The Flood

I was awakened on this past Sunday abruptly by my husband, who informed me he had "a situation" and needed me to get up now.  Knowing my husband's particular phobias, I assumed a child had painted the walls with poo or something and he needed me for damage mitigation.

I walked out to find water enthusiastically pouring from my kitchen ceiling & cabinets.  Husband ran upstairs to tell the darlings from above to stop doing whatever brilliant thing it was they were doing.  I closed my eyes and tried to bargain with god to change the gallons of water filling my kitchen into a different situation.  I would have welcomed The Situation, Snooki and the whole cast of Jersey Shore into my apartment for an in-depth discussion of GTL if it would have disappeared the fresh hell I was witnessing.  I'd have been willing to mediate an argument between Sammi and the big, angry one, or even catch a few fists with my face in place of the small, drunk, delusional one, just for what was being visited upon my apartment not to be happening.

Husband came back.  Apparently, "a hose came loose".  Oh, well of course - my place is literally teeming with loose hoses.  I've lost count of them.  Water was running down my cabinets, splashing cheerfully on my counters, pooling on my kitchen floor - and now sleazily traveling along beams and dripping from my living room ceiling onto my carpet.  I hear a ping.  It's my brain. 

Guess how long it took maintenance to come?  I have no idea, because I was freaking the fuck out.  But he said he'd be there in fifteen minutes, and it was a fuck of a lot longer than fifteen minutes.  He let us know that when he got upstairs, she'd already cleaned up the water.  Oh well gooood.  for her.  Allow me to introduce you to gravity, you gentle genius.  Gravity cleaned up your water.  It's the same force working on your tits.  It's a fickle mistress!

After asking Speedy McMaintenance about sixty times, I finally wrestled out of him that the hose which "came loose" was the drainage for the washing machine.  Then, it wasn't so much a matter of coming loose, it was a matter of someone being too terminally stupid to put it in the gigantic hole properly.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to do that wrong?  I happen to know that Patsy fucking Stone from Ab Fab could manage that task, and she hasn't eaten anything except for booze and pills since 1974, sweetie darling.

So, we've got a swamp carpet that's filled with chemicals which may or may not irritate my children's skin.  We get to have carpet cleaners and maintenance staff all over our apartment for god knows how long fixing this shit, having our life in upheaval, while the jackasses upstairs continue with their inspired, inconsiderate lives, treating their balcony like a makeshift kennel - which, just happens to be right outside my bedroom - having had their lives inconvenienced by about 15 minutes, the poor dears. 

Meanwhile, our neighbors have done nothing to apologize.  If I had done this to someone, I'd have been mortified and not only would I have rushed downstairs with an armload of towels offering to help, I would have been buying them dinner.  But, to be fair, I'd hate to cut into this woman's fat ass admiring time, and completely booked dog ignoring schedule.  I'm sure she's busy.  For the sake of Pete, she must be dead on her feet from throwing a scoop of dog food out the sliding glass doors twice a day.  I am not unsympathetic.

We have been reassured that someone with a conscious mind will make sure the hose is properly stuck into the drainage hole up there.  I sure hope so.  If this were to happen again, I would definitely get arrested for snatching a bitch bald in her doorway.

I Play Sims (part21)

Oh my god, I'm so excited, it's Stanley's birthday!  I can barely contain my excitement, and I've definitely soiled myself.  What about you, Stanley?

I don't see Rachel anywhere, but Suri's tonsils have made an appearance so I think it's safe to say this party is well underway.


Fabulous, fabulous.

Hold right the fuck up.  Either you've just walked straight through that sliding glass door without opening it, or I've just taken muscle relaxers instead of anti-histamines again.  Actually, both are entirely possible.
 

The bad news?  Your mother is some sort of sorceress who has found a way around the laws of physics, which she flouts without compunction.  Also, she's standing right next to you.

Come on, guys - you can do this.  Let's just try to have a nice, normal birthday party.

Jesus, Stanley.  Is there some sort of hidden New Jersey Italian trait that just got activated?  Should I move the cake?  Are you about to start flipping tables?

Alright, alright.  Excuse me for living.

Happy fucking birthday, then.

It's time to go get ready for the other party you've been invited to, anyway.

Try not to get your foot run over or Isadora Duncan yourself with a scarf on the way there.

I'm sure that girl lurking back there is nothing to worry about.


It's at this point that the party really starts to cook.  The host talks emeralds while the tattoo enthusiast ponders the death of her lover and removes a bit of fuzz from her shoulder.  Slow down, y'all.

Rachel and Justin are soon joined in the vestibule by another party guest and the conversation reaches new levels of discussion.

But this isn't the only place the party is heating up.  Let's check the upstairs bathroom.
 

Eventually, Rachel wanders upstairs to get a few moments to herself.

Meanwhile, back downstairs ...

But it's not.  Apparently, there's always a woman in a blue sweater waiting for this to happen:



At least Grimmy's cool with it.

Since the party death wasn't at all upsetting for anyone else but the girl with PTSD, everybody goes right back to enjoying the evening.

Someone finally makes something to eat and in an uncharacteristic move, Rachel grabs a plate.

It looks like the party is over, Rachel.  You might want to head home and check on your supply of haunch balm, fatty.

I Play Sims (part22)

.

Conversations With My Husband

Me: Do you think you'd have a bunch of fun going on business trips with your best friend?
Him:  What?!
Me: It's shocking at this point that anything that comes out of my mouth could surprise you.
Him:  Who's my best friend? Chester Conklin?

I know he's explained to me more than once who Chester Conklin is, but gun to my head I couldn't pick him out in a line up.  I think he's bald.

Me: Hey, did you hear that Pink is pregnant?
Him: (exasperated, almost angry sigh) No.
Me:  You didn't get a Twitter update about it on your mobile device?!
(neither are things he has nor wants)
Him:  It's not information I need to know.

Several months later, when I brought up Pink's retarded and ill-conceived plans to bring her garland-covered child on tour with her before said child was even able to walk, it was clear that he'd forcibly removed the knowledge of her pregnancy from his brain, because he was all, "Pink is pregnant?!" - and I know he wasn't fucking with me because I know where he sleeps.

Me: Why can't we fight like them?
(I'm pretty sure it was Anne Meara and Jerry Stiller)
Then at least you'd have the decency to be amusing about not liking me.
Him: ~non-committal noise which is a combination of "aww" and "oh"~

Me: I didn't get bigger, I got smaller pants.  It's like backfat on parade tonight.  You're just going to have to put up with how fat I look tonight.
(I've actually lost 23 pounds since the first backfat parade, so fuck yeah me.)
Him: ~non-committal noise which is a combination of "aww" and "oh"~

Me: Yes, there are cookies in my bra.
Him: And you're eating them.

There is always something (other than my breasts) in my bra ... earbuds, tissues, a debit card, barrettes, a used Breathe Right strip, etc.  Just the other day, I discovered a sizable crumb in there (always crumbs, always ... crumbs.) so I walked toward the kitchen where husband was standing by the safety gate.  I handed him the crumb, which he threw away, then I said:

"Well, now I know why my boob was itching." 
Him: That was in your bra?!
Me: Yes.
Him: Why did you hand it to me?
Me: Because you put your hand out.

He couldn't argue with the logic.

-----

I am working on the next Sims update, but here's a couple sneek peek picture of the new house I built that the Rosenzweigs will be living in after the next few updates:

It's green.

I Play Sims (part20)

I know I've said this before, but I don't think this one is any good.  At all.  We're talking polished turd.  Penis pie.  There's a reason, though.

As I've told a couple of you, I built the Rosenzweigs a new home, from the foundation up.  I know absolutely nothing about architecture and I'm intensely anal retentive about details, so I spent the better part of two and a half weeks obsessing over everything from the pitch of the roof to the tiny lights on the porch railings and every little scrap of fabric on every piece of furniture and on and on and on.

Once the house was built, all I wanted to do was move the family in.  Once I moved them in, all I wanted to do was hurry up and get through the remaining backlog of stories, so I could finally start playing them in that house.  Which brings me to the reason this story sucks: I'm phoning it in.  Also: I suck.  I haven't felt very inspired lately.  Some people find that misery fuckstarts their muse.  That's not always the case with me.  Sometimes it makes me a giant bore.

Alright, here we go.  No need to buckle up.

----      

Rachel, in a fit of doing exactly the same thing she always does, decides it's time to return to Champs Les Sims, France for a vacation.  Ah, France ... so beautiful, so romantic, so ... so ...

Sew buttons on your underwear.  Hm.  Why did I think a barely funny verbal retort from Little House on the Prairie was going to work in text?  Oh, right.  I'm out of my fucking mind.

Alright, you know the drill - let's get moving.  The time for adventure is now.

At least, I don't think they do.
 

While you're at it, don't forget to make small talk with the statues.

Wow, that was quick.  You just blazed through that tomb.

Now might be a good time to meet a local.

Follow him, Rachel.  If I've learned anything, it's that it won't be weird.

Now we've just got to figure out why, instead of jogging around this bathroom in urgent urinary desperation, he doesn't just use another.

You two seriously might want to consider interrupting your bathroom klatch for just one minute.

What does it take to get these two to notice that this dude has just pissed at their feet?


Maybe Egypt would be a better choice, Rachel.  Let's go there.

Come to think of it, Rachel, a shower is a good idea - go get washed up and do something fun fun fun fun

I Play Sims (part21)

Explained in comments.  Sorta.