Hey, Jerks. I am back from Auction Island. I must have been really horrendously bad to have been banished to that place. Imagine a clusterfuck that you have to fix when it’s already most of the way through. And then imagine being blamed for things, even though you don’t really know what’s going on, despite your best efforts. And then imagine someone else taking credit for all the good parts. To quote the poet laureate of Strongbadia, “It’s over!”

Today I reconciled all the files and fixed the night-of fuck ups. It was pretty fun, actually. The last three hours of the auction flew by. My former in-laws were there and they bought a little knitted sweater for Spawn of SeaFed. Sometimes I really miss them. SeaFed’s father is the closest thing I had to a dad. He congratulated me on the auction as soon as he saw me. Next to Franny, losing my in-laws was the biggest consideration when I decided to get divorced.

I need a massage and someone to carry me around in a litter for about a week. What will actually happen is that I will clean my fucking house, which looks like a garage sale threw up in it. There is stuff everywhere. Sometimes I just want to throw it out and start over with new stuff. When I worked at a record store in the U-District, another clerk there told me that he got into a huge fight with his housemates about cleaning and they threw away all their dishes and started over.

I haven’t thought about that guy in years, so I googled him up. It turns out he’s in Kinski. I don’t know if it’s good or not, as my ears can only detect the exact frequency of ghetto tech.

ANYWAYZ, I’m turning in the final files tomorrow so people can get all billed and stuff.

Today they knocked the house down across the street. I kept running out in the middle of reconciling files to snap an update. It was great timing for Strudel to have something to watch out the picture window because I was so busy all day. I told her they were munching the house up and she said “HUNGRY!” I suppose backhoes are hungry, in a way.

cleek

It’s weird. I’ve been looking at that house every day for more than a year now, and now it’s all rubble. We went crazy nanners digging up rose bushes from the yard yesterday, and now, BAM, instant rose garden. We also got some random stuff like a rhododendron, a peony, and a poppy, and a shitload of spring bulbs. Even if some of the stuff dies, it’s better than watching it all get turned under.

Is that selfish of me to be glad they were knocking a house down so my child would be entertained? She won’t watch a fucking TV, I can tell you that much. A week ago Whippet took me to her waxer’s house, where she does waxing on the side for cheaper, so we could swap off with Strudel and get our hairs yoinked.

I let Whippet go first, because Strudel saw that there were little yap dogs and got really nervous. I had to hold her for a while, and the waxy lady turned on a TV in her living room that was so large it could have eaten your soul. Bert and Ernie were the size of real actual humans. I wanted to have my picture taken in front of it, since it will be a while until I get to Stonehenge. Strudel watched for about thirty seconds in a very WTF sort of way, and then got irritated, because the little yap dogs were mobbing us constantly. I have never seen such pesty little dogs.

And then, of couse, because I was there, the lipstick came out. There should be a law that all little dogs should be fixed. Seriously, the dog’s scrabble bag was the size of ping pong balls. No one needs to see that. At least give him little pants or something, or some pixelization. Finally, he had that horny and determined dog look on his face, so I started using Strudel as a cockblock. He didn’t want her–she smelled kind of funny to me, so I’m sure she smelled terrible to Lotharito.

And then there was the girl dog. She was wearing a little dress, but no pants, so I could see her parts on display, too. I’m all for parts, but man, I don’t care for dog parts. Apparently, the owners are breeding the dogs twice to make their money back.

So they were almost-humping, because she was almost in heat, and they were both tinkling all over the living room, which explained the very doggie smell in there. And it was one of those new-fangled McMansions that stretches out to the very edge of the lot, and has a seven-car garage or something. So, ugly as hell, but brand new. And this is what you do with that? Your little yap dogs tinkle all over the living room?

After they followed me all over the room, touching and pawing me constantly for no reason, I couldn’t take it anymore. I kept scooting them away with my foot and they would come scuttling right back. You just don’t want to boot the dogs of the person who is about to wax you. Especially when the only pictures on the mantel are of the dogs. Other relatives were relegated to the side of the fridge; I looked. I glanced at Strudel, who was up on the counter eating the croissant I brought her. “Homehomehomehomehome!” she said, and pointed at the door. “Good idea, kid,” I said, and lifted her up over the dogs’ baby gate and into the hallway, and out the front door.

Strudel played on the tiny lawn. The air whipping down the canyon of McMansions felt so cool and fresh after the peepee smell of the house. Whippet came out front about fifteen minutes later, and announced it was my turn. “No,” I said. “She’s not going to be able to wait anymore.” We fled. Whippet felt bad about me being her ride, but it was fine, really. You have to expect a certain amount of misadventure sometimes, right?

Bonus: