the world or at least fix it dinner, but the moment someone is deliberately mean and we don�t know the reason? Shit? Yeah, it�s Lost. I wanted to march over and ask that scrawny fucker what did I ever do to warrant that kind of behavior from him� but that would have just given him all kinds of ammunition against me. It�s better to not care. And as you can see, I�m doing a great job of not caring. Fucker. He hurt my feelings. The t-rex arm description comes from the fact that my legs are all long and in comparison it seems that my arms are iiiittty biiitttyyy. \| Back Issues ::: Current Issue Please switch to the Suzannadanna.net site. - Friday, May. 23, 2008 - - Monday, Apr. 14, 2008 C'mon y'all - Friday, Feb. 22, 2008 C'Mon! - Wednesday, Feb. 13, 2008 - - Friday, Dec. 28, 2007 Follow this Link to the Cheese Club*. Enter your photo in our Cheese Off Contest! 100 Things About Me Sign the Guestbook gmail me babies Notified users get the dirt before EVERYONE ELSE! Enter your email here: Powered by NotifyList.com This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.