|Maggi says "Get the book. Thank me later."|
If you're scratching your head, wondering whether I've been popping the Colorado candies I brought back from my last visit to 6th street, you've never read Hyperbole and a Half. Tsk tsk. Hurry, go grab the paperback
Allie Brosh is my hero, she makes me feel like there's something redeemable in the things I despise most about myself. You see, I'm an unmitigated social calamity. The mere thought of interacting with strangers gives me hives. The one thing slightly more terrifying than those inevitable awkward conversational pauses, are customer service desks. Yes, I'm serious. I had a nightmare once that I was at Target trying to return some paperclips, and I couldn't find my receipt. There was a long line of anxious patrons all trying to return their paperclips, but they all had their receipts. The lady behind the counter morphed into a demon, and started screaming "NO RECEIPT, NO RETURN!!!" The people in line all started chanting with her, throwing their receipts at me until I was drowning in a sea of paper. It was terrifying. Anyway, I own my phobia. I'm a certifiable chicken-shit who prefers to buy and return online.
Now you know more about me than you probably wanted to know, but hopefully there's one of you out there thinking "You too?! I thought I was the only one." I feel your pain, and if you're like me, you have a very playful, extroverted husband who loves to taunt you. See Exhibit A:
|Exhibit A: Trying to act innocent|
Now this might seem like a very innocent text, but let me give you a little background. We live in Iowa, where we adhere to a barbaric practice of taking all of our glass and aluminum to the grocery store to be recycled. So, the demons...I mean kind and sweet customer service clerks...know exactly how many of handles of Jack Daniels we went through last weekend. They know I like grapefruit La Croix, and orange Gatorade. It's creepy, and they can get really pissy about how you sort your stuff...so I've heard.
I've been married to my darling husband for eighteen years. We dated four years before that. He knows me better than anyone, so you can see how his text is a deliberate taunt.
See Exhibit B:
I'll just go ahead and add in that Hyperbole and a Half comic face to pontificate just how serious the situation was:
|Credit Allie Brosh|
Now, at this point, I was really hoping my darling husband would reply with something along the lines of "Just kidding, my beautiful and brilliant wife. I'll take care of it." Yeah, nope.
|Floor Banana Motherfucker|
At this point, I don't know whether to laugh or cry...or hide. I even dropped a huge Hyperbole and a Half hint!! See Exhibit C, re: f****** floor banana:
|From Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things that Happened. By Allie Brosh|
Once I realized that my diabolical husband wasn't going to let the damned recycling go, I actually did hide. I got in my car and started to drive to my happy hiding place - the library. I waved at my neighbor, as I turned out of our cul de sac, and was met with the most horrifying noise. It sounded like a hundred plates shattering at the same time. I screamed, and tried not to steer my car into my neighbor's living room. Once the car was stopped, I jumped out to assess the damage, except there was no damage. My very helpful neighbor, whom I was surprised was still speaking to the crazy hermit writer lady, said "I think it came from your trunk." DEVIOUS, DIABOLICAL, DEMOM SPOUSE!!! I popped the trunk, and found it filled with wine bottles, liquor bottles, pop cans, beer bottles...we're really not a bunch of drunks, I swear.
I'm starting to develop an eye twitch at this point. My neighbor thinks I'm insane, my husband wants me to martyr myself to a demonic customer service clerk in the name of three freaking dollars, and I can't even get away without taking the problem with me. I was really tempted to dig through the liquor bottles to see if there was some swill left in the bottom of one of the handles. Instead, I went back home to see if I'd refilled my prescription for Xanax. The texts just kept coming. See Exhibit D:
|My husband, the comedian|
It's a good thing I love this guy so much. About thirty minutes, and a whole lot of wine later, he came home from work and found me under a blanket fort in the basement. He said "You know I was always going to take the recycling myself, right?" All I could do was take another swig from my bottle of merlot, and mumble "Floor banana motherfucker."
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