Not Clear On the Concept

We turn now to an update on Flake, who as you may recall, spent six weeks in our guest room being generally disrespectful and disruptive before we kicked her out. She then had the nerve to leave in our mailbox a letter that criticized my relationship with my wife, suggesting that I am verbally disrespectful of her.

Late last week, about three weeks after we threw her ass out, we received some mail for her from her lawyer. As a courtesy, we called her cell phone and left a message saying that we had it and would leave it in the mailbox for her to pick up. Naturally, it stands to reason that she would have to come that evening, otherwise the mail carrier would return it to the sender the next day. And given that Flake obviously keeps late hours, we didn't think this would be a problem. More to the point, neither one of us cared particularly which occured.

The next day, the letter was gone from the mailbox.

Earlier this week, the Little Hunneydoo got a call from Flake at work, saying that the letter was gone and did we still have it. Little Hunneydoo, still steaming mad at Flake's implication that she is my victim, declined to return the call.

Flake nevertheless kept calling, leaving messages on our machine at home, messages that we refused to return, hoping against all hope that she would get the hint that we didn't have it and were no longer interested in any kind of dialogue with her about anything.

This morning, a Sunday, she called at 8:30 a.m., saying that she wants the letter and she doesn't understand why we aren't returning her calls.

This blew me away. Seriously, you don't understand why we aren't returning your calls? After that letter? Seriously? Wow--are we talking cognitive impairment, or have I not made myself explicitly clear? Ambiguous communication is not something of which I am ever accused, Flake--I tend to make myself very clearly understood. So it must be YOU, which isn't difficult to imagine, given how you apparently think that passing judgement on a relationship you know nothing about, involving two people nice enough to give you shelter twice in three years (and who also helped you move out of the Rapist Rancher's house on a bitterly cold winter's day then stored all your crap in our basement until you went back to him, surpassing all human understanding) is somehow appropriate and reasonable behaviour.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that you are therefore bugfuck crazy. Because only someone who is bugfuck crazy would call and and wake me up at 8:30 on a Sunday morning after we threw you out for waking us up constantly and disrupting our lives. Or is it just me???

Now, I understand that mail from your lawyer is important--or at least, it has since become important to you, because while you were squatting here, you let an entire week expire before you opened the first piece of mail he sent you. Good thing things like Court Orders aren't time sensitive.

All that aside, I do understand that you want the mail. Believe me, we don't want to receive your correspondence either. I am (perhaps erroneously) going to assume that you are in regular contact with your lawyer and that in three weeks, you have had ample time to give him an address that isn't ours. Therefore, I'm not sure what to conclude from the fact that the mail came here: do you have your own place? Did you go back to the Rapist Rancher? Or are you still couch surfing/squatting?

I cannot know what is in your addled mind, nor am I particularly interested. Frankly, the letter you left us was a deal-breaker. I don't want "Friend of the Year" Awards or any special accolades because we gave you a place to stay. Seriously. It's what friends do for each other. But I certainly did not expect or appreciate criticisms as a result of you wearing out your welcome.

What I do know is that, from my perspective, if the letter wasn't in the mailbox when I went to get it and all of my subsequent phone calls on the matter over the course of a week-and-a-half went unanswered, I would be forced to the conclusion that those people were not going to speak to me. I would stop wasting my time chasing them and I would call my lawyer.

But then I am not bugfuck crazy either.

But apparently, Flake needed it spelled out to her. So the Little Hunneydoo called her this afternoon and said, "Hi, Flake? It's Little Hunneydoo. We don't have your letter, it's already gone back to your lawyer, so you no longer have any reason to call here again."

And then she hung up. Because the wrath of the Hunneydoo? Is significantly hotter and more daunting than mine.

And now for a dental checkup....

I am reasonably certain that "the Chat" was had with Teeth on Friday morning. I cannot be certain, of course, but what I do know is that Teeth disappeared into Immediate Supervisor's office, the door was closed and a brief time after that, Teeth emerged giving me a look that ought to have incinerated me spontaneously.

And she was certainly subdued all the rest of the day, except at lunch, when she started talking about how she and her huntin', shootin', quad-drivin' husband and she were talking about moving back to Eastern Canada. And this she said in the presence of Immediate Supervisor, who remained unphased, for the most part. But it was clear that Teeth was sulking about something and the fact that she could not or would not make eye contact with me all day suggests that I might have had something to do with it.

But Teeth made herself feel better at the end of the work day by showing the rest of the WalMart Girls the bikini she bought for Brandi's sixth birthday. This was accompanied by a bunch of photographs that Teeth has on her computer of Brandi in her frilly pink bed, langourously lounging against sumptuous pillows in a creepy imitation of Cosmo and runway models.

"She looks like a model," Mulan said, not entirely approvingly.

"Yeah, doesn't she?" Teeth said proudly.

I have more stories, but they'll wait for tomorrow.