My sister Aimee writes too and she’s a big reader. Recently, she read Toni’s Bobbie Faye books and loved them. So, when she sent me a message complaining about a household problem, I was astounded by how much her “voice” in the complaint sounded unlike her own and almost…kinda…like…Bobbie Faye. It was like my sister was possessed. Check it out:
Okay, no need to freak out. Completely. Really. It’s okay. Despite the huge hole in the back of the house. And the leaking roof. And the electric short in my son’s bedroom. And the rats. Did I just say rats? Um, yeah, I’ll be moving out now. Or calling the health department. Can you condemn my house for me? Or, I don’t know, Ratbusters? Home Makeover? Don’t know whether to vomit or cry or just run like hell. Okay I shouldn’t have said that, but nothing else seemed appropriate. Freakin’ hole, mold, dripping water, rats. Rats in my house! And I almost freakin’ got electrocuted turning on the light. And did I mention I’m now living with rats? My son is NOT going back in that house. At least not until it is efficiently bombed. And can I request an airplane to dump a load of 100% concentrated bleach over what’s left? A ton of it. Literally. Bank, you can have the house back. We don’t want it anymore. Overreacting? Me? Didn’t you hear? Okay, well, maybe a little.
So when I pointed out to her that she kinda sounded like Bobbie Faye, she extended the possession as a…what…experiment? Early NaNoWriMo writing exercise?
Hello, Home Depot. You said: More saving. More doing. Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m broke, or financially challenged if you prefer, but I still got some doing to do. Got to kill me some rats. Or trap them. Or trap them and kill them. I don’t really care as long as they exit my house. Heck, exit my entire property. Don’t want ’em comin’ back. So Home Depot Man, what do you recommend? What’s worth me making a larger dent in my itty bitty bank account? Well, you have a little bit of everything, huh? No recommendations? Not very expert-y, are you Home Depot Man? Last time I let one of you orange dudes make me feel dumb for being a young(ish) female in a home improvement store. Okay, I’ll take one of everything. Yep. You heard me. Don’t laugh. You don’t know which one I should use so I’m givin’ ’em all a test drive. Load me up. Wooden snap trap? Yep. Click and set trap? Sure. No view No touch kill trap? Oh yeah. Glue traps? Add to cart. Large or small? Both. Electric whatever trap? They make those? Oh, do you sell rat bazookas? I could REALLY use one of those. Poison? Um, no. That would just be mean. Okay, no, not really. But I am not cleaning up that mess when I finally find the bodies. Thank you very much, Home Depot Man. You were no help at all. But I’m feelin’ pretty good right now.
I smile myself through the self checkout and even giggle a little as I load my arsenal in the back of my SUV. I’m feelin’ kinda redneckish. Okay, rats, I’m packin’ and comin’ for ya.
Hello, rats. Rambo’s home. Yeah, it’s just me, but I’m warning you now, I’m armed. You know, I can hear you scampering around in my kitchen cupboard. I am not amused. In fact, that knot in my stomach is back. But I’ve got a bagful of rat killers with your name on it. Haha. Literally. Unless your name is Bob. You know, I once had a rat named Bob. No, he wasn’t my pet. He was my biology assignment for a semester. I kept him swimming in formaldehyde for weeks. I skinned him, cut out all the fatty tissue, cut off his muscles, exposed all his bones, tore out his organs. Could be you. I’m just sayin’. We could talk this out. Make a deal. You can leave now. I won’t set any traps if you do. Cuz really, Mr. Rat, when I said anybody was welcome to come destry my house, it wasn’t really an invitation. Sorry for the confusion and all, but please GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. You are seriously freaking me out. Okay, I shouldn’t admit that. But I’m setting this trap now. Pull the label back. Check. Insert peanut butter. Wait a minute. Peanut butter? Really? Okay, if you say so Mr. D-Con. Turn trap clockwise until the red “set” light comes on. Check. Now place in high traffic area. Okay, Mr. Rat, I’m opening the cabinet door now. Last chance. Only don’t let me see you. Aahh! I don’t want to hear you either! Drop the trap! Drop the trap! Close the door! Phew! Did I just unset the trap setting it down too hard? Okay, throwing it in the cabinet. Mr. RAt meets Wussy Rambo. That’s okay, Mr. Rat, really. Cuz you know what? I may be the cowardly soldier here, but I also have a commanding officer (a.k.a. my darling husband). And when he gets home, you are toast, you hear me? But it would be really great if you could get yourself into that trap in the meantime so I can have bragging rights. Mr. Rat? Okay well, gotta get back to work. We’ll be back to check on you. Please be in the trap by then. Thank you very much.
Maybe she just had no choice. That’s my guess. Especially when she wrote back, “Oooh. Oooh. Can I call my book Bobbie Faye Ate My Brain?”
My favorite part of this story? Toni’s response when I emailed her all of this. “LOL! That really did sound like Bobbie Faye ate her brain!” Typical. Toni shows no remorse that her character is so virulent now after three books, not only is she possessing Toni, but also perfectly innocent people who just happen to read her books. Bystanders!
Just so you know, everything in this guest blog really did happen exactly as related here. Including Toni’s lack of remorse and Aimee’s purchase of every variety of rodent killer known to humankind. Honestly. This is just reportage, folks.