There are some arguments that will consume you. They will take over your entire mind and body, so that you find yourself shaking with rage, unable to think of anything else. Your hands clench into fists, your teeth gnash together, and you are filled with anger and the conviction that DEAR GOD YOU ARE RIGHT AND THEY ARE SO, SO WRONG.

This is a story about one such argument.

I don’t remember how it began. Few great battles in history have marked beginnings. We say it was the assassination of Ferdinand, we suggest that it may have been the killing of Crispus Attucks and four others on a chilly night in Boston, but we are only guessing – trying to add sense and order to a situation where there likely isn’t one. Where there is only chaos and conflict.

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There are plenty of things in life that are beyond my understanding. The entire field of Physics, for one. The enduring appeal of Two and a Half Men, for another. Grooming your dog to look like another animal. The fact that Snooki published a NY Times best seller (sweet Lord in heaven, how? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND). But perhaps the biggest mystery that I’ve encountered thus far is this: How can a city as advanced as London not understand the concept of shower curtains?

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The inner workings of my soul and a dark and hostile place. My husband has been with me for nearly 10 years, and there are still times when I will say something so full of vitriol and spite that he will look at me, his eyes wide, and whisper, “Jesus Christ, Geraldine.”

My response to this is usually to giggle, because it is always a comfort to know you can still surprise your husband, even if that surprise stems from his shock at how evil you are.

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To the little blond kid on Alaska Air Flight #232,

It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.

I see this as largely your fault, of course. When you saw me quietly sleeping in my chair, you – for reasons that defy logic (Was it curiosity? Thoughtlessness? Demonic possession? I’m leaning towards the latter) – decided to shake the back of my seat vigorously until I woke up.

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Rand thinks I’m overly superstitious. I, in turn, think that he’s constantly tempting fate into screwing with us.

Take the following scenario, which happens at least once a month:

Rand and I are driving to the airport. We are almost running late, but not quite. If we are able to keep up the miraculous average speed which we’ve attained, we’ll be fine. If not, we’ll have to engage in that awful sport, long forsaken by the Olympics:  The panicked running-to-the-gate dash (in this race THERE ARE NO WINNERS). As the surprisingly light traffic rushes along, Rand will often say something like,

“Man, I can’t believe how light traffic is.”

At which point I will scream like mad woman, because really, WHY WOULD YOU EVER SAY THAT?

He has to know how physics and the universe works, right? The second you say something like that, the exact opposite will happen. Comment on light traffic, and you will find yourself in a parking lot in the middle of I-5. Make a crack about how you can’t believe that the dress you wore to last year’s holiday party still miraculously fits, and you will instantly gain 15 pounds (I’ve seen it happen. TO ME) It’s not luck. It’s science.

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Since my post last week about our life-threatening encounter with a moth the size of a pigeon* I’ve had a lot of people kindly inform me that moths cannot, in fact, bite.

They keep pestering me with “facts” and “reality”. Ugh. The biggest argument as to why moths cannot bite is that they have nothing to bite with. Apparently moths have a proboscis (instead of mouths full of razor sharp teeth) which really can’t be used to inflict pain on humans.

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Forged by Lucifer himself, I'm sure.

I have a brilliant idea for a horror movie. It would begin like this:

A couple – a young man and woman – enter a hotel room. For the purposes of casting, let’s say that the man, dark-haired, bearded and handsome, will be played by Joshua Jackson. And the woman will be played by me (SHUT UP IT’S MY BLOG). They enter the room together, the man tugging a suitcase behind him, his toned arm flexing against his Ted Baker suit jacket, which he’s paired with a dress shirt, jeans, and, oh, I don’t know, yellow shoes. And no one cares what the woman is wearing because by the end of the movie her clothes will be in a crumbled pile in the corner of the room after a gratuitous sex scene.

Ahem. I have completely lost my train of thought.

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