My Flap Pales in Light of Yours

I don't have too much to flap about these days. At least, nothing new to flap about. I could do a straight-up vanilla flap about tangled knots of laundry and toilet bowls with flies the size of hummingbirds buzzing above them, but why not just pull a guest flap of sorts?

Meaning, I've got friends who have had more flap-worthy moments than me of late. The topper belongs to Anne, who not only chaperoned a trip to six-fucking-flags with a group of middle school band students, they capped the day with nose-bleed seats to a Hartford, CT production of Phantom of the Fucking Opera. That's it, stick a fondue fork in it, because the flap-game is over and won and done by you, Anne. Did I mention the gasket leak that cost her almost two bills? Yeah, that was going on the same weekend. But she's really neck and neck with Hott Mama who just happened to find two inches of shit-water in basement last week. She's got her own blog, so no need for a guest flap. But still, both ladies make my rants about my nasty house (we hit a new low this week, flap nation, when I finally decided to change our sheets and a goddamn ORANGE rolled out of the bedding. How the hell did we co-sleep in a bed with whole produce? ) and my naughty kids who take off with my vacuum cleaner and roll it up and down the street.

And then there's my coworkers. One had put over 30 hours of work into a movie she shot while on holiday in the Dominican Republic. Some asswipe stole the computer from a class room last week and thus stole her finished movie. She was just about to upload it minutes before it was taken. And another one had to festoon the entire school with every damn shred of artwork created by all 370 students for the ever-popular Art Night. She even had to buy the snackies, but she got her own back because she bought some kind of pink drink ("Price Chopper House Brand Pink Lemon Drink with less than 1% Juice") that can also be used for drain cleaner in a pinch. That shit had both corn syrup AND aspartame! The beverage was complimented with the Price Chopper house brand --Always Save--wafer cookies that tasted like little sticks of compressed sawdust layered with joint compound in a choice of two colors: "kitten diarrhea" brown or " based on the contents of this diaper my baby needs to see the pediatrician STAT" pink.

All I've been doing/putting up with/enduring, work-wise is reading/teaching mythology to fourth graders who choose to have burping contests while I'm reading Black Ships Before Troy. I'm thinking maybe we actually need to start practicing some ancient rites in the library. Start reading chicken entrails or something. That should get the burping to stop. Unless we start worshipping Bacchus. Then the burping would get worse. Much worse.

I don't even have Curves Gym to complain about anymore! That's right, I dredged up my courage and faced down the former middle school bullies that run our local curves franchise and told them I was jumping off the curves train. Now, instead of listening to The Chicken Dance and staring at some goofy poster with ridiculous Guessing Game questions while flaccidly pushing on some pole or whatever, I am fucking it up at The Whole Woman. I am now doing some of the sickest crunches (the formerly benign words Penguin and Rainbow now cause beads of sweat at the mere mention) and single-muscle isolating exercises, in front of a large Mandala with Metallica's Enter Sandman throbbing on the stereo. If you scroll down on this page you will see my sorry legs trying to make it through a set of some ungodly crunch.

I have been writing this while alone in the house since the Flap men have been attending the big boy toy show, some horrendous thingy at the park with guns and tractors. I forgot to check with Bob to see if he had enough protein in him before he mingled with other males who sell weapons and heavy equipement. I have not heard the whump whump of helicopters circling the ice rink, nor do I hear the amplified voice of a police officer giving instructions of any kind, so I feel I am safe in concluding that until the next report, the Flap Household is...wait, here comes Bob up the stairs, yes, he did get into one small fight with a biker dude over Momentum v. Inertia.

At least the Flap Household need never fear entropy.