Yes. Those things. I did it. It was fun to horrify them, and not get grounded.

It’s coming home to roost now. The past few days, Ass Burger Boy has been revealing some of the things he did that I had no knowledge of at the time.

How about the time he performed a fake seizure in the high school hallway? Why did the school not contact me? Apparently, he thought it was hilarious, and the spectators wrote it off as a bid for attention.

Or the time in junior high he approached his math teacher with bandages on his wrists? A fake suicide, big funny. Not. I didn’t hear anything about that one either. Which made me wonder, just how outrageous were his other behaviours that these incidents were not reported to me?

Oh, I did hear about the time he was messing with the cheerleaders’ minds by talking about a voodoo doll. But I felt partly to blame for telling that story within his earshot in the first place.

He did announce proudly how he fixed it so no teacher would question him if he wanted to leave the classroom.

Teacher: And why are you asking to leave the room?

ABB: I need to take a big, steaming, dump.

I guess word spread throughout the teacher’s lounge that he should just be allowed to leave quietly.

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Grown Children Confess

Backstory: Over appetizers and wine with Warrior Woman, we were telling stories to one another about our younger days. WW interjected frequently about each topic being blog material, but when I told her this one, I ran and wrote it down. I knew I would use it.

I was always a good student. My marks and class participation were good, I enjoyed reading, and I had insight that allowed me to giggle at the naughty bits in some of Shakespeare’s plays. The principal, who also taught senior English, answered my giggles with a huge twinkle in his eye. We were the only two that got it. He also gave me a 100% mark on my senior essay exam, which I think was to discuss imagery and some other stuff in MacBeth.

My mildly amusing but OCD stepmother hated writing excuses to cover absences from school, so I devised a system that made it easier for her. I would write the body of the note, and have her read and sign it.

What she didn’t know was that I never submitted those excuses. Instead, I wrote in my own handwriting my note and forged her signature. Then, when I wanted to jig* school, I could word my own excuse and forge the signature so all submitted excuses looked similar. My handwriting in body of note, forged stepmother’s signature.

Genius.

My brother, Mr.Trick? Not so genius. Or maybe just lazy. He would only forge the note and signature when he was up to no good. I think his girlfriend had introduced him to pot, and maybe he didn’t think things through.

Eventually, the principal noticed the discrepancies in signatures on his notes. Because he only forged when he had to. Doofus. What did my formerly favourite brother do?

He ratted me out.

The principal examined all of my notes, which matched. He didn’t believe rat boy. I wasn’t even called to the office.

Rat boy was so mad that he couldn’t take me down with him. Ungrateful bugger. Serves him right for stealing my idea and executing it sloppily.

*jigging school was the vernacular for playing hookey.

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Jigging School

On the day to day real life level, Ass Burger Boy has started a new semester at community college. He described asking an instructor about a “weird” kid in his class. It seems ABB made the circling motion with his hand (typically used to describe someone who is cah-ray-zee). The instructor said the “weird” kid had Asperger’s Syndrome. ABB saw the sadness in my eyes when I said: “I would think that you would have compassion instead of labelling this kid as “other”. He got to thinking about this, and has made an effort to befriend him. School is about learning more than academics.

My batteries mutinied when I tried to take a picture of the dark stains still visibile in the flooring. The story is that the former owner of the mansion bled out there, and he was found with his dogs several days later. The neighbours told me that they researched the place extensively when they first moved in, but I couldn’t find anything, except the reference to the rope factory that the former owner supposedly ran.

I will admit that I felt “visitors” here when I first moved in, but I told them politely to buzz off.

The darker spot in front of the basket is the culprit. This is in the front third of the living room. On the other side of the fireplace is an identical sized wall, with matching mullioned window. This would be where I am now. It’s quite a distance from the antique television, which would explain why I have it turned up so loud. Big room.

To get an idea of the size of this room, this next image was shot from behind my desk. The disconcerting white thing in the foreground is the chair I sit in while on the computer.

I realize I haven’t done much to decorate the place yet, but I’m frugal. The dark sofa and chair? Still in good condition. Not too sure I want to cover them. Frugal ::cough::cheap::cough:: This side of the sofa is another of those glass panelled pocket doors. The fireplace hearth has issues, but they will be addressed eventually. Or not.

For anyone who wondered if my place was always clean, just look at the box of stuff waiting to be burned, parked by the chair near the fireplace. Now there are two. It’s a lot of area to clean. I not only have to vacuum the floors, but the walls as well. I was agonizing over asking Santa for a digital SLR or a roomba, but Santa is also frugal. And overdrawn at the bank.

I hope you have enjoyed your virtual tour of casa witchypoo. It has been my pleasure being your hostess. If the dust bothers you, I’ll show you my 1973 “green machine” Electrolux. I love that vacuum cleaner, but I wish it had a roomba sibling.

Shameless self-promotion: Show me some freaking love. Go on, vote. You know you wanna. You have to register first, but you will make me very happy. Check your junk mail folder for the registration confirmation. Oh, and if it says voting is closed? It is for 2007, but this award is for 2008.

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Are Your Eyes Bleeding Yet?