Making lemonade out of garbage

TBL goes to court tomorrow. I’m standing on my head, I’m so pissed off.

I calm down once in a while by reminding myself the plaintiff–heretofore known as Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire (LLPoF for short)–will, for as long as he remains on the job, be picking up my trash–the broccoli I pretended to eat, the fish pot pie that seemed like a good idea at the time, the never-ending cat poop, the disgusting stuff from the vacuum cleaner bag–I might even break my 30-year no-vomit streak just so he has to pick that up, too. Well, that last one won’t happen, not on purpose. But if I did, I’d label the bag “My vomit. Deal with it.” That’s how I deal with fury. Hoist him on his own petard.

But TBL, he who had to shell out the $1,000 for the lawyer, is out for the less tangible and vengeance-free reward. This morning, in an effort to lure me off my head and to an upright position, he said, “Look at it like this. I paid $1,000 for something I didn’t do, but it’ll all work out.” He squatted beside me and started ticking off the fiasco-related benefits, finger by finger. “They picked the trash up last week. If they pick it up this week, I figure it’s $500 each. If they pick it up next week, it’s down to about $333. If they pick it up the following week, all those pickups are down to $250 each. Pretty soon, I’ll be even.”

He knows that doesn’t make sense, but he thinks because 1) I don’t do math and 2) he’s relying on my belief that he’s always logical, that I’ll accept it.

Please. I’m not stupid. I know there’s a flaw in there somewhere, and with all this blood pooling in my brain, I’m bound to figure it out. Eventually.

In the meantime, anybody got any bendy straws?