Truth is Stranger than Friction

Dear Esmeralda

Dysfunction Junction

I’m going to try to not make this a long-winded story but I do like to write. We just got the baby shower invite in the mail and would love to go.  That Patty really looks like a water balloon, doesn’t she?  We are both so excited to see Gram’s in her new Rascal…how many speeds does it have?  I hope she’s put down the bottle.  Any who, I have to work on Saturday but not until later in the afternoon.

As I walked from the Post Office to the car with that adorable little invitation you sent.  You know the one?  It has a picture of Honey Boo Boo naked.   Something made me look at your return address. When I saw there had been no South East or 39 th on it. I hustled to the car.

You see exactly two weeks ago, I prodded Ma  for your address. I go over there once a week to help out, as you know.  With the toileting and stuff.  I tell her, if she needs to go…number two, I can come over more often.  But we’ll see how that goes.

Anyway, She says to me,: Oh, don’t worry about that now. I’ll e-mail it to you.

I say: Ma, you know how the post office is! Give it to me now. Why wait?

She says: I don’t want to turn the computer on, log in and pull up my e-mail right now. It’s such a hassle!  And, your father gets nervous about showing our ‘privates’ and stuff. He thinks there is some sort of conspiracy going on…Ain’t been right sense that wicked head injury at the Gandhi Mart.  That can of Pork N Beans just came out of nowhere!

I get disgusted because the conversation is going nowhere. How hard is it to just get me the friggin’ address! Of course, I don’t say this to her. I warn her however, that if I don’t get the address by tonight I’m gonna tell Grams and Grams will put the ole Polish Hex on her.

No address arrives that night. No address arrives three days later when I call and harass her for it. A week goes by…I’m back at the house telling Father about not getting the address. He’s getting loud because the dogs are barking during the Weather Channel’s weather on the 8′s. Whatever that means?   Though we all know what really has got him to needing to see the barber and get the hair across his ass…removed!

He’s actually mad because Dough boy (or the big dot) as Megan and I call him. Dough boy believes Dad won’t come in to visit the babies: mini dot one and mini dot two, because he’s black!  The big dot that is. Not Dad. Somehow this story is relayed to Father from Mother who got it from sister, Sissy,  who had a meeting with Cindy Lou. So the whole time I’m there Father is running around the house referring to  himself a bigot.

Is ‘bigot’ the right word for someone who hates the world no matter what?  I’m not sure if he’s right on that one.  I think that would be more sociopath or something.  I saw it once on Jerry Springer.

While Dad’s telling, Bubba the cockatiel that he’s a no good f-ing bigot!  Dad, not Bubba, that is. I escort Mom to the office. I make her sit down and turn on the computer. Five seconds later we pull up your address.

I need to tell you that two days prior to this, after several stalking phone calls. Ma leaves your address on my voice mail. She sounds like a bag of marbles were left off in her mouth. Or, perhaps dropped from when she lost them. I play the voice mail over and over. Megan plays the voice mail over and over.   Hard as we try.  The words just do not sound lucid in the message.  Yet, we send a card to 4646 South East 3999th St.. RFD Intercourse, PA. We went with RFD even though it could have been RSD or FU or RYO or KMWA (kiss my white ass). Either way it sounded like you were in Something, something Mayberry RFD.

When I force Ma to pull up the address. I say, what is the RFD for anyway. She says, what are you talking about?

For Christ sakes, pardon my language, what is the f—-ing address. This time I get her to write it down! I’m looking at the piece of ripped from the corner of a piece of the latest edition of Field and Stream magazine, the  address looking up at me with Mom’s poor penmanship, right now.

So, I marched myself down with my second made from hand post card and send it to 120 SE 39th St. Intercourse, PA  34034. The funny thing is I printed off only so many of them and used sister Sissy’s special x-mas postcard to give to you. We’d figure out what to do with Sissy later…goodness knows if that girl don’t get that card by the beginning of next year…she’ll pitch a fit

So, that meant finding an old x-mas card, not used, getting back down to the over crowded post office and mailing it. I just did that today, 12/24/13

.

So, you and Bud will not receive a x-mas card in the mail this year.  Sissy’s  horribly tacky x-mas card will be late and I won’t hear the end of it.  Serves her right she keeps promising me that scrapbook she made from scrap ten years ago!

Mom is fine and oblivious to the situation she has caused and is truly loving the Sit N Spin seat you both got her for the shower. And, I have to e-mail you the funny post card you should have gotten in the mail.

I once got a x-mas card from my boss in North Carolina. I will never forget it because it epitomizes how I feel about Christmas/x-mas.

Money’s tight, times are hard here’s your f—-ing Christmas Card.

Hope this story finds you healthy, happy and glad your far away from the maddening crowd.

Love you

Ruth and Megan

If it weren’t for apathy…I’d have no sympathy at all!