Totally irrational, no idea where it comes from but it reminds me of, shoot, was it a Ray Bradbury story? Widow of an astronaut who fell into the sun or something.

The very story that inspired Elton John's song "Rocket Man."

I'm your nightmare neighbor! I will open my door on purpose to talk to my across the hall neighbor because I like to get to know their toddler. A true San Francisco girl, her middle name is "Fog."

That said, I would not judge you for taking down your trash or exiting in the daylight.

Buffistas, yesterday I committed an act of goofy awkward self sabotage that was worthy of Ginger, or Hil or even Erin's knife-in-ass story.

Who wants to hear my tale of ridiculous woe?

Who wants to hear my tale of ridiculous woe?

I, for one, will be terribly sad if I don't get to hear it. Although I really hope you didn't end up with a knife in your butt.

I always want to hear ridiculous stories, woe optional

I've decided to take time during the work day to go get my flu shot and a snail and probably lunch (which will not be snails). I feel so transgressive, but it's totally within cultural norms, right?

-t, it is imperative you get that snail. This whole week has been like one big snail cliffhanger.

Hec's Tale of Self Inflicted Woe

So yesterday afternoon I was making a vegetarian chili for Jacqueline. Since our staple black beans are verbotten on our current diet I was working with Gardein's soy based meatless ground - which nicely subs in for ground beef. But I need to extend it so I'm chopping up mushrooms and onions. I toss those in the frying pan and start sauteeing them.

I'm a little distracted though when I add the meatless ground because it's frozen and all in one chunk and I'm afraid I'll overcook the mushrooms and onions while the faux meat defrosts. So out of the pan with what I started and just work on defrosting.

I go back to the cutting board and clear off the onion skin and bits and decide to dice up the peppers. I've got a big red bell pepper, and some cute looking sweet peppers like yellow banana peppers, and one jalapeno.

I'm cutting and dicing and I very very carefully use the tip of my knife to separate the seeds out of the jalapeno because JZ doesn't like her chili too spicy. Just a little kick.

The meatless ground is finally defrosted, I add back the onions and mushrooms, I toss in the peppers scraping everything off my cutting board with my knife and begin to season everything when Matilda calls.

She's done with school and she's going to hang out with a friend for a bit before she heads home. That's fine.

I turn back to my prep area and decide to clean it up and go to the bathroom before I finish the chili. I scoop up all the vegetable ends and bits using a paper towel into my hand and dump it in the garbage, then I go to the bathroom and take a wee. Then very conscientiously wash my hands before returning to the kitchen.

Did you spot David's fatal error?

I go back to the kitchen and I'm adding garlic, and cumin and cayenne and suddenly I notice a weird numb sensation between my legs. My first thought is it's the sciatica because sometimes it causes numbness or tingling, and most of the pain is located in my hips.

But this isn't in my hips. It's hip adjacent, but in my underwear. And it's not numb anymore.

It's hot. Cue up your favorite rockabilly tune ("Great Balls of Fire," et al)

And I scamper to the bathroom to frantically apply a wet wipe.

There is a brief moment of relief but that passes instantly. It's still really hot.

I wash my hands. I chuck off my clothes and hop in the shower.

I wash the offending area thoroughly with soap and rinse.

It doesn't work. My balls are on fire.

At this point I realize I have to neutralize the capascin. And I've watched enough chili pepper eating contests on YouTube to know I'll need dairy.

I have a brief notion to jam my junk into a pint of Greek yogurt, but then as I run down the hall naked and dripping, I realize I just need good old fashioned milk.

I fill up the little steamer pitcher we use for cappucino with cold milk and race down the hallway to the bathroom, squat awkwardly in the tub and pour frosty cold 2% over my bidness.

Ahhh, relief.

Except...

Apparently, there was (as Chandler would say) "Cuppage."

So the back side of my nutsack is still aflame with hot peppery jalapeno fun. These poppers are not for sale at Chili's.

I have to ignominiously roll onto my back in the bottom of the tub, pull my knees up, and target the back side of my scrotum for a thorough dairy rinsing.

Ahhhhh. Relief. Rinse and one more obsessive round of washing and drying off and I went back to finish making dinner.

This is your cautionary tale of the day.

Oh noooooo!

I recommend latex gloves in future.

The dreaded jalapeno nards!

I feel like a knife in the butt would have been better, there. Or at least more quickly resolved.

For the longest time, I thought my fingers were sometimes burning all day from jalapeno, but now I'm pretty sure it's actually the oils in lime skin that get me! Weird, right? And milk doesn't help.

Y'all, I want a nap SO BAD. Remember when I used to sleep all night long? That was amazing.

Oh my! That sound terrible, Hec!

I am getting a little excited about the people coming to help, but still so nervous about the price

Jesus fucking CHRIST my dad just told me that he thinks there's some sort of critter living in his box spring, but not only that -- he thinks it's been there for 3 or 4 MONTHS. And I have no idea how much of that is opioid-induced hallucinating,* and how likely it is that there's a mouse/squirrel/freaking chupacabra living IN HIS BOX SPRING.

I think today might have been the first time I've ever said "WHAT THE FUCK????" to him (he's not a big fan of swearing, and, y'know, he's my dad, so I lay off around him). But I think if anything calls for WHAT THE FUCK, it's the idea of a goddamn woodchuck or whatever living IN HIS BOX SPRING.

I feel like I shouldn't have had to tell him to call a motherfucking exterminator.

*(He takes such high doses of oxycodone for his chronic pain that he is totally tripping balls every night. So the odds that this is a hallucination are probably high. But even so, it's worth having an exterminator check it out to confirm that there is no capybara IN HIS BED. Or if there is, to get it the fuck out of there.)

My brain hurts now.