* I have a summer cold from HELL, and no voice. Luckily I've only been on call at work, and haven't had to go in, but tomorrow I have a regular shift and need to be there!
* This is complicated by the fact that the MFA Minivan is dead in the driveway. It was having some kind of odd seizure this morning that Hotter noticed when he was walking by; it was locking and unlocking all of the locks nonstop (which is crazy because the power locks don't even WORK when you try to, you know, USE THEM). He dragged me out to show me, and I was like BABY. She is an unpapered, inspection-needing, 90% rusted-out, steel-belts-showing-in-the-tires, battery-corroded-so-badly-we-probably-couldn't-change-it-if-we-tried, windshield-wiper-held-on-with-a-paperclip, 4,000 miles over due for an oil change AMERICAN VEHICLE with nearly 250,000 miles on her! If as part of her vehicular Alzheimer's she wants to lock and unlock her doors then not only is that fine by me but YOU WATCH YOUR TONE and DON'T MAKE HER FEEL SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT IT! Then I gave the minivan double finger-guns and said "who's a good van? WHO'S A GOOD VAN! YOU ARE!" Evidently she wasn't fooled by my attempts at placating her, or else Hotter was right about the locks eventually wearing down the battery.
* And that may go down in history as The Last Time Hotter Was Right, because he lost his fucking mind earlier tonight. The XY likes to set the kids up to complain about various things; Big Child is apparently having a hard time making friends in 8th grade and was told by the kids in his Home Ec class that he smells funny. Instead of giving him a quick sniff-test (clothes smell like soap, body smells like Axe) and then explaining that teenagers are assholes, the XY said that this is because our entire house (which he has not been inside) smells funny, and Big Child ought to tell us to clean it more. Which, Big Child having Asperger's, is exactly what he came home and did, and Big Child's excuse in the confrontation that ensued is that he is thirteen and has Asperger's. Hotter HAD no excuse to sink to the level of yelling and swearing at a child, even if said child is physically larger than he is. Yes, my ex is The Lord Of The Douche and runs mindgames on the kids. Yes, it's irritating to have a thirteen-year-old tell you your house smells funny and you need to clean it better, and not even be able to see where my ex-husband's hand goes up his arse to move his mouth, BELIEVE ME I KNOW THIS. However, if I do not get to lose my shit and yell and swear about this, neither does anyone else in the house, and if you cannot listen to reason I will absolutely put you in time out until you can calm the eff down, whether you are eight or forty-six.
* It's remarkable the salubrious effect a closed door has on manly comportment. When I first dragged Hotter outside to finish our discussion out of minor earshot he was all "YOU PEOPLE DON'T HELP ME KEEP THE HOUSE CLEAN AND I HAVE HAD IT I WAS NOT YELLING AND YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, THE LAW DOWN HERE WOULDN'T CARE IF I--" and then when he went to follow me back inside and discovered himself to be locked out there he went pretty quickly to "I'll apologize to Big Child, I loooove you, I'll love you FOREVER and I am SO SORRY FOR YELLING." I finally decided I had to let him back in sooner or later and opened the door, and shortly Hotter began screaming. Because it turned out that while he was having his back-porch change of heart a five-inch slug had crawled up his pants-leg. I informed him coolly that that looked to me like a personal problem, and went to make a wine-run but at that point discovered that the MFA Minivan's battery was dead. So it was an evening of nobody getting what they wanted! Except for the XY! Yay, strife!
* No, not really. Boo, strife. And boo to you too, Wednesday. NEXT!