Have a nice bidet

So, I may have drunk-Amazoned myself a bidet. Pretty sure I had it in the cart the last time I was wall-eyed and on the interwebs.

I blame the advertising, and wine, for making it seem like the most enticing thing in the world to have an icy jet of water shot directly into my asshole post-poop. Not to mention the eco-friendly use of clean, potable water instead of paper, because when the world ends we will apparently need toilet paper more than drinkable water.

I don’t make the rules, I just drunk-Amazon after evaluating the general scheme of things.

When the “Spray Away Bidet” arrived, I failed at convincing my husband that it might have been a gift, or a mistake. We once got a $200 Amazon gift card that didn’t belong to us out of the blue, why not a bidet?

“Hey, look at this thing. It came from Amazon – it might be a gift from someone. It’s a bidet,” I slyly slipped this into the conversation we were having about Oreo cookies and the abhorrence of Oreo Thins. I pulled the box out from behind my desk.

“Why the fuck did you order a bidet?” He said, like I knew he would.

“I don’t think I ordered it, it might be a gift,” I persisted.

“You ordered it. I’m not using it.” He said.

“Why the hell not?” I asked, gliding right past the fact that I had indeed ordered a bidet and it was not a gift or a mistake.

“Does it have a heat feature?” He asked.

“Ha! You would really be pissed if I had ordered the heat option. It costs hundreds of dollars,” I countered.

“See, I knew you ordered it. You had to if you know that. I’m not using it, but I’ll install it for you,” he said.

Considering this a win, I artfully steered the conversation back to Oreo cookies and let the bidet issue sit for the moment.

To his credit, he tried to install it on the toilet closest to my office, but something was something and cuss, cuss, fuck, it was back in the box.

The ever-elusive bidet continued to elude me.

Fortunately, my husband leaves me alone with an abundance of tools for long periods of time. (It’s called ‘working outside the house’ and it sounds awful, but someone has to do it.)

I really didn’t plan on installing the bidet myself until I had to fight with the cat to use the toilet. This is a habit my cats have; they drink toilet water regardless of the 97 bowls of water strategically placed around the house in areas where I kick them over at least three times a day.

I got the bright idea that I could probably cut it back to maybe 30 bowls of water on the floor if I just left the bidet on trickle for the older cats who fall in the toilet occasionally when the water table is low. Also, I wanted a bidet.

Have I mentioned that? I feel like it’s a secret no one talks about. I talked to a few people before I may or may not have ordered the thing and they were like, “Oh yeah. I’ve had one since the pandemic began. You’ll never go back.” I feel like this information isn’t shared enough. I also feel like we should probably figure out how to drink toilet paper when the world ends. I think I mentioned that, too.

I digress.

I had a little more trouble installing the bidet than I thought I would. I also spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning the back of the toilet and marveling at why we don’t have herptafluffalupugus from the funk that had accumulated.

Moment of truth. I sat down, slowly turned the adjustable water flow knob around to medium/high and waited for my life to change.

Nothing.

Aaauugghh! I didn’t turn the water to the toilet back on and I quickly realize that two shot shoulders make it entirely impossible to reach behind myself far enough to reach the stupid water valve while I am sitting on the toilet.

I stand up, bend over, put my face three inches from the bidet, turn on the water, forgetting that I have the bidet pretty much wide open on fire hose-status.

I lost half my eyebrow and a large portion of sight in my right eye. Even worse, the cat was knocked off his perch on the tub, where he sat watching me fuck up his favorite water source. My hopes of having a kitty water fountain/bidet were immediately dashed as the cat now has very hard feelings about being jettisoned off the side of the tub in such an undignified way.

But I’ve got a bidet, y’all. I’m one of the cool kids.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

Reflections and realizations

“I’ll never be like Gran.”

My Gran was obsessed with her dogs.

Mind you, this was cool when I was a kid and A.C., the snake-killing chihuahua, was the center of her world. A.C. patrolled Gran’s property with precision and took no shit until he was too ancient to make it from the dog bed to the window.

Gran grieved A.C. for a long time before she finally got another dog. Thus, the “white poodle” stage of this story begins, where she lost her damn mind over the worst dog in history. To make it even worse, she named him Toby.

Toby was by far the most horrible animal that has ever lived. He barked at his own doo-doo, let snakes into the house and ate Ferragamo boots like they were Kibbles-n-Bits.

My Grandmother adored him.

Toby’s favorite thing to do was find ink pens to chew holes in so he could drag the leaking ink through, over and on every fabric item in Gran’s house.

She bought him pen-shaped toys. She took him to Krystal for hamburgers. She yelled at us for yelling at Toby for peeing on our bags when we visited her.

My beloved Gran and her beloved Toby have both passed through the mortal coil. Toby went long before Gran, but she replaced him with an equally offensive white poodle named Charlie, who is also gone.

In retrospect, we had no right to judge Gran’s awful dogs. They were her boon companions. We learned to love all creatures great and small (except snakes) from her example of loving imperfect creatures who happen to both be white poodles.

That being said, I still vowed never to be so smitten by an animal that I would allow it to destroy my home. “I’m never going be like Gran,” I said.

Flash forward 30 years. (Forget the fact that I’m over here feeling nauseous that things I reference happened thirty years ago and just read the story.)

I’m in my own living room, cleaning up what can only be described as the messiest art project ever, created by our 10-month-old hound puppy, who went from being a precious, fweet, little baby to a holy freakin’ terror about the same time he became giant.

The giant terror somehow got a bottle of Modge-Podge from God-only-knows-where and squeezed it all over a pile of shredded cardboard he obtained from the recycling bin. He then ate and slobbered lovely decoupage piles on the rug and I’m not going to mention his confetti poops that came later on.

Instead of being infuriated, like I should have been, I found myself feeling guilty for not entertaining him enough to keep him out of trouble. “Oh no. Is the fweet baby bored?” I asked the dog. “Is him want his busy box? Mommy has a pork chop to cut up for your treats today,” I cooed, as I scraped Modge-podge off the carpet.

My husband, who was getting ready for work because he must (gasp) leave the house to work, listened to me basically praise the dog for being a horrible brat. He didn’t say anything until he noticed the turkey-shaped butter statue I had set out for the cats to enjoy like a festive saltlick.

“Did you really buy a turkey-shaped chunk of butter for the cats?” He asked.

“Uh, it’s Thanksgiving this week, duh. Yes, I did,” I said as I cut up the pork chop I promised the dog earlier.

“Is that my pork chop?” My husband asked.

“Is this the fucking Spanish Inquisition, or what?” I snapped. “I promised that pork chop to the dog.” I said, as I broke up tiny pieces of Milk Bones and hid them in the sheds and tatters left of the dog’s toys so I could pack his busy box full of delightful surprises.

“Ok, I’m leaving,” said hubs, “Try not to act crazy where the neighbors can see you. Love you!”

“Love you, too,” I said, distractedly, as I filled hollow bones with peanut butter to pack in the busy box.

I love my animals. But I’ll never be a nutty as gran.

Easy Ollie

(And now for something completely different. I worked in nursing homes as an aide, and then an LPN for more than 10 years. I try to write funny things about it, but not much about dementia is funny. I have a great deal of respect for the people I took care of – even Mr. Mustard, who did not do it in the dining room with a candlestick, but did drive me and my colleagues nuts when he went on his screaming fits at three-o-clock in the morning, right after everyone finally went to sleep. Remember these people, and the people who take care of them. Give them respect and understanding, they deserve it.)

Warm piss. The smell of fear. Moaning from dark corners, piteous enough to never be considered rapture. This is a bad place, a place where nightmares are born and re-played, over and over again. He knows he has to get away from this place, or he will be consumed.

“Ollie? Oliver? Mr. Oliver, it’s time for breakfast! Let’s get you all dapper for the day!”

Sunlight. Blinds are opened, strangers whirl around him. This is the daytime dream. It’s not as bad, he can see the gloved hands before they touch, some gentle and patient, some rough and hard. He imagines the skin on the heart guiding those hands to be the same. The strangers chatter to one another, making plans for a day he has no say so in.

“I love taking care of Ollie, he’s so easy – oops, looks like he had an accident last night. He’s just wet, we’ll get it with his toileting care – let’s move him to the potty chair.”

Just like that, he’s lifted out of bed, on to cold plastic, naked, shivering, confused. The strangers keep calling him by a name he doesn’t know. Who is Ollie? Didn’t he know an Oliver, a long time ago? He struggles to ask, but he doesn’t remember how to make words. He grunts, tears of rage forming. This is the part of both dreams he hates the most.

“Hey – put in the notes that he’s constipated. He’s grunting so hard his eyes are watering, and nothing’s coming out.”

More gloves. More hands. Warm, soapy rags, strangers touching the most private of his parts, chattering, incessantly chattering about someone named “Oliver.” As if by magic, he’s dressed and sitting in a chair with wheels, a chair he will spend his day in, wishing he had the power to roll it into oblivion and be done with these dreams.

“See? He’s super-easy to do. That’s why I always start with him. Ollie’s a champ. Aren’t you Ollie?”

He wonders for the millionth time if he knows Ollie, as his chair with wheels is guided through antiseptic hallways by chattering strangers to the day room, where he is parked and sits with the others who are “easy to do.” He wonders if any of them are Ollie.

Notes on manifesting familiars (and other bewitching tips)

Considering the current pandemic situation our coven quilting bee scheduled for the November 30th Beaver Moon has been cancelled. Stay home with your familiar, they should be sufficient in any spells requiring two witches to bind your magic into holiday gift projects. Be safe, wear your masks and hopefully we will merrily meet in person again soon. Blessed Be!

“Holy shit,” said Lilith. “Limp! Look at this message! I can finally bind my own magic without getting big-eyes from one of the Becky Home-ecky witches who can sew a straight line!” Lilith was elated by the thought.

“I can’t read,” said Limp, Lilith’s beleaguered familiar, “As a matter of fact, I don’t really know how I can talk, since I don’t have a mouth,” she said.

“It’s ESPN. Hahaha! Get it?” Lilith guffawed at her little joke. She loved referring to ESP as ESPN.

Limp did not laugh.

“You’ll understand my jokes when you get used to me,” Lilith said to a still-silent Limp.

“I don’t think so,” said Limp. “I’d appreciate it if you’d send me back to the dumpster you conjured me from,” she asked, for the hundredth time since Lilith manifested Limp as a familiar.

“Look, I can’t help it if every other bored intuitive person on earth decided to take up Witchcraft during the pandemic,” explained Lilith, “Pickings for familiars are slim right now,” she said.

Lilith went on, “I wasn’t really that good at it to begin with and when we started Zooming the coven meetings, I fell behind.”

The admission was no surprise to Limp.

“That might explain the “how,” Lilith, but it certainly doesn’t explain the “why” you don’t send me back,” said Limp.

“I’m lonely,” admitted Lilith. “There’s this here pandemic on and it’s just crazy,” she whined.

“Lilith. I’m a rancid boneless chicken breast from the KFC dumpster on North Main,” said Limp, as emphatically as a rancid chicken breast could.

“But you’re a self-aware rancid chicken breast, Limp. And you have a name. That’s an accomplishment,” said Lilith.

“You named me Limp, Lilith. Would you like to be called “Limp” your entire self-aware existence? I think not,” pontificated Limp, in a very self-aware manner.

Limp continued, “I’m also deteriorating. If you don’t send me back, you’ll soon have pile of smelly goo as a familiar,” she said.

“I bound you with a no-smell spell, so ha. Got ya’ there,” sniped Lilith.

“You did not bind me, Lilith. You have a head cold and a stuffy nose,” said Limp.

“You’re pretty lippy for a breast,” said Lilith. She again guffawed at her own joke. Lilith never ceased to think herself hilarious.

Limp did not laugh.

“Please Lilith,” she said, “My destiny was to feed the ground from which I came. You are denying me my righteous path,” said Limp, clearly more self-aware than ever.

“Ok, I get it,” Lilith conceded. “But can I just throw you in the yard instead of taking a chance on fucking up and sending you to the moon, or something?” asked Lilith.

“In light of the extraordinary circumstances with the pandemic and all, I think that’s a fine idea, Lilith,” said Limp.

After releasing Limp into the night (by throwing her out the back window) Lilith vowed to take better notes on summoning familiars.

In the meantime, she’d adopt a cat.

Federal inmates make clear they will sue if slander continues

Federal inmates have come together to fight the social media slander surrounding the growing chance of a Donald Trump prison term and the general public’s assumption that they, the federal inmates, might rape, pillage or otherwise whore him around the pen – if and when he gets there at all.

“I find it abhorrent that just because I robbed a federally insured bank people automatically assume I would rape Donald Trump if the occasion were to come available,” said senior organizer, Les Terdiddit, in a recent and possibly imaginary telephone interview with this writer.

Terdittit brought the group together to pool resources within the inmate community, in efforts to secure an attorney to take on the case. Who exactly will be sued remains a mystery, but they are steadfastly committed to the effort.

“We’re serious about this,” said co-organizer and former money-launderer for the Gambino crime family, Tony “Three Fingers” Bangbimbo. “The thought of touching that guy is enough to make a former hit-man, I mean money launderer, shiver.”

In an effort to spread the message far and wide, Terdittit and Bangbimbo formed the Penmates are not Playmates, (PP) and they plan to have their friends and family on the outside help spread the word.

Linda Slavenship, warden of Neverhapened Federal Penitentiary had a quick response for the inmates, who are restricted from any social media at all.

“Look, we can’t have a bunch of PP’s out there waving lawsuits around. They’re federal prisoners, and PP or not, they’ll abide by the rules,” said Slavenship.

There’s no film at 11 because our amps only go to 10, but you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be following along. Keep it tuned here for all the PP updates.

Was that a hot flash or a nuclear event?

Our bed has a smoldering pile of blankets in the middle of it. It serves as a burn barrier for the innocents who don’t teeter on the verge of spontaneous combustion at least three times a night. Namely, my husband and the cats.

After several months of menopausal volcanic flashes of heat that somehow erupt from my body without vaporizing everything in the general vicinity, they’ve all become used to interrupted sleep. When I leap out of bed screaming to shed my clothes, it’s no longer foreplay, its survival.

Now, instead of being alarmed hubby just mumbles, “Stop, drop and roll…” and goes back to sleep. Clearly my husband doesn’t understand the distinct risk of me dropping on top of his head and rolling across his face when he says this.

To his credit, he was truly concerned the first few times I shot straight out of a peaceful sleep into whirling fire-tornado status gasping, “Ohmygod how hot is it in here?!” He would actually get up to dutifully check the thermostat, so he could report the median temperature in our bedroom.

“Baby, it’s 69 degrees in here. The heat hasn’t kicked on all night.”

Of course this elicited my response of, “The thermostat is a filthy liar and it’s definitely broken. I’m opening a window.”

Perhaps in an effort to avoid him and the cats freezing to death from an open window during an Ohio winter, he was sweet enough to suggest a fan in the bedroom. Neither of us had any idea hot flashes feel personally challenged by fans. The minute a lurking hot flash hears a box fan it laughs like an evil overlord and cranks up the heat and frequency to obliterate any outside cool-down assistance.

My main concern with the fan was that a burning ember from my newly-acquired facial hair might blow over the established burn-barrier and set the house on fire. Because menopause isn’t fun unless you can grow a full mustache and have hot flashes that achieve white-hot temps.

We’ve been married 24 years. Hubs is smart enough to artfully avoid any conversation about my more-than-fuzzy chin and upper lip. I’m not sure if he’s being kind, or he’s just terrified of the whip-like mood swings that accompany menopause. I have, however, noticed the cats looking at me with what can only be described as envy over my ability to grow a four-inch hair from my face overnight.

The struggle is real y’all. Check on your friends in the throes of menopause. They are not OK.

Notes On Keeping Your Mimsy Clean (And Other Myths About Womanly Things)

Thanks for the opportunity, @LittleOldLadyComedy

Little Old Lady Comedy

“It has flaps, you know.”

Six-year-old me immediately thinks I have some sort of weird purse between my legs. This is my big-girl talk about how to wash my Mimsy-purse properly. Momma knows. She’s had one for a long time and babies come out of it.

I still can’t imagine coming out of a Mimsy-purse, but I’m not a baby and I’m supposed to be paying attention to Momma.

“Honey, you’re too big for momma and daddy to wash you like that. Now listen. You don’t want an itchy Mimsy and I don’t think you’re washing good.”

If momma would just quit saying things like “flaps” and “itchy Mimsy” I’d sure be able to pay closer attention. I’m trying, but momma just keeps saying stuff like that. I envision how awful an itchy Mimsy would be, based not on experience, but the disdain with which momma said it. I felt…

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Two-hundred-fifty-dollar-an-hour conversations and questionable cancer bills

I had breast cancer last year. It was pretty shocking, but not nearly as shocking as the bills that came with it. Honestly, if cancer doesn’t kill me, the anxiety of wondering what exactly the crunchy fuck they did to me in radiation that cost $18K for 15 minutes of general discomfort will certainly shorten my life span.

I survived with more than $100k owed beyond what my “good” insurance paid and a divot out of my left boob over which I keep threatening to have an eyeball tattooed. And bitch, I might if I can ever get past my incredibly expensive cure without living in a van, down by the river.

I also had a radiation doc who would say, “Well, that’s strange,” when I would tell him about side effects. Hey guy, here’s a little tip – women who have a newly carved-on boob don’t really want to hear how strange it is for them to be shitting their guts out because I can assure you with ever fiber of my being they already feel like Quasimodo with their gorgeous new scar and flaming-hot radiation burns.

Don’t take my grousing as disregard for the care I received. I appreciate it, but damn y’all, why does someone have to go completely broke because they had the audacity to actually get (gasp) sick? I already got a weird boob and nerve pain forever, is that not enough?

I digress. And if I continue whining, I may have to drag the wood for my own cross, so I’ll stop.

But I will mention expensive conversations that don’t involve a 900 number. (Again, let me stress, I’m old. I remember when you had to pay real money to get porn and dirty-talk.)

Here’s a trick for when you’re paying $250/hr to talk to an attorney. Talk fast. Make your point make sure he gets the basics. Get it done in 15 minutes. Then just start talking randomly about your childhood terrors and the reason you don’t like peanut butter loofa soap. Seriously. It works.

Here’s an example:

Me: “So that’s it. Anything else you need?”

Attorney: “No, you’ve been very thorough.”

Me: “I had notes. At these hourly rates I make sure to have my shit together.”

Attorney: “Ha ha. Good plan.”

Me: “See? It just cost me a dollar seventy-five to make you laugh uncomfortably. It was worth it.”

Attorney: “Uh, is there anything else?”

Me: “Well, I don’t know if it matters, but I have a fear of spider monkeys. Probably because one ripped a handful of my hair out. Hey – if that monkey is still alive, can I sue the owner for my lifelong terror?”

Attorney: “Mrs. Parker, I don’t practice personal injury law.”

Me: “That’s cool. Can you represent me in a book deal? I wrote some stories about how to keep your vagina clean, only I called it a ‘Mimsy,’ because vagina makes people nervous.”

Attorney: “Mrs. Parker is there anything else you have pertaining to our first fifteen minutes of discussion?”

Me: “Besides the fact that I’m scared of monkeys?”

Attorney: “Yes, besides your fear of monkeys.”

Me: “Nope, but we only talked for 27 minutes. I bought an hour, didn’t I?”

Attorney: “We’ll bill you a half hour. Thank you for the information. I’ll get back to you.”

Me: “Hey, what size pants do you wear? I found a pair of crocheted swim trunks at the thrift store the other day; I’ll send em’ to you.”

Attorney: “OK, we’ll call it fifty bucks and you let me go.”

Me: “Deal. And you’ll take my case?”

Attorney: “Unfortunately, yes. You’ll hear back from one of my associates.”

Follow me for more tips on making expensive conversations end quickly and how to’s on finding new lawyers frequently. Remember, I’m here for you, and it’s free.

When you self-care enough to scare the UPS guy

I should have known I was starting way above my level when “mask” was spelled all fancy with a “que” instead of just a regular old “k”.

The mud masque was intriguing in that it promised to remove impurities from my face with a satisfying, rubbery, peel-away finish. I’d never used a mud mask before, at least not on purpose.

It sounded like a great idea when I was standing in Kroger, browsing the rack of discontinued items. In hindsight, this should have been my first clue, however, I am a bargain shopper and won’t apologize for it.

“I’m going to do my roots and have a mud-masque this afternoon,” I confidently said to myself.

“It’s high time I had some self-care,” I agreed.

“Don’t forget the wine!” I chimed in.

“Ma’am? Are you OK?” asked the cashier.

“Yes I am!” we said, a little too enthusiastically. I paid the clerk and scurried out with my ricotta cheese, wine, hair color and purifying mud-masque.

After carefully following mixing directions, I immediately broke the (free!) applicator attempting to haul a load of face cement from the flimsy bag to my ever-impure face.

I dug in with my fingers and smeared mud in an upward motion, as indicated on the instructions. Of course, the face in the instructions didn’t have nostrils because it was a drawing, and smart enough to realize smearing globs of tub grout on your face was a bad idea in real life.

More on that later.

After smearing clay masque into most of my nose-hair, I finished the application as instructed.

Instead of blithely relaxing for 20 minutes while my facial impurities were under attack, I slapped on my hair color. This completed a lovely look that caused my cats to hiss and run from me when I attempted to blithely relax with a glass of wine for the remaining 10 minutes.

I was bored with this situation in about three seconds. Mostly because I couldn’t part my lips to drink wine without causing the hairs of my menopausal mustache to be painfully yanked on by the purifying mud-masque.

I fully admit the directions did not mention speeding up the process, but it also did not prohibit the use of outside influence to “dry the masque to a rubbery finish.”

I helped it along with a quick little blast from the blow dryer.

It seemed like a great idea until the masque began to shrink rapidly, ripping out each and every nose-hair it was attached to simultaneously.

This caused my eyes to water uncontrollably, resulting in an impulse swipe that caught the corner of my eyelashes in quickly drying shrinky-dink mud masque.

My eye was pasted open in a what can only be described as a Clockwork Orange torture scene, but the real fun began when my eyebrows and chin hair got in on the pain action.

Every single hair on my face was being tugged just hard enough to hurt, with the promise of hideous and acute pain if I dared to peel this quick-setting concrete off my damn fool face in any kind of “satisfying” manner.

I prayed I could remove this sorcery with something other than holy water. I stepped into the tub to slough away not only skin impurities, but large portions of my sparkling personality and will to live in general.

As if on cue, UPS showed up.

Thankfully (for me, not the UPS guy) the vent window in the shower is head-high and faces the front porch.

I opened the window to reveal a purple-haired, mud-masqued, monster-head with one bulging eye (me) emerging from the steam to acknowledge the UPS guy.

It was at that moment I realized I hadn’t attempted to move my mouth since heating the mud-epoxy on my face. As I tried to form words, I recognized the fact I had a lot more hair on my upper lip than I had ever imagined. Instead of telling him to “just leave it,” I croaked, “Oh God, it hurts!”

Needless to say, he left (dropped) the package. I think he broke his ankle falling off the porch but he apparently dragged himself off the property and back to his van.

After extricating myself from the mud-masque sarcophagus, I self-cared my way through the bottle of wine.

I remain impure of face, but certainly a lot less hairy of lip. Hooray for self-care.

The perils of online shopping

To be honest, I had no place to wear the dress.

It wasn’t really something that would be comfortable while sitting in my home office, where I’ve worked in seclusion for years before the pandemic was ever a thing.

And because of the aforementioned pandemic, the only place I go is the doctor and the grocery store. I have no planned events beyond a mammogram and it’s just not the right color to wear to a mammogram.

But I wanted it.

And I was bored. So, I spent $120 on a cap-sleeved dress I fell in love with on Amazon.

It was too much to spend, I know. I heard it from my husband, who usually indulges me but has become a little less indulgent since the world turned upside-down and we may wake up under a foreign government one day and need to take the last bit of money we have to escape, instead of spending it on a cap-sleeved dress I may never have an occasion to wear.

Le sigh.

Anyway, the dress came. From here on out there are two things you should remember. One, I am not a small woman. I have an ample bosom and a stomach to match. Two, I promised my husband I would return it if it wasn’t as wonderful as I thought it was when I ordered it because this happens to me a lot. Mostly because I forget number one.  Also, because sizing in America is frighteningly varied.

But that’s another story.

The moment of truth had arrived. I even put on my spanks so the silky fabric could gently glide down my body easily and make this the most gorgeous little cap-sleeved shift-dress ever.

Only that’s not what happened at all.

The dress got hitched up at my boobs, like every single piece of clothing I have ever put on besides a hospital gown, so I gave it a tug to help it “glide gently down my body.”

Same issue at belly-level, even with the spanks. Quick tug. Dress goes on. I am suddenly trapped in cap sleeves so freaking tight I can’t reach down to get the damn dress off without busting out of it like the Incredible Hulk.

Holy shit. Just think. Relax and think. Sit down and – oh hell no, do not sit down. The silky fabric has no stretch, and my rather meaty arms will surely be sliced off at the shoulder if I sit down.

I know. I can just lay down on the bed and worm my way far enough through the dress for my trapped arms to grab the hem without busting out of the whole damn thing and losing $120 that I can’t really afford.

I flop on the bed in something that looks a lot like a Monty Python skit-move and giggle for a split-second before I realize that even a spanks can’t keep the ample boobage from spreading to def-con status for the silky, now very uncomfortable and not-cute-at-all dress when I’m on my back. The material makes a warning sound as I flail like a turtle to regain an upright position.

Oh, please don’t rip, please don’t rip, please don’t rip. Roll. Just roll. That’s it. Oh holy fuck don’t roll off the bed.

In a final attempt to stand, I throw my back out in a Nadia Comaneci (yes, I am that old) stiff-armed dismount from the bedside that might have garnered a favorable amount of points in a contest for looking as ridiculous as humanly possible but would be a huge fail in a gymnastics competition.

No rips. Back on my feet. My hands are starting to turn blue. I wonder if I should call my husband before I lose all control of my appendages.

I imagine the conversation, “Hi, honey. How’s your day? Yeah? Mine is great, except I’m trapped in the dress you didn’t want me to buy and my arms are numb, and I’ve probably sustained permanent damage already. What’s that? Yeah, I know you told me so. That really doesn’t matter right now because I need you to drive 25 miles home to pull me out of this sausage casing of a dress so I can send the motherfucker back to the hell it came from.”

I decide against it because as I’m running the scenario in my mind, I have a brilliant idea.

I can sew. I have things and tools for sewing and such.

I know what I’ll do.

I’ll use my handy-dandy stitch ripper to open the seam under my arm on one side so I can wiggle my way out and sew the dress up, lickety-split.

I am a fucking genius. I refuse to ponder the next thought of, “Yeah, a fucking genius who has herself trapped in a $120 dress,” because I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. I scurry to the sewing room.

Of course, my stitch-ripper is on the floor, under the sewing machine table, just where it should be.

I wriggle it out with my foot, pick it up with my toes and fling it up onto the cutting table like a bizarre circus animal. At this point, the cats have congregated in the doorway, to watch my complete and total devolution with delicious satisfaction.

I don’t care. I’m on a mission. I don’t give a fuck about common sense and reasoning because I am going to win, dress be damned.

I withstand the pain of raising my left arm far enough to use my restricted right hand to immediately jab the stitch ripper into my armpit far enough to be considered a lymph-node removal.

At this point, returning the dress is a total bust because the armpit is soaked in blood and it looks like I really am going to lose my left arm. I imagine gangrene setting in immediately because I know what I’ve used that stitch-ripper for, but I banish the thought because I really can’t take much more mental anguish at this juncture in time.

I don’t care about damaging the dress anymore, so I do an Incredible Hulk move that does not rip the fabric but does put a fantastic fabric burn in my right armpit. Silver lining: staunching the flow of blood from the stitch-ripper incident in the left arm.

I’d had enough.

I calmly took my fabric scissors in my cold, blue hands and inserted the blades at the neckline.

The fabric began to rip beyond the cut and my transformation from dress-encased grub to bloody-armpitted human was complete.

I stuffed the soiled, ripped dress into my sewing project bin, kicked the cats out of my sewing room, and put on the standard outfit before my dress delusion – Ohio State sweats.

My husband asked about the dress weeks later – he had forgotten about it and only noticed the credit card charge. “Hey, how did that dress work out? Did you return it?”

“I love it, but the zipper is messed up. I can fix it, it’s in my sewing basket.”

I may be going to hell for lying but I won’t be trapped in a cap-sleeve shift dress when I get there.