Ophelia here. I must first apologize for this being my first post. My sister hashed this scheme to start a blog together last year and I've only just recently been given my password to get on here. Morticia has been doing a pretty good job of keeping it up, so, good for her. So, moving right along and with much purpose, the reason she/we started this blog is because, well, we're hilarious. Sitcom moments are a norm in our lives. I'll be honest, it's not the kind of sitcom everyone would enjoy, but we enjoy it, and would definitely watch it, so we're throwing it out into the blogging universe for any who choose to laugh at us. Or with us. But most likely at us. The moments we wish to share are those like when I was visiting my sister and she came into her room and said, "I just went into the bathroom and looked through all the cabinets for my cereal. I couldn't find it...". Now, you're guess is as good as mine as to why her cereal would be in her bathroom cabinets. Ok, I'm now going to recount the story that started the decision to make this blog. It's funny to us, it might be to you. If it is, leave a comment. We like our egos to have a stroking every now and then. If you don't, we will delete your comment and pretend like it never happened as that is what we do with any and all criticism of our work. So, here it goes:
I returned home from a 4 day vacation to find Morticia
playing her Christmas Power Rangers Samurii game. She greeted me with, “Ok
so this is, you smell like poop.” Unfortunately I had decided that morning that
I needed more fiber in my diet because it’s all the rage and found that my
intestines did not agree with that notion as they were making an excessive
amount of uncomfortable gas. So, though her exclamation was true, it is looked
down upon in most societies to point out when someone has noxious gas. So I
went for a fake, slow-mo slap. Morticia blocked this, hitting my right inner
arm.
I inhaled a sharp breath and gasped, “You hit me right on my
bruise!” To which Morticia’s reply was to push on the bruise. “AH! How DARE
you?!”
Then, Monday called Morticia’s phone. She accidentally hung
up. Not to be deterred, Monday called my phone. I handed it to Morticia as it
was obviously for her since she was called first.
“This is Morticia. Ok, but I don’t think that’s going to be
possible.” She hung up the phone and handed it back to me while saying, “Monday
says to be quiet.”
“Nope, not possible,” was my reply.
Morticia then pushed my bruise. Again.
Quickly, as though she knew she’d just done something
HORRIBLY wrong, like poking a sleeping angry red dragon in the eye she
exclaimed, “It was Monday!” In my second least refined moment I stated, “That’s
it. I’m going to stink up your room.” As the race to Morticia’s room ensued she
yelled, “NO! It was Monday! Go get her!” Morticia, with her unholy cat-like
reflexes, got in the door first and with both arms on the door jamb blocked my
way. I, hands on her back, pushed with all my might to force the wedged,
hysterical girl into her room. My curse-ed socks did not allow this and I
helplessly slipped, one foot after the other, as though walking in place. After
several unsuccessful tries to infiltrate the room, I turned so we were back to
back, cheeks to cheeks. Morticia continued her pitiful plea, “IT WAS MONDAY!!” I
obviously replied, “NO IT WASN’T!” Both of us were giggling uncontrollably in
the struggle. I saw my perfect opportunity when my cheeks slid onto her
thigh. Now this is my number one unrefined moment of which I am somewhat
ashamed to be putting up for public display, but I’m going to for the sake of
comedy. I let one go.
It was highly
effective, though completely distasteful.
Morticia immediately began to do a disgusted dance. She
cried, “GROSS! EW! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU! EW!!”, and many other similar exclamations
of distaste. I lunged for the door but she quickly recovered and shoved me back
out, this time successfully closing the door. Before she had a chance to
lock it, I had twisted the handle so it remained open, making any attempts of locking me out of the room futile. I pushed my back up against the door to try
and use my weight to open it, but once again, my infernal socks were successfully
thwarting this maneuver. I decided, ”That’s it!” With one hand still on the
door knob and while Morticia was yelling, “let go!” in between giggling like a
school girl, I reached down with the other hand and one by one removed my
socks.
Success was swift. I got the door 3 inches open while Morticia
frantically tried to push back. But I had the upper hand in that I have more weight
to throw around. Finally she had to crumple and exclaimed, “I’m laughing
too hard!” I was victorious in my plot for revenge.
Not so much later that night while we were preparing for
bed, Tish said, “You bruised my hand.”
“You pushed on my bruise!”
“I told you, that was Monday.” At least she sticks to her
guns, I guess. Finally she said, “I’m sorry…” but then added in a whisper, “and
by sorry I mean I don’t really care…”
So, that night, I typed this up and she promptly started this blog and I promptly didn't post anything on it. This was fun. Until the next time I venture on here...
Ophelia
