Long time readers may recall approximately two years ago, when Middle sister sent me a peen pepper photo:

Pretending not to recognize said pepper’s graphic penis attributes, and Middle’s response, was perhaps the highlight of my ENTIRE FUCKING YEAR.

So when Little sent out this text,

I couldn’t resist.

I knew the odds were stacked against me – Little was in on the peen pepper prank, and she’s a bit more cunning than sweet, innocent Middle. But I told myself it had been over a year since I’d pulled penis peen, and since I’m no George Clooney in the prank department, I figured I might be able to squeeze  one more laugh out of repeating the same joke on my unwitting sisters.

Nothing. Dead silence from everyone.   I started to sweat.  Were they all rolling their eyes?  Could they possibly be on the fence, needing the perfect nudge to get them going on the explanation?

Twenty minutes pass. Finally, my mother:

No response.

My husband walked in, asked why I’d thrown myself, kicking, onto the couch.

He read the phone, laughed. “What if you’re trying to prank them into explaining the obvious,  meanwhile your Mom’s revenge pranking you into explaining the obvious?”

The very real possibility that this is what’s happened makes me scream into a pillow.

He tossed the phone back. “Really think your mom doesn’t know what IDGI stands for?”

And so this is how my prank dies, not with a bang, but with my whimpers.

FLASH FORWARD TO TODAY

I have a 9:45 am appointment to get my root canal work checked.

I walk into the tiny waiting room, and EVERYTHING SMELLS LIKE BLOATED WHALE FART.

There’s no one else except me and the receptionist, so it’s pretty clear who is responsible. I mean, unless they’re excavating an old burial ground in the back room.  But  I don’t want to embarrass her, so I sit down.

She tells me the doctor’s running late, so it’ll be a minute. Then she leaves.

Now I’m alone in a  waiting room that’s wall-to-wall fart fumes, getting increasingly anxious some new person will walk in and assume I’m here to have whatever creature that crawled up my butt and died extracted.  Like I’m actually practicing my excuse/apology for when this inevitably happens.

This has no real bearing on the story, just giving you a peek into how my anxiety works.

To distract myself from having to stand up and making an announcement about my anal integrity, loud enough for the staff to hear through the walls,

I start texting my mom and sisters about plans for Tahoe.  God bless texting, and it’s protection from having to think, or make eye contact with others.

Grateful my sisters/mom saved me from freak out, and because confession is good for the soul, I did this:

Then this happened:

And then this:

So Merry Christmas! It looks like Middle got game this year!