I came home at lunch yesterday to take care of some high! drama! personal business (of which I'm sure you'll hear plenty later), turned the key in the lock, opened the door, dropped my purse on the sofa, kicked off my shoes and... stopped.
What I present you with now is photographic proof that either I am hopelessly predictable/in a rut, or my belongings fraternize when I leave the house.
Personally, I like the latter option. It does sort of look like they've been caught at something. Especially those two sneaking off into the laundry closet around the corner. Don't think I don't know what you're doing! I was young once, too!
What I present you with now is photographic proof that either I am hopelessly predictable/in a rut, or my belongings fraternize when I leave the house.
Personally, I like the latter option. It does sort of look like they've been caught at something. Especially those two sneaking off into the laundry closet around the corner. Don't think I don't know what you're doing! I was young once, too!
One of the voices in my head is that old dude from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. You know, the gazillion-year-old knight guarding the Holy Grail, who, when the bad Nazi guy takes a drink from the wrong cup and right before his face melts off says something very helpful like, "He chose... poorly."
Which is exactly what I hear when I'm in the middle of one of lifes D'oh! moments. Wrong check-out line at the grocery store. Wrong career path. Wrong route home from work. That totally unnecessary second breakfast (with bacon!) that I ate this morning. Whatever.
"You chose... poorly."
Yeah, thanks, old dude. Thanks a lot.
Which is exactly what I hear when I'm in the middle of one of lifes D'oh! moments. Wrong check-out line at the grocery store. Wrong career path. Wrong route home from work. That totally unnecessary second breakfast (with bacon!) that I ate this morning. Whatever.
"You chose... poorly."
Yeah, thanks, old dude. Thanks a lot.
This is going to be sorta rambly, because hello, it's Monday, and in an uncharacteristic foray into alcoholism, I drank for thirteen straight hours on Saturday. It's still working its hangover magic. So, with that little foreword, here we go.
The Box of Shame is not, strangely enough, a euphemism for lady parts and sexual hangups. It's a three-and-a-half foot tall cardboard moving box that, since the day I moved in a little over a year ago, has sat in the corner of my patio collecting rainwater and general filth. Every once in a while when I thought about it, it gave me the willies, but mostly, I ignored it. Much like I do the unfinished shelving project in the living room. The wall is bowed, the shelf doesn't work, so it sits on the floor in the corner, leaning up against the wall like a loitering teenager outside the 7-11. Making it about as useful as a teenager, too.
On Sunday, when Mom and StepBob came for lunch and museuming, Mom volunteered her husband for the job of getting rid of the Box once and for all. Because obviously, it wasn't going to happen any other way. I have my roadblocks and in a mostly fastidious apartment, the Box of Shame (gone for good, carted off this morning with the 7AM trash collection) and the aforementioned shelving disaster are the biggest two. Okay, fine. Confession: I have a ridiculously hard time getting the garbage out, too. I vacuum under couch cushions with a kind of OCD regularity and iron my bedsheets, but I can't manage to remove rotting filth from the white Rubbermaid trashcan in the pantry. It's as gross as it sounds. But I like to think this makes me quirky and not a health code violation waiting to happen.
You're so turned on right now, I can tell.
The Box of Shame is not, strangely enough, a euphemism for lady parts and sexual hangups. It's a three-and-a-half foot tall cardboard moving box that, since the day I moved in a little over a year ago, has sat in the corner of my patio collecting rainwater and general filth. Every once in a while when I thought about it, it gave me the willies, but mostly, I ignored it. Much like I do the unfinished shelving project in the living room. The wall is bowed, the shelf doesn't work, so it sits on the floor in the corner, leaning up against the wall like a loitering teenager outside the 7-11. Making it about as useful as a teenager, too.
On Sunday, when Mom and StepBob came for lunch and museuming, Mom volunteered her husband for the job of getting rid of the Box once and for all. Because obviously, it wasn't going to happen any other way. I have my roadblocks and in a mostly fastidious apartment, the Box of Shame (gone for good, carted off this morning with the 7AM trash collection) and the aforementioned shelving disaster are the biggest two. Okay, fine. Confession: I have a ridiculously hard time getting the garbage out, too. I vacuum under couch cushions with a kind of OCD regularity and iron my bedsheets, but I can't manage to remove rotting filth from the white Rubbermaid trashcan in the pantry. It's as gross as it sounds. But I like to think this makes me quirky and not a health code violation waiting to happen.
You're so turned on right now, I can tell.
My bedroom wall neighbors keep me up with loud, grunty sex all the time, and so last night at 11:00 when I should have been counting sheep, but was instead wide awake and laughing so hard the furniture vibrated, I thought, "Deal with it, suckers." It was payback.
Ari and I do not talk on the phone very often. Because we hate it. Phone talking, that is, not talking to each other. When we lived across First Avenue from one another, we used to spend hours sitting cross-legged on her chestnut leather couch dishing about everything from cads to coworkers to cramps. Throw in some cheap Chinese from around the corner and those sessions could go for days. Ever since I closed up shop and moved to Dallas, though, those blow-out snark-fests are few and far between.
But last night! Last night was like a raunchy reunion episode of your favorite love-to-hate reality show. Fetishists, the IRS, the company ink, and well, then I think we went back to fetishist, but nothing was off limits. I even filled her in on my new entrepreneurial scheme.
Honestly, can you think of a better way to pass an eye-gougingly boring meeting than feeling your PDA vibrate, only to have the message at hand be suggestions of... I don't know... a good hair-pulling roll in the hay? No, you cannot. Unless the meeting was a hair-pulling roll in the hay. But life is not a Belle and Sebastian song. Unfortunately.
Ari and I do not talk on the phone very often. Because we hate it. Phone talking, that is, not talking to each other. When we lived across First Avenue from one another, we used to spend hours sitting cross-legged on her chestnut leather couch dishing about everything from cads to coworkers to cramps. Throw in some cheap Chinese from around the corner and those sessions could go for days. Ever since I closed up shop and moved to Dallas, though, those blow-out snark-fests are few and far between.
But last night! Last night was like a raunchy reunion episode of your favorite love-to-hate reality show. Fetishists, the IRS, the company ink, and well, then I think we went back to fetishist, but nothing was off limits. I even filled her in on my new entrepreneurial scheme.
"After talking to Chris yesterday, I decided I should start a business sending dirty emails to people with Blackberries stuck in boring meetings."
"God, that should be a public service!"
"But if it was a public service, I wouldn't get paid. And highly-skilled flirtation is not free."
"Hmmm... does the IRS do audits for free? I guess they do."
"Take that back! I do not want innuendo connected to the IRS in any way. People would stop ending their sentences with, '...if you know what I mean.' The Universe would collapse on itself."
Honestly, can you think of a better way to pass an eye-gougingly boring meeting than feeling your PDA vibrate, only to have the message at hand be suggestions of... I don't know... a good hair-pulling roll in the hay? No, you cannot. Unless the meeting was a hair-pulling roll in the hay. But life is not a Belle and Sebastian song. Unfortunately.
Him: You don't know what men live for! We are complex creatures with many intricacies requiring the utmost attention.
Me: Ninja, please. All you need is sex, food, beer, ESPN, and someone to tell you your clothes don't match.
Him: Marry me! You forgot golf, but that’s okay. It will give us something to work on.
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