the sloppy copy

My brother came home to visit this week. Shenanigans ensued, including what began as a completely normal game of Simpsons Monopoly:

…that ended up being played by made-up House Rules (ie “build whatever you want, wherever you want it”):

(for the curious, landing on that property will cost you $3,180)

…and, when we ran completely of money, devolved into complete and total chaos:

(“How much can I get for this?” we ask, as we alternately toss random property deeds, our glasses and phones onto the board)

I love my family.

“I can’t right now. I’m doing laundry.”

“Oh, are you at the laundromat? The communal laundry room? Where, in either scenario, one must keep a close eye on one’s clothing lest it be molested by strange hands? I can come keep you company if you like.

“No? You’re at home? Oh, is your washing machine broken? Are you rinsing your dainties in the bathtub and wringing them out over the toilet? Hanging them on door handles, drawer pulls, curtain rods – to dry?

“Did you collect large stones from your backyard or complex’s common area, dragging them into your home and arranging them on your patio so that you might beat the moisture out of your vintage tees in the warm glow of Mother Sun?

“No?

“So you opened the top of your washing machine, threw in your unsorted mass of fabrics sullied by body odors and various food greases, poured an indeterminate amount of laundry detergent over the top, closed the lid, pressed one – maybe two – goddamn buttons and walked away? Is that what you mean by ‘doing laundry’?

“Okay. Just checking.”

“The machine does it for you, you entitled asshole. Quit bitching about how busy you are or I swear I will fucking drown you in my rinse bucket.”

“I know you’re trying to be all supportive and shit after that crappy inning, man, but I just can’t take you seriously with those ridiculous sunglasses on.”

~What I imagine Lance Lynn (#31) is saying to Chris Carpenter here:

Just as one is not officially a resident of a new home until they receive their first piece of junk mail addressed to them (“Resident,” “Our Friends At,” etc;), one hasn’t “made it” in the blogosphere until they start getting regular Spam comments.

Er, I mean, meaningful feedback from anonymous readers.

Get a load of these well-thought out responses to some of my more recent posts:

or

Aw, you guys!!!!!

Did I tell you I cancelled my dentist appointment? The one I made awhile ago? When I called and it took a half hour to set up an appointment? Call me crazy, but the rigamarole of having to repeat my date of birth and address nineteen times just didn’t… sit right with me.

Are you thinking “Julie, why did you go through all that just to cancel?” Because if you are, yeah, I see your point. Except get a load of this:

When I called them back to cancel, they could not find the record of me making an appointment in the first place.*

Nope. No thanks.

*They eventually found the appointment, but it took several minutes of me verifying my name, address, phone number, blood type, and the name of my first grade teacher.

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EPILOGUE

I ended up scheduling an appointment at my previous dental office. I’d wanted to find something closer, but I will gladly take an extra ten minutes’ drive for friendly, organized, efficient staff. My appointment was today. I’ll write more about it later.