Compliment?

Hey you guys.  I got dental work done, so I was down for the count for a while.  And you guys were so sweet to ask about me.  You didn’t?  My husband made that up?  He didn’t?  That was just the Percocet talking?  Oh.

Well, anyway, it made me glad I cut my hair, because worrying about hair doesn’t really go with dental work.  To me, anyway.  There may be some of you who get a bridge and a blowout.  I’m not sure I want to know you, though.

Lots of people have commented on my short ‘do.  Which I don’t mind.  But then again, lots of people have commented on my longer ‘do.  Most of which I didn’t mind.

Except that time this lady told me I looked like Tracy Chapman.

And then I realized she was serious.
And then I realized she was serious.

Here’s the deal with that.  One:  Aside from the hair, I look nothing like Tracy Chapman.  Two:  Actually, the hair looks nothing like Tracy Chapman’s, either.  But that’s not what upset me.

What upset me was that when I informed her that I have twists that are very unlike Ms. Chapman’s locs, ol’ girl got offended.  “I was just trying to pay you a compliment,” she huffed.

Here’s the deal.  It’s not that I think Tracy Chapman is unattractive.  It’s just that this chick pulled out of her brain the single black woman she knew with natural hair hand made the comparison, and then I was supposed to take it as a compliment rather than the ignorance it was.  I honestly would have been just as offended had she told me I looked like Rhianna.  Would I love to look like Rhianna?  Absolutely.  But I don’t.  I’m pretty darn cute in my own way.

At least I like to think so.
At least I like to think so.

This woman is tall, with long, dark hair and dark eyes.  Would she have taken it as a compliment if I told her she looked just like Jessica Simpson?  Nope.  She would have been extremely confused—with good reason.  The only thing they would have had in common is the hair length. That’s it.  Not hair color, not hair texture, not skin tone or teeth or height—just hair length. That would be kinda dumb, right?

I wish I could have explained this all to her.  But I didn’t have time. Or the inclination.  Because if she could look at me and see Tracy Chapman, I’m not sure there is anything I could have said that could have made her look beyond the fact that she was being so gracious in giving me a “compliment” and I had the nerve, the everlasting nerve, to shoot it down.

All because I don’t look like Tracy Chapman, and neither does my hair.

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Another Random Post.

Time for more random stuff from my brain! Yay! I said YAY.

Has there ever been the alterna-Flinstones? Like has there ever been the hot guy/ fat chick sitcom? Because, on the real Wilma Flintstone, Alice Kramden, Carrie Heffernan could have done waaaaay better.   Confession: I think Kevin James is kinda hot. But it works against the formula because I’m also fat. So we’d be another Mike and Molly.

Why do all the shows when someone gets a house/cash/gifts/cash happen to everyone else? Where is the application for these shows? Why don’t I know about it? Is it a conspiracy to keep me poor? I think it is. But then, I’m pretty sure life is a conspiracy to keep me poor.

Why does Naomi Campbell still look better than me? Aside from the fact that she probably diets, exercises, and great genes. Oh, and a stylists. Not the point. The point is, I thought time was supposed to be the great equalizer. You lied, Time. YOU. LIED.

There’s this fly on the windowsill.  I need to go kill—never mind it’s a wasp.  Carry on, wasp, I clearly interrupted whatever you had going on with the window and I apologize.

I walk at the track to lose weight. (Not to be confused with “walking the track” which means prostitution. In which case I’d like to think that I’d have more money. ) Today a more athletic chick ran past me and told me “Good Job!” I guess I’m at the white belt level of fitness and the track is clearly her dojo, she figured I needed her encouragement so that I wouldn’t give up and pass out on the track. I showed her though. I waited until I got to Gretchen to pass out.

The wasp is still there.

courtesy marvelheroes.com
I wish it had been this Wasp.

I know the entire Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles song. All of them. And I sang them with Kid Sensation in Fred Meyer. Quietly. I’m not a complete jerk.

I have convinced myself to get a fatkini. It’s. About. To Go. DOWN.

We are so football starved in this house, we are watching the Madden Demo Game. It’s Cowboys vs. Seahawks. And we are here commenting on it. I actually said, “Oh, so they just gon’ let Romo walk in the end zone?” Out loud. Pathetic.

I don’t know. I was feeling random today. Kick me some of your randomness. You know, if you’re feeling random, too.

OH WAIT!!! I forgot to tell you guys!  I was buying wine and I got carded.  (I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.) Here’s how the conversation went:

Cashier Lady: “You have such pretty skin.”

Me:  “Thanks.”

CL:  “Black Women are so lucky.  You’re lucky you’re Black.”

Me:  *mumbles something and rushes out before ending up on the news*

So, you guys, did I handle this right?  Supermom would have totally had some kind of extremely nuanced shade and tossed it out there like a wiffle ball.  But, I’m no Supermom.  Yet.

Howareya?

Hey ya’ll.  I know I promised all sorts of things and I have not delivered.  What had happened was I wrote a few and I lost some of my work and then I blamed my blog.  So I stopped writing for a while.  Also, I’m pursuing an MFA in creative writing, so I’ve been writing (my own stuff) and editing (other people’s stuff) for that and then not wanting to even look at a keyboard or monitor after that.

Anyhoo, how have you been?  Yeah, yeah, now back to what’s important—me.  Just kidding, you know I love you guys.  But seriously, back to me.

One, Wondergirl is eleven.  Or as I prefer to call it:  Eleventeen.  Wondergirl has never been easy, but good gravy, you guys, this chick is acting brand new.  Like she has never met me or the Big Man before.  Well, in the words of Kevin Hart, “She gon’ learn today.”

So she’s stomping around here, slamming doors and such, when finally, the Big Man has had it.  Now, the petty stuff he lets me handle—I enjoy being petty.  I really do.  I will argue with a seven-year-old and fight a baby.  (BTW, shout out to Birdie for teaching me how to fight a baby.  It’s an art, you know.)  Apparently, however, door slamming isn’t petty.  From what I surmise, it’s tantamount to property damage and the Big Man ain’t having it.

He looks at me and says, “I warned her.”  And in all fairness, he did.

Okay, so a few weeks ago, she was acting all stompy and mean and door-slammy.  The Big Man was not cool with this, so he called her down to his almighty recliner and told her:

“Look.  If you ever slam that door again, it’s coming off.” And then he went back to watching Miami Vice.  The show, not the terrible, terrible movie.  Colin Farell? Really?

Anyway, I guess Wondergirl forgot.  I forgot too, but then, I’m not the one running around slamming doors.  (Sidenote:  I used to be the Door Slam Empress.  But then one time my dad had enough of my reign and decided to overthrow me with the Bust-the-Door-Open-So-Hard-It-Put-a-Hole-in-the-Wall technique.) The Big Man did not forget and he had had it up to hyeah (“here”, for those not familiar with parental grammar).  So he looks at me and says, “It’s coming off.”

At first I thought he meant his calm demeanor and that he was planning on hulking out, which I wasn’t cool with.  But he saw the confused and ready-to-argue look and my face and says, “I mean her door.  Everything isn’t comics, Veeds.”  He’s wrong about that, but I’m just glad he meant her door.

So he goes and gets all these dramatic tools from the garage and trudges upstairs like he’s walking the Green Mile.  Wondergirl suspects nothing.  I am profoundly grateful for this, because I really don’t want K street to fall victim to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object.  (I do know that this is supposed to be physically impossible; this would be the first time people–I PROMISE. It would destroy mathematical academia as we know it.)

So maybe this? Except I'm not there.  I'm making ice cream.
So maybe this? Except I’m not there. I’m making ice cream.

You know that time Roseanne took down Darlene’s door?  This was nothing like that.  The Big Man removed the door and Wondergirl said nothing.  Nothing.  She just looked at him.  Then she cried a little bit and continued to say nothing. And then cleaned her room in silence.

Y’all ain’t hearing me though.

Background:  I have to BEG Wondergirl to clean her room.  BEG.  So now, after punishment, she does it voluntarily?  I’m not buying it. It seems like she’s getting her affairs in order so she can assume a different identity. You know, like after committing a horrific crime.

I’m a coward, though, so I didn’t say anything.  I’m just acting nervous around her and offering lots of ice cream.  Who knows? Maybe being a widow won’t be so bad.

Oh. OH.  Remember I was telling you guys about Omega Prime?  This kid is so awesome I can’t even. So just wait a bit.  It’ll happen.

There she goes again.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post.  But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining.  I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man:  Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man:  Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG:   Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!?  How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock?  Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity.  Yeah, I know.  I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end.  This is how–and you guys, just, you guys.  Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV.  Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal.  No bueno.  So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes.  It passes in front of her face twice.  Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down.  Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously.  She crushes  poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage.  Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb.  It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I'm pretty sure this is what happened.
You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew  up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away.  He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason.  Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed.  The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.”  He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down.  He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad.  He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus.  So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff.  The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off.  He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE.  I thought that was kinda cool.

Anyway, how have you guys been?

I have a feeling…

So I have all kinds of weird quirks. But you already know this, because you’re a faithful reader of this blog. Well, you could at least fake it. That’s better.

Anyway, back to my weird quirks. One of them is that certain things make random parts of my body feel weird. Like touching velvet makes my teeth hurt. I don’t know why. Here are some more. Fascinating, I know.

Random fake hair. I used to see this a lot when I worked downtown, usually on Monday morning. People get in fights over the weekend and sometimes weave gets snatched out. I understand why it happens, but it still makes me feel funny.

Body part that feels funny: Stomach.

The guy down the street who brings his parrots out for a walk. I know parrots are supposed to be great pets and good company. Maybe his parrots need fresh air, I don’t know how parrot parenting (say that five times fast) works. But when you drive down the street and you see some parrots stone-cold chilling in the cut, it looks weird. Also, his windows are covered with aluminum foil.

Body part that feels funny: Eyes.

Peach fuzz. Peach fuzz feels funky. I can eat a peach that has been sliced and skinned, but I can’t take a bite out of a peach. I also like peaches in Bellini form.

Body part that feels funny: Tongue.

The Destroyer’s bedroom. Okay, so I’m totally a slacker mom when it comes to making my kids clean their rooms. Also, if I made them do it, then I’d have to clean my room, and I’m not really feeling that. But his room tends to be way gross. WAY. The times that I have to go in there and get stuff I have to put on shoes and a jacket (my homemade HAZMAT suit). It perpetually smells like Takis and boogers.

This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become.  I have been exposed for years, so I'm immune.
This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become. I have been exposed for years, so I’m immune.

A few months ago I ventured in there to get a towel for laundry and I thought I saw something move in the corner, but I’m not sure because I just screamed and ran out. I believe the towel is still there.

Body part that feels funny: Feet.

Tiny shorts in the little girls section. So I’m shopping with Wondergirl and we’re looking for stuff to transition to spring—t shirts, capris, etc. She holds up a pair of shorts and I told her that I only buy her underwear in packs. She laughed at me and said, “No, mom, I need shorts.” I told her she had better go find some then. “I like these shorts.” My brain still wasn’t making the connection between what was in her hands and shorts. My understanding was that shorts were garments that were meant to be worn outdoors. Apparently, my version of shorts is prehistoric. So Wondergirl doesn’t have any shorts.

Body part that feels funny: Chest. Head. Gut.

I don’t know. Am I the only one that gets these? Please share. Except for you, Big Man. I’d rather you didn’t.

I also hate butterflies.

Hey y’all! I know I haven’t been around but I have a really good reason.

I didn’t feel like it.

Anyhoo, I’ve told you guys over and over that I’m pretty much a horrible person. It all came to a head this week. Here are a few of the horrible things I’ve said and done. I’m telling you guys this because misery loves company.

There was this football game that happened this weekend and everyone keeps asking me about it. I’m over it, so I’ve been telling people I was at a funeral.

I went for a walk yesterday and this little dog kept following and nipping at my heels. I was trying to figure out how to kick it without getting caught, but then it went home.

I ate the last cookie and told each kid that another kid did it, hoping for a kid-on-kid fight to the death. It never happened.

It would have been so awesome.
It would have been so awesome.

I watched Maury Povich.

I stuck my tongue out at a kid that was staring at me.

I told a telemarketer that I was dead.

I stepped on one of Kid Sensation’s toys and threw it away in a fit of rage. Then I tried to pretend that he never had that toy in the first place. He didn’t buy that explanation so now I owe him. Which is worse than owing the mafia.

This lady came and stood next to me when I was picking out apples at the store; I guess she wanted some apples too. She smelled horrible. I blurted out “Oh my God!” Really loud.

In his line of work, The Big Man’s shoes get wet and stink up the joint. I insist on making a production out of Febrezing them.

Wondergirl and I were watching show where a husband pranked his wife by putting salt in her coffee. Wondergirl says, “If that were me, I would have poured that coffee over his head.” That was my cue to tell her that second-degree burns are an inappropriate response to a little prank. Instead, I laughed.

I vow to be nicer this week. Wait, no. Next week. Next week, for sure.

Bad Wife! Bad, bad, wife!

Okay, so let me say this: I love my husband. Love, love, LOVE the Big Man. However, sometimes I do think things that I do not say. Oh, and after discussing this with a couple of my friends (who shall remain nameless) I know that I’m not the only one. Check this out:

Shutupshutupshutupshutup SHUT. UP.

I decided to stand over here where you are not standing. Why did you follow me?

Is his life insurance paid up? Cause I could live very well on that kind of cash.

What? What do you want now?

If I close my eyes and breathe really deep, maybe he’ll think I’m sleeping.

I don’t really have a headache. I’m not interested in sexytimes with you because I’m still turned off by that horrific garlic fart you cut after dinner.

So the only reason you’re upset is because I’m upset? I know we’re supposed to be one flesh and all, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

Maybe if I don’t say anything, he won’t repeat that.  Oh, well. Guess I was wrong.

How can you be this cheap? How?

No, I don’t want to share my special snack with you.

When someone eats my special snack...
When someone eats my special snack…

We have lived in the same place for years. YEARS. How is it that you don’t know where anything is?

Yes, because grocery shopping is my idea of a good time. Wheeee!

This is what I get for marrying for love.

I’m not PMSing. I’m just telling you that so I can be horrible for the next few days. (I didn’t say this one, but by golly I might just do it.)

I’d run away but I have nowhere to go.

What the barnacles is that smell?

Because I think this show is stupid! I just watch it to hang out with you, but it’s really, really stupid and my eyes are actually rolling themselves.

Oh, you want me to stop reading and pay attention to you? I guess I can do that. (Ok, this one is me.)

Of course we love our significant others. Which is why we don’t say most of this out loud. Well, maybe I do, sometimes. Not the point. The point is, I dunno, love and such.

Did I miss any? Do share.

Baby got Back. Not what you think.

Happy Friday you guys!

Well happy for me, because my back and I made up and are friends again. Oh, I didn’t tell you that we got into it? Yeah. Now I have to tell you all about it. You shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t? Well, I’m pretending you did.

So a few days ago, I was all nice and cozy in my bed and I didn’t want to get up. Honestly, I never want to get up, but I have to do parenting and wifelike stuff, so I have to. But on this particular day, my Back didn’t want to get up either.

“We don’t have a choice.” I was nice at first.

“Listen, if you get up, you’ll be making a mistake.” Back tried to warn me. I took this warning lightly, thinking (foolishly) that I was the master of my body. Oh, how quickly I forgot about the Great Bean Dip Catastrophe.

“Look, Back, I have things to do. Get your stuff together and let’s go.”

I climbed out of bed and immediately bent double in pain. “What the green beans are you doing, Back?”

“I warned you. I’m fed up. You don’t exercise, I have to carry around those huge boobs all day–”

“Yeah!” came a tiny voice. “Shut up, shoulders,” I said.

Back continued, “And when I try to tell you that today is not a good day, you ignore me. I’m going on vacation.”

“Wait, whaaa? No, you can’t! Who’s going to replace you?”

“Oh, my friend Spasm.”

“Not Spasm. Anyone but Spasm. Please. I’ll change, I promise. I hate Spasm and Spasm hates me. I’m begging you—aaaauuugh!” Too late. Spasm had arrived. Time to fight.

So I hobble to the shower, thinking about how much Spasm hates warm water. Also, Nose hates it when I stink, so, two birds and all.

At first, it worked. Yes! Me:1 Spasm: aaaauuugh—shouldn’t have bent down to get that towel. So, Spasm:1.

When I tried to go downstairs, I was already cranky. Stupid Back. Then everyone wants to ask questions like “Are you okay?”or, “What’s wrong?” like they cared. So I gave the answer guaranteed to make everyone leave me alone: “Cramps”. Clears the room every time.

Spasm was starting to get really mean, though. I could barely walk. I tried stretching. Spasm laughed and then attacked me with what I am positive were lightening bolts. This was getting out of hand. I headed to Urgent Care.

Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.
Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.

Now, anyone who has ever been to Urgent Care knows that it should be called Care Four Hours From Now. So I’m sitting up in there with Spasm just going to town and not caring about my feeling at all for hours. But then.

The Dr. Comes in and she says the magic words: Muscle Relaxer. Awww, yeah.

An hour later, the pill kicks in and I’m all, “Take that, something about something, ZZZZZZ” Ah, sweet, sweet incoherence. Of course, this is when Back decided to return and act right.  I can’t win.

So anyway, that’s the super interesting thing that has been going on with me. Oh, and The Destroyer made Honor Roll. Which gives me hope that he won’t be a vagabond.

Six is the good life.

After being here for two weeks for winter vacation with my kids and not going insane—well, more insane—I’ve decided that Kid Sensation is on to something: being six is awesome. It must be the best thing ever, because when you’re six you get away with crap that no one else in the house does, which is pretty cool. Also, he’s awfully cute, so that helps.

That being said, Kid Sensation is kind of weird. Again, we forgive him all the weird ish he does because he’s six. (Well, the Big Man doesn’t, but that’s because they’re the same person.) So. As I list the stuff that ol’ K.S. Does, some of it you’ll compare to a normal six-year-old. Don’t. It’ll give you a headache.

He gives himself the thumbs up. All the time, not matter how shoddy his work is. I’ve gone to his room after he’s “cleaned it” and told him his work was garbage and that I was going to write him up for it. He gave himself a thumbs up behind my back, like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I had to restrain myself from physically pushing his thumb down. If I went around giving myself the thumbs up, I’d be committed.

He refuses to pronounce things correctly. I try to teach him, but he doesn’t care. I already told you about “unpossible”. (Typing that made me mad all over again. Unpossible. Hmph.) He freaked out one day about having to change in the truck because people were going to see him “maked.” Not “naked”, “make-ed”. Then when I try to tell him the right way to say it, he tells me, “Never mind that.” He does that all the time, like he can’t be bothered with proper English. I swear, if I mispronounce a word and someone corrects me, I am instantly shamed into saying it correctly for the rest of my life.

He brought the Big Man’s shirt downstairs and stomped on it because he was upset with him. That only means something to a six-year-old. You try doing that with a straight face.

Kid Sensation talks mad crazy to his dad. And anyone who has met this man knows that this is risky, at best. But again, being six means not getting beat into paste for being disrespectful to a 350-lb powerlifter. Although, having to put his head down is apparently just as bad.

When you’re six, it’s okay to cry when someone calls you names. Like, Kid Sensation was crying about something and Wondergirl called him a crybaby (he is). He cried about that. If someone calls me names I’m supposed to do things like “be the bigger person” and “not let it get to me”.

Except much, much less stoic.
Kid Sensation. Except  K.S. is much, much less stoic.

He silently points at his food. I don’t even know.

Kid Sensation would rather watch the special features than the movie. We let him get away with this because it keeps him quiet. I’m grown, and if I did that me and the Big Man would probably get into it. He’d be all, “Can we just watch the bleeping movie?!” and I’d be all “No! I need to hear how Mark Ruffalo felt the day they approached him to play the Hulk! I need this!”

I don’t know. I mean, being a grown up ain’t all bad. You know, coffee addiction and such. But being six seems kind of great too.

Oh, and is your kid as weird as mine? No? Fine.

Random Downton Thoughts. Trust me, you’ll like it.

So you guys, everyone who knows me knows that I love me some Downton Abbey. Okay, well, like two people outside of my immediate family know that. Not the point. The point is, I do and of course, like with everything else, I have random thoughts.It’s what I do. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Let’s do this. Well, go watch it if you haven’t and then let’s do this. (BTW, this is not a recap.  EVERYONE else does a recap of this show, and I’m positive they’re better at it.  This is just the random ish I think and say during the show.)

Avoiding people you don’t like is easy. It’s avoiding one’s friends that’s the real test.” So this came from the Queen of Shade herself, Dowager Countess Grantham. And it was so good because she was talking to her friend when she said it and it’s one of those kinds of things where you can’t tell if you should be offended or not but you definitely should. It takes years to get to that level of shade. She’s one of the reasons I can’t wait to be old(er) and horrible(r?).

So glad the dresses from the 1920s aren’t in now. I would look like a silky refrigerator with some pearls on.

BATES. Ok, so, the name Bates has to be said in low, ominous tones. Bates is the baddest valet in the world. Like, last season he found out that Tony Gillingham’s (we’ll get to him) valet attacked his wife and then straight up disappeared him. He may just be Alfred Pennyworth. BATES.

Don't tell ME he didn't just get finished handling some business.
Don’t tell ME he didn’t just get finished handling some business.

I’m also glad that pleats are not in. I hope pleats are never in again because when I think of things I want to look like, an open accordion isn’t one of them.

I like the word, “luncheon”.

A lot of people are getting cornered on the stairs. I think it’s rude.

Poor Edith doesn’t know what happened to her baby daddy. None of us do.

Zomygod Molesely is dying his hair! Is that…shoe polish? (This sent Wondergirl into gales of laughter.)

BATES wants a baby!

Awww shizzle. Carson and them got into the sherry.

Do I want arm length gloves? Yes, yes I do. Despite my upper arm fat.

Carson just punked Molesely about his hair so hard, y’all.

So Lord Tony Gillingham is back. He’s in love with Mary, but she turned him down last season. He’s handsome, rich, and charming. I mean, I know she was grieving and such, but still.

Countess Grantham punked Scrant. Again. His name is Scrant, though, so there’s that.

Oh, wait, wait, I think Mary and Gillingham might get together. Yay! And then later that night he went in her room and I was all Bow-chicka-wow-wown but that wasn’t the case at all.  My mind is in the gutter.

A FIRE!!! Oh no!

That’s it for this week. See y’all next week! Oh, and please let me know if I missed anything!