In my next post, I’ll tally up the points and decide the winner of the shirt. Though I will say this: you guys slay me!

But for now, how about a nice, old fashioned head-explosion. Here’s how you can guarantee yourself to see Zoeyjane’s brains:

• Make her stay up until almost 3am cleaning the night before moving;
• Wake her up at 7am;
• Have a toddler who wakes up late, like, when she should already be at the babysitter’s house, clean and fed and dressed;
• Then make the movers half an hour late;
• Make sure they don’t speak English;
• Except make sure they can speak enough to complain about how many stairs her building has;
• Make sure they’re also bad drivers, who almost take out three different signs on the sidewalk outside her new building;
• And that it takes them five hours to move her one-bedroom apartment’s furnishings a block;
• Her new suite? It should be unfinished. The ceiling will still need repair, the appliances will be unclean, the stove and oven (which she needs to cook and bake tomorrow for Isobel’s birthday party on Saturday) will have nary a temperature gauge on it, a window will be missing blinds, and just for fun, the bathroom sink will be clogged with what seems to be potting soil;
• Then let her tetris all of her furniture around into a semi-livable way, only to find out the next day that everything has to move, for the internet to be hooked up to the correct sockets;
• Let her notice, suddenly, that she only has five cupboards in the kitchen. For everything. Make two of those cupboards the width of your hand;
• Also draw to her attention that of the three little closets she has, two are basically unusable;
• Who needs a room temperature above five degrees? Not Zoeyjane, cuz she’s living in an igloo, apparently;
• Put Isobel to bed an hour late, with a bleedingly-heinous diaper rash, after a day with no nap, with six or seven bug bites, on a fireworks night;
• Let her unpack in silence and floor squeaking bliss, listening to Portishead and occassionally sneaking downstairs for a half-smoke, but then, remind her that everything will have to move tomorrow and that she can’t take out her moving garbage with Isobel in tow. Suggest she store said empty boxes and bags of newspaper in the bathtub, where Isobel will not eff with them until they can go out;
• Let her miss the Internet, looking forward to the morning when the techician will come to hook it up. Then tell her no technician’s coming (so she really doesn’t have to wait around all day, like she’s about to do with a super cranky, whiny child), but that the company will Purolator a modem to her, at five fucking pm;
• Let her go to bed at 2am, having been awake for (counts on fingers) 19 hours. Allow her a comforting mug of hot chocolate and bowl of ramen. Only to wake up with…

Fifteen fucking red welts on her leg.

The kind of welts that only two things can cause: fleas or bed bugs. My neighbourhood has it’s own fucking page on the Bed Bug Registry, what’s how infested it is. And I have no pets, nor have seen anything jumping around. Guess whose assuming it’s bed bugs and FingTFO?

Ironically, all I want to do is go to bed.

Now, I have to go plan a fucking birthday party that’s probably going to get rained out. Pass Mommy the vodka, please.