Sometimes Craigslist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it’s not cracked up at all, but cracked out. Way the hell out.
My husband and I are trying to ditch our man-cave couch to make room in the new baby’s nursery for more important things, like, say, the crib, and the baby himself, so I posted it on my buddy Craig’s page for $100. At least I thought he was my buddy.
Here’s the first response to violently collide with my inbox:
“do the throw pillows and the odium come with in??? plz write back.” Signed Elizabeth.
No, but fierce judgment does, Elizabeth.
What the hell is an odium? Lamar Odom? No, he’s not currently available from my house. Check with the Kardashians. Or the Lakers. (Impressed I knew that? Don’t be. Lamar in a blinding yellow Lakers uniform was the first image that popped up when I googled “Odom”. See Elizabeth? Google your shit. Spell- and fact-check it before you hit Send, dummy.) And do you mean “with ‘it'”, as in, “does the odium come with it, the couch”, or are you inquiring “within”? I’m lost. Not as lost as you, though, obviously.
I responded by telling her that she could indeed have the throw pillows, but the ottoman, assuming that’s what she meant, and not a tall, black basketball player, was not for sale.
She promptly replied, “can i come on monday and see it at 6:30???? plz write back”
When I told her that was fine, she said, “i need you addres plz so i can coome and see it plz”
In my head, my response went a little something like this. Listen Elizabeth – or should I say Eloozoobith, based on your blatant disregard for all things grammatically holy and spelled properly in this world – there are so many unforgivable errors in your request that I can barely physically muster the strength to willingly give you my address. I have to trust my gut on this one and my conscious is telling me – shouting, screaming at the top of my own lungs, actually – no, no, NO, do not invite this delinquent into your home.
My fingers curled up tightly into fists, refusing to type. I managed to pry out just one, the weakest, the pinky, to tap in the address. Just. Do. It. Fingers. It’s. For. 100. Bucks. Baby. Must. Have. A. Nursery.
So I swallowed my grammatical pride and sent the address. Regret sank in immediately. Like taking a cannonball to the chest.
After all this, do you think she ever did actually “coome to see it plz”?
NO. No, she didn’t. And she didn’t email me an excuse/apology/suicide note/jack either.
Elizabeth was a no-show. A total flake out.
My hubs asked if I gave her my phone number. “Did she text you? Can you text or call her?” Uhh, no, I barely wanted her knowing my address let alone my cell. I can only imagine the heinous texts from her. My inbox was scarred enough without offering her another avenue for committing grammatricide.
But I was angry. I thought, Hey! I put on (non-yoga) pants for you! Jerk!
I also baked brownies that night that just so happened to be fresh out of the oven around the time E-looser-beth was supposed to be there (again, coincidentally – I wasn’t planning on offering her any; I don’t reward atrocious spelling) and I was forced to awkwardly hover over them at the stove, scarfing mounds before they cooled (the way I love to eat them, ooey gooey) and monitoring the number of teeth blacked out by fudge in the reflection of the kitchen window. I had no choice but to perform a windshield wiper tongue sweep every two seconds like a ravenous, salivating hyena curled over its wounded prey in the wild or a middle school kid with braces eating Oreos in the cafeteria. You know, just in case there came a knock at the door.
She completely ruined my undercooked brownie experience. I mean, how rude! I could have dived in with a lot less tongue-over-teething had I known I was not about to have any house guests. Unbelievable how inconsiderate some people are.
Don’t worry though, I got my revenge. I fired off a “Hey, I’m guessing you’re not coming?” email to her inbox about an hour after she was supposed to show. Zing! Bet she felt that one! She won’t be messing with me or my man-cave couch any time soon. I should have added a snarky “plz write back” at the end, but truthfully, I don’t want her to write back. Ever again. And she has my address, after all. I don’t need to incite a drive-by-shooting of some sort. A drive-by-couching, perhaps. Besides. My couch deserves a good home and lazy people who will love it and treat it well and have grammatically correct, intelligent conversations on it. And that’s not Elizabeth.