Home > Random Weirdness, This is what happens when you let me out in public > Come for the unusually cheerful reception, stay for the horrifying dismemberment…

Come for the unusually cheerful reception, stay for the horrifying dismemberment…

Sorry, guys. My weekend was packed.  I actually had a relative stay in my house for more than 24 hours! Without dying of exposure to whatever-the-hell-it-is-that-people-are-accusing-me-of-being-on-this-week.  I almost died of shock, after returning her safely to my parents’ house.  Especially since that’s the second time we’ve had someone come over/stay the night in about three weeks.  I feel downright famous!

Seriously. Ordinarily, it’s like we have the plague or something.  Not sure what sort of plague.  But I’m sure potential visitors are warned away by their friends and family.  Probably something like, “Oh, don’t go over to their house, dear. I hear they have a contagious strain of zombie gamer disease. Initial symptoms include night sweats, skin peeling, and an unusual craving for the living flesh of those damned Ally players.”

My husband and I have discussed it amongst ourselves, at length.  He is of the opinion that people just suck.  Then again, my husband is charmingly simplistic.  It’s not that your parents finally told you that you were adopted and you realized that they had not only lied to you about your genetics for your entire life, up until this point, but they have also been secretly cannibalizing the staff of the local Wal*Mart, leading you to flee in your poorly-maintained vehicle at a reckless and dangerous speed until you collide head-on with a truck full of puppies and end up in the local hospital’s ICU, unable to remember your own name…

You just suck.

I, on the other hand, am of the opinion that the idea that such a horrifyingly-bizarre scenario could feasibly come up in a conversation between my husband and myself would be enough to discourage all but the most bravehearted friends from trekking out to our home in East Bumfuck (because, if you live in California, anything past the O.C. is East Bumfuck).  Could also be the neighborhood in which we live, as well as the drive itself…  Also, it might be our small human and the offensive odors occasionally wafting upward from her butt.

Could also be that I’m insanely addicted to yarn and a lack of forward physical momentum.  I’m overwhelmed with self-initiated knitting madness and have the social skills of a child raised by monkeys.  Which might explain the lack of success I have in chatting up other moms at the park or grocery store.  I guess they think I’m going to start picking in their hair for my kid’s lunch.

I have to believe that it’s these things, and my horribly-awkward social interaction, rather than the idea that they’ll never be heard from again.  I sometimes get the feeling that my husband and I maybe “try to hard”… you know, smile too much? Laugh too loudly? Get too excited and eager to participate?  Maybe that’s causing people to think we’re the stereotypical “suspicious” family from a slasher flick?  You know, like we’re happy to see them and overly-friendly because I’m planning on how best to serve their kidneys with that fresh spinach I picked up at the farmers’ market that morning?

Because if that’s the case, I really need to speak to an agent about who’s going to play us in the cheap horror film version… or a lawyer to prepare for possible criminal indictment.

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