An Email Conversation in Response to Seattle Losing Its Shit

Sara and I email each other back and forth every day. But today's emails were particularly hilarious (to us at least). If you aren't from around Seattle or if you've been living under a rock, it's basically all out warfare downtown (not really, 2 shootings this morning - but close). But seriously, there's been something like 15 murders in the last month and police are apparently baffled by the spike in gun violence.
I know how Fran would handle this. She'd call up her Mafia boyfriends and tell them to get their asses over here and clean shit up the Eastern European way (i.e. find and execute people).


Anyways, this is the email conversation Sara and I had with regards to the shootings that happened this morning.

Sara: Also, don’t get shot. I saw some lady got shot in Pioneer Square earlier this week*. Just…don’t piss anyone off, k? Kthxbai!

Lindsay: And...who would shoot me? Have you seen my muscles? I also know how to knife fight.

Sara: You need a knife in order to knife fight. No one gives a shit how big your muscles are or how long your knife is when they have a gun. That’s sort of the appeal.

Lindsay: I have a knife, douche. Ryan gave us 12 hunting knives for Xmas. We have them everywhere - like chapstick.They will when they try to shoot me. Because I'll stab them before they decide to shoot.

Sara: So you know how to throw knives then? And OOOOoooOOooOOOOOOooooOOH! Aren’t you all fancy! Why on earth would you need 12 hunting knives? For when you and Jesse go hunting with ten buddies? Or so when the first 11 run out you have a spare?

Lindsay: Of course I know how to throw knives**. Why wouldn't you need 12 hunting knives...?

Sara: I’d have one gun with twelve (thirteen, including one in the barrel) rounds loaded so I could take out anyone with a knife.

Lindsay: Well you can't just walk around in public with a big-ass gun fully loaded. This isn't the South.

Sara: Concealed weapons permit. Or a handgun.

Lindsay: How are you going to "conceal" a rifle or shotgun? Oh, hey don't mind this shot-gun looking thing sticking out of my pants or the bottom of my coat. Maybe I could fit a handgun in my bra. And a handgun that holds more than 8 rounds?

Sara: Makarov pistol. Lots of semi-automatics have 12 round clips.

Lindsay: God, you are so Russian.

Sara: Besides, I thought your muscles would deter any potential shooters.

Lindsay: Soooo...both shooters from this morning are still at large. Wanna pick me up from work? Stop by the house first though and grab some guns. Where the fuck is Phoenix Jones? You think if I walk around with my cupcakes, it'll deter someone from shooting me? Do you think being the birthday girl makes me bullet proof? Better yet, where can I buy a bullet proof vest, and have it delivered to my office? Why the fuck don't we have the mafia out here to take care of this shit before it gets out of hand?


Sara: No. Probably doing something more important like wearing tights and being awesome. No, they'll shoot you then steal your cupcakes. No. Vests-R-Us (We deliver!). Because Grandma broke up with them and told them to get the fuck out.

Sara: Oh yeah. Happy Birthday too, I guess.

*She means on TV. She saw this on the news.

**I don't

Onion Ring Wars

Yesterday afternoon Jesse was busy ironing his clothes and Brock was folding his and Kathy's laundry while Lindsay and Sara sat on the couch drinking beer and watching TV.
Kathy comes home, looks at Jesse and Brock, and says:
"Oh, look. The Real Housewives of Edmonds, Washington."

For Lindsay's birthday dinner, she requested Kathy's fucking awesome homemade onion rings. They're beer battered and deep fried and sweet and delicious and make everything in the world right. They're like crack, but without all of the annoying illegality or addiction.
Kathy made an assload of them because we love them so much. We always make fun of other people for stacking their plates so high with the onion rings even though everyone is doing the exact same thing, because we all want as many onion rings to ourselves as possible.

Lindsay: <Concentrating very hard on picking out the specific onion rings she wants to put on her plate>
Dad: Hey! Those aren't very paleo...you should probably give them all to me.
Lindsay: It's my birthday...so whatever I eat doesn't count. AND....guess how many fucks I give?
Dad: Lindsay! Nice mouth!
Lindsay: <holds up a zero while eating an onion ring>

Mom: Sara, where are you taking the onion rings?
Sara: To fill the tray back up with more.
Mom: Oh, okay. I thought you were going to go into your room and eat them in front of your computer.
<5 seconds later>
Mom: Sara, what are you doing? Where are the onion rings? Are you eating them all?
Jesse: One for the tray, two for me, one for the tray, two for me...

Dad: Jeez Fran! Did you eat enough onion rings? Quit hogging them!
Fran: You're going to deny onion rings from a frail, old lady?
Dad: If you keep eating all the onion rings, yah.
Mom: We'll have to start charging you more rent if you're going to eat all the food!
Fran: This. Is. Elderly abuse!

Lindsay: God I'm so full. <Takes more onion rings from the tray>
Jesse: Lindsay, I don't know if you want anymore. You're full and your going to change from a thin mint to an onion ring. So, give me all your onion rings.
Lindsay: I'll give you an onion ring. (That's my comeback for everything. It doesn't need to make sense)

Guest Post By The House Dragon

We asked our Mom to write a blog post. She always bitches and moans that we don't portray her correctly or something stupid like that. So we allowed her an unedited post for...payback or something - even though this blog is going to make us rich, so we don't really see why payback is warranted. But hey, when Mom's happy, everyone's happy. Here it is:

Dinner at the Bowyers is separated into 2 categories.

1.       Weekday dinner

2.       Weekend dinner

Lindsay prepares the weekday dinners.  She makes absolutely fabulous food.  We have no idea what it is or what is in it, (usually because there is 100 ingredients in every meal), but it all gets eaten every night.  The reason I know there is 100 ingredients in each meal is because there are two 10 foot granite counters and when Lindsay cooks, you can’t find a spot to put your wineglass down*.  She is that messy. 

I (mom) prepare the weekend dinners.  My dinners are also fabulous, but more traditional and simpler than the elaborate feasts Lindsay dreams up.  For example, we had mustard and herb coated rack of lamb on top of a potato cake with a wine reduction au jus and roasted asparagus.  Very simple**, but cooked to perfection!  I clean as I cook and there is always a spot for my wine glass which is the most important part of cooking.

The two men in the house, Brock and Jesse are the cleaner uppers and I’m dead serious when I say they do this enthusiastically because they want to continue to be fed fucking fabulous food.   

This sounds ideal, right?  Except neither Jesse, Brock, nor Lindsay and Sara understand the purpose of a sponge.  A sponge in our house can last 10 years because it never gets used.  I have tried a lecture series.  I sit everyone at the bar counter and then explain what a sponge is, where it lives in the kitchen and the sponge’s purpose.  I lecture that the sponge gets lonely if it can’t wipe the counter and stove top.  I use visual aids.  Nothing changes.  Brock and Jesse can load and unload the dishwasher, hand wash the wine glasses and serving platters, put things away correctly, but they can’t wipe.  I’m beginning to wonder if lack of sponge use could be classified as a handicap and they could get on a government program?   Do you think a prestigious university like the one who studied dinosaur farts*** would be interested in applying for a federal grant to study these sponge phenomena?

 * You can put your wineglass down, it just might be a little dirty on the bottom
** I don't know about you, but that recipe sounds complicated as fuck.
*** I remember my Mom emailing me about this, but I Googled it so you know she didn't make this up. 

Sister Love

One of our most common weekend rituals is making fun of Sara when she inevitably comes home with a raging hangover. Sometime in the late morning on either Saturday or Sunday she rolls into the driveway, hair sticking straight up, smelling like stale beer and shattered dreams. The rest of the family proceeds to offer her drinks and chuckle at her misery. The unconditional love and support between us is overwhelming.

However, this last Saturday Sara wasn’t feeling particularly well (it’s worth noting that was partially due to a hangover), and didn’t drink at all. Lindsay and Jesse went off to party with their CrossFit friends early in the afternoon, and Dad cracked his first beer around 2 pm.

This is our text conversation about the bonds of sisterhood.(Typos have been left as to stress the obvious mental state of those involved)

 <Late Afternoon>

Lindsay: Urrrmmmm...what would we have to do to get you to pick us up later?????

Sara: How much later?

Lindsay: Ehhhhh...I know don't know and that's why I'm. An asshole

Sara: A drunk asshole

Lindsay: That too. You love me.

Sara: I know

Lindsay:  Maybe like 12 or 1? You can dribkwith usfor awhile.

Sara: I may be totally asleep by then so I'd rather not drink with you.

Lindsay: Lame. But you still love me so you'll pick us up.

<Around 10pm>

Sara: Are you still in Woodinville?

Lindsay: No. Mill Creek. I'm dancing to Nelly. This is how the night has progressed.

Sara: Ugh, you should just get a cab...I hate you.

Lindsay: But you love me. Come over now. (Inserts address)

Sara: Are you sure you can't find another ride? I'm probably going to fall asleep at the wheel. 

Lindsay: Vagina up and come pick us up.

Sara: I fucking hate you

Lindsay: You love me. So get over here. Jesse wants to know if you want a road soda

Because she didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel, Sara recruited Dad as her co-pilot. True, he was a bit useless as he kept forgetting where they were and couldn’t make out any street signs, but he made a valiant effort. They finally arrived at the house to find Lindsay and Jesse ambling down the driveway covered in wine stains and leaning on each other for support.<Addition by Lindsay: I was NOT covered in wine stains. Just a small stain on my white shirt that my friend MARTA, spilled on me while she was wielding her wine glass like a broadsword> Dad then stumbled out of the car to pee on some bushes. It took a good ten minutes to herd them all into the car <Lindsay: More like 1 minute> where they continued to behave much like a bunch of drunken children, giggling at nothing in particular and attempting to give Sara directions.


Jesse upon entering the car: Hey Sara, do you want me to sing so you can stay awake?
Sara: Jesse, jump up your own ass and die.

The next evening, Sara, Lindsay, Dad, and Natasha, Sara’s roommate from college, were watching a Harry Potter marathon. A commercial for the movie The Grey played.

Dad: That movie is so stupid.
Sara: Why?
Dad: It’s been done over and over again. A bunch of guys crash in the wilderness and have to walk out and, guess what? The wolves are stalking them. 

Lindsay: Dad, there are no movies with that plot line.

Sara: Yeah, but Liam Neeson’s being awesome in it.
Dad: Liam Neeson’s a pussy.
Sara: No. He kicks ass. He’s Aslan.
Dad: Ass Land?

Later, the 6^th Harry Potter movie was playing, which Lindsay hadn’t seen yet. Knowing this, Sara was particularly adamant that Lindsay watch the entire thing. At the end of a commercial break, Sara assumed Lindsay was out of the room. She took a deep breath and let loose a bloodcurdling shriek that could blow the eardrums of anyone foolish enough to be standing within several miles and wake the dead.

Sara: LIIIINDSAA—

She glanced to her right only to find Lindsay sitting on the couch a few feet away with a glass of wine in her hand giving Sara this face:

Lindsay: Dude.

Sara: ...I didn’t see you there.

Natasha: *laughs* Obviously not.

<After the next commercial break>

Lindsay: Sara, the movie's back on, do you need to do a head count first?

Another commercial played with Eva Mendes promoting some crappy hair product. It probably featured “amino acid proteins” or something equally redundant/idiotic.

Lindsay: Did you know she’s dating Ryan Gosling?
Dad: Who?
Lindsay: The girl on TV.
Dad: Oh. Well I’d totally hit that.
Sara: Ew dad.
Dad: But not her. *confused looks from everyone*
Sara: So…you’d hit Ryan Gosling?
Dad: …Who’s Ryan Gosling?

Natasha: He’s totally dreamy.
Lindsay: Did you know he has an indie band too?
Dad: Oh god...
Lindsay: Dad, do you even know what indie music is?
Dad: I know what indie music is. It’s that punk bitch…ehhhhh…pussy music.

The night ended with Dad asking all sorts of irrelevant and incorrect questions about Harry Potter (in between naps), even though he's watched each movie with us at least 3 times. He eventually got frustrated and said “this movie sucks,” before he wandered off to bed.

 

"You can't tell your mom to fuck off on Mother's Day"

Unless you’re a complete hermit, you know that Mother’s Day in the Northwest was so jaw-droppingly gorgeous that it made living in perpetually grey, drizzling weather seem worth it. Anyways, we spent the day outside drinking, listening to The Doors, messing around with paint, shooting arrows…you know. The usual.

Sara: I got you a present!

Mom: It had better be a car.

Sara: Well it’s not. But there’s two parts to the present!

Mom: If it’s not a car, I don’t give a shit.

We started reminiscing about my (Sara’s) little affair with meningitis. When I was five weeks old, some nasty little bacterium got all up in my meninges and started messing things up. Mom took me to the hospital, I almost died…long story short, I’m a fucking miracle.

Mom: So your Dad and I were sitting with the doctor and he was telling us that even though you were all right there may have been some permanent damage to your brain; like you might be deaf or blind or mentally retarded.
Grandma: Oh, so that's what happened.

Later, Mom was encouraging me (Lindsay) to get one of my moles looked at by a doctor. And for the record, it's just one regularly shaped small mole on my ribcage. It's not like I’ve got a bunch of wonky deformities all over my skin. Sara, seeing an opportunity to be a know-it-all, chimed in.

Sara: Did you know that moles are genetic abnormalities?
Lindsay: So is being a dork.

And, of course, the day could not be complete without Dad confronting Sara about being a lesbian.

Dad: Well playing bass is way more butch...so plan on getting even more lesbians wanting to be your girlfriend.
Sara: Dad, the bass is not butch.
Dad: It totally is.
Sara: I know plenty of lesbians and none of them play bass.
Jesse: They play the drums, not the bass.

Lindsay: You know what instrument’s awesome? Saxophone. “Wow, that sax really made that song lame,” said no one ever. 

Emails From Sara While She Is "Working"

This is what our mother had to say about our most recent blog post:

Sara: Have you seen the new blog post?
Mom: There’s another one?
Sara: Yeah, it’s about you.
Mom: Oh fuck.

On any given workday, I usually receive at minimum, 4 emails from Sara. They are usually links to stuff she found on the internet or she's telling me about the latest drama in her social/love life. I think she gets more out of me in email exchanges because I hate talking on the phone and I am usually too distracted busy with the internet/watching Big Bang Theory something important to listen to what she's telling me at home.

A conversation we had on a Thursday:

Sara: Is it wrong that I want to start this weekend right now? I just want to start drinking. I think I’m going to buy some Bailey’s so I can drink in the morning discreetly.

Lindsay: Yah, but then everyone will be onto you because you'll be in a good mood.

Sara: True.

A conversation about dinner. Keeping my dad, Jesse, and Sara fed has become my responsibility while my mom drinks wine and plays JewelQuest on the damn computer with Fox News turned up loud enough to make your ears bleed.

Sara: Oh, and what are you making for dinner tonight? Something delicious?

Lindsay: I have no idea! Of course it's going to be delicious because I'm cooking. Duh. 

Sara: Excellent. Also, grapes suck. Without alcohol, they’re pretty much useless. 

This is an email exchange my mom and Sara had:

Sara: Also this. Looks like we’re right up there with Iran on this one. 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convention_on_the_Elimination_of_All_Forms_of_Discrimination_Against_Women

Mom: Really?  You are saying that because Afghanistan and even Brazil because they signed and ratified the document have better human rights than the US?

Sara: I actually did not say that. You did. I said that we were on the same page as Iran on signing a bill of rights specifically for women. 

Mom: But it is not the same.  Iran refused to sign because they suck.  We signed, but refused to ratify because the bill of rights is completely meaningless and useless.

Sara: Hahaha…”because they suck.” Touche mother. Touche. I am so bored. So unbelievably bored. So here’s a very telling picture of Clinton and Obama. It reminds me of me and Lindsay. Guess which one I am?

 

Mom: You are soooo Obama.  That was just too easy.

Sara: What? No. I’m totally Clinton. Come on, who’s the one who always says inappropriate things at the wrong time?

Mom: You would never look as stupid as Clinton in that picture and you are so Obama looking disgusted.  

Sara: Okay. Sure. I’d never look stupid in a picture. Ever. 

     

These are the emails she sent me today. I did not edit the times I received them. I also did not respond to them.

2:01pm

Boooooorrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeddd.

Do you want to see a picture of me?

 

Do you like it? It’s one of my favorites. I think the light really brings out the color of my eyes.

I’m more bored than the mine shaft those Chilean miners got stuck down.

I’m so bored, it’s aBOREant.

Okay. That’s all I’ve got.

Although I am so hungry that I could eat an entire BORE 

2:02pm

I’m the lord of Boredington. They call me Lord Boredom.

2:03pm (I'm not making the time up)

I am told that my subjects were very happy. So much so, you could say they aBOREd me.

2:04pm

The kingdom lay just across the river. They had to bored it.

2:05pm

I carried in a sheath at my side a long, shining bored.

The Dental Altercation

About a month ago, the whole family got the ironically cheerful reminder cards from the dentist, saying things like “It’s that time of the year again!” First of all, if the message on your card could also be used for a colonoscopy, you should consider tweaking it. Anyways, I (Sara) promptly forgot about it, as I am wont to do. About a week ago Mother decided to remind me of this while I was at work with an E-Mail entitled “make a dentist apt to clean your fangs”

Mom: (Our dentist’s phone number)  MAKE A DENTIST APPOINTMENT! IT HAS BEEN A YEAR SINCE THOSE NASTY THINGS HAVE BEEN CLEANED

Sara: MAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM! It has not been a year. I got them cleaned right before I went to Russia. Which is…one month less than a year.

Mom: 11 months is 5 months over 6 months and so your LATE

Sara: I also did go in in December. I don’t think that counted though.

Mom: I talked with Dr. Pacy today and he said November to √ your wisdom teeth doesn’t count. Your late. Deal with it. Make the apt and stop whining.

Sara: And you keep using the wrong form of you’re.

Mom: YOUR STILL LATE

Sara: *You’re.

Mom: YOUR A YOUR

You now see the situation I found myself in. Mother was highly irritated by the thought of me not doing what she wanted. As the youngest and, more importantly, as a brat, I knew I couldn’t just call then and miss all the potential fun.

Also, I’m really lazy. Like…putting trash in my pockets so I don’t have to walk over to the trash can lazy.

Two nights later we were sitting in the kitchen watching television. Mom turned to me:

Mom: Call the dentist!

Sara: Mom, I will. Get off my case about it. You're acting like Dad.

Mom: No boys are going to want to kiss you if you don't clean your teeth.

Sara: There are plenty of boys who want to kiss me!

Mom: Not if you have a skank mouth!

Lindsay: Yeah, no one likes dragon breath.

Sara: Why do you care if boys want to kiss me?

Lindsay: Because it means you'll be closer to getting out of here.

Mom: Yeah, you'll have date nights!

Sara: So you just want me gone more? You just want me to meet a boy so I'm
out of the house, not because you want me to be happy?

Lindsay: Well you're so argumentative and cranky!

Sara: What? No I'm not!

Lindsay: You argue about EVERYTHING - even when you're lying in bed
drinking beer.

Mom: You're arguing right now!

Sara: I never argue when I’m in bed drinking beer. I'm HAPPY when I'm in bed drinking beer.

We have a difference of opinion as to what happened next. Lindsay thinks Mom tried to tickle me. I maintain that she tried to strangle me in an attempt to perform a postpartum abortion, and for the record, I think she should be arrested.

Typical Sunday Dinner

On this particular Sunday (Easter), we were out in the backyard shooting at a squirrel target with pellet guns. Don't judge, we were bonding as a family and communing with nature.

Sara: Am I the only one here who realizes how redneck we are right now?
Lindsay: We'd be rednecks if we were drinking beer. But we're drinking wine, which is classy, so it cancels out the redneck part.
Sara: We're still shooting at a squirrel target with pellet guns on Easter.
Lindsay: But we are making it look classy.

This exchange happened while we were still out in the backyard doing target practice.

Dad: What I would like to do, when I have money, is buy you girls shot-guns.

Sara: But I want a glock.

Dad: That is, like, such an overrated gun.

Sara: But I want to fulfill my life's dream to be like Biggie!

Dad: And be dead...?

And this one happened after dinner while all seven of us were sitting around the table.

Sara (looking at the inside of her shoulder): I've got this weird rash all of a sudden.

Jesse: It looks like it's from the butt of the gun.

Sara: Oh yeah! That's probably what it is.

Dad: What? That little pellet gun doesn't have enough kickback to give you welts like that.

Lindsay: Well it's ribbed like the butt of the gun, and that's where you hold it. You're also wearing a tank top, so you don't have anything covering your skin.

Dad (looks at Sara very seriously): Is it a lesbian rash?

Sara: God, Dad, no! What is a lesbian rash anyways?

Dad: I don't know. You're the expert. 

Grandma: A what?

Jesse: A lesbian rash.

Grandma: Oh. Well that's not where one of those would be. (And then goes back to eating like this is a totally normal conversation)

GENESIS

What in the hell is this? Dinner with the Bowyers is the (genius) invention of Lindsay and Sara. It's our effort to share the normal exchanges and conversations our family has. You're welcome.


(LINDSAY) We live with our parents. Now that conjures up an image of a small, functional, nuclear family. There are seven of us, all adults. Upon trying to think of a way to describe this living situation in a concise way...we came up with nothing. So...yeah - screw you if you were hoping for something articulate.

(SARA) Now, we didn’t always all live together. In fact, for the majority of the past four years it’s just been Mom, Dad, Grandma (who has her own mother-in-law apartment above the garage), and our old dog, Mika. But I learned that the first thing you get to do as an adult with a Bachelor’s degree is move back in with your folks. Lindsay and Jesse, on the other hand, learned that living abroad in Argentina for the better part of a year leaves you broke. Moving-back-in-with-the-parents broke. So, all seven of us are now sharing one little house.


(LINDSAY)Just to further clarify: teaching English in Argentina for a year leaves you living-in-your-Grandma's-downstairs-computer-room-and-using-her-ancient-sleeper-sofa-as-a-primary-bed-broke. Also, pretty much all the food consumed in the house is being purchased with our foodstamps, you know, cause we're broke and we have to contribute to the household somehow. Basically we all live together out of necessity and...love, I guess? With all of us together on a daily basis, many of our conversations and exchanges are fairly hilarious - as if the situation itself wasn't slightly hilarious already.

(SARA) We’ve also forgotten what words like “personal space” and “quietness” mean. Now, I think it’s safe to assume that everyone reading has had some sort of acquaintance with one or more of our family members, but here’s a rough guide to our personalities in case you find yourself stricken with a sudden acute case of dementia:

Grandma: Still trucking on, despite her age (90...she thinks). Can't stand people her own age. Enjoys lying about having Alzheimer’s and referring to Alfred Hitchcock as cuddly.

Brock: A man who should have had sons, but ended up with daughters and didn't change his parental gameplan. Enjoys mispronouncing people’s names on purpose. Loves to ask Sara if she is a lesbian. Suffers from ADHD.

Kathy: Five feet and two inches of East Coast mannerisms and wine. Manages to fuck up common sayings/names/words despite English being her first language. Enjoys intimidating the meek.

Sara: The youngest in age yet the oldest at heart; Liz Lemon is her spirit guide. Her hatred of people compliments her social awkwardness. Enjoys drinking beer in bed while watching Netflix.

Lindsay: Snorts unapologetically when laughing. Enjoys making victorious train sounds, snide remarks/ being generally sassy, and watching Ghost Adventures.

Jesse: The only one not blood related. Spends his nights asking why God is punishing him with such obnoxious in-laws. Enjoys playing Gloria Gaynor songs on guitar and singing shamelessly in the shower.

Tucker: Homosexual. Enjoys licking pants.