I want to preface this post by saying that making dinner for Mr. Sexy (we're protecting his identity, see) was totally my idea. When I suggested it to him the other day (using liquid courage, I'm sure), a little voice in the back of my head immediately screamed, "No, you crazy bitch! No! You'll screw it up! You'll poison him/burn the house down/have some sort of incident. Impress him some other way with something you're good at like slamming shots, owning cats or wearing a cleavage-baring shirt!"
I mentally screamed back at my inner voice to just shut the fuck up and go solve bigger problems like where my new Urban Decay eyeshadow disappeared to. She did. (It was under my car seat.)
Now, as I sit here eating cookie dough and reflecting on the night, I'm mostly glad I did not listen to her. Mostly.
See, my garbage disposal clogged up and refused to work about a week ago. Then, the other night, my dishwasher stopped draining. Water was just pooling in the bottom and threatening to flood my kitchen. Luckily for me, my good friend Stuff (again, I use code names to protect the innocent) came over (now, this is about an hour before Mr. Sexy was due to arrive, mind you) and was able to fix it for me (although how he focused with my dad hovering over him and lisping to high hell about how he knowth nothing about drainth but could fixth a Harley ANYTIME is beyond me).
The problems began after everyone left. My kitchen was all torn up, my hair was not styled and I had yet to drag my old dining room table up the very narrow basement steps (the ex came and took the set that I had been using). Mr. Sexy would be standing in my house in 30 minutes. I was freaking out a little. And wishing I kept whisky on hand for times like this.
It took me a ridiculous amount of time to remove the legs from the stupid table. After taking two of them off, I decided to leave the other two on and attempt to get the table up the steps like that (you know, to save time).
(I also decided to start my bathwater BEFORE I carried the table up. Don't ask why- in fact, don't ever ask why I do the things I do. Ask my mom or my bestie JChes, maybe they know.)
Anyway.
Bathwater is running. I'm barefoot in the basement in lounge pants and my work t-shirt. I heaved the table over to the steps and made my way up, table first. All went well till I was midway up. Suddenly I couldn't move up OR down. I was stuck. I was fucking STUCK.
The weight of the table was pushing me backwards and I was completely aware that if it somehow became unstuck, I would go flying down and the table would land on me and Mr. Sexy would arrive to find my cold, dead body in a crumpled mess on the concrete floor.
With unstyled hair.
And day old makeup.
And no dinner.
These thoughts terrified me enough to push harder. Well, that and the fact that I remembered my bathwater was still running. The following are actual words and phrases screeched by me while I pushed and stumbled:
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!"
"Oh my God. Please let me get this table up these stairs. PLEAAAAAAASE!"
"Why? WHY ME? WHYYYYYY? WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?!?!"
"I just wanted to make him dinner. JUST. WANTED. TO. MAKE. DINNER!"
[each period denotes a hard shove upwards on the table]
"Go. Up. GO. UP. Ok. OK! OUCH!"
The "OUCH!" came because with my last shove, the table lurched upwards and I was suddenly wedged between it and the wall. Along that wall is a ledge with shelving- unanchored shelving. I bumped into the shelves and a Tupperware container of cat food came flying down on my head. The impact on my head caused the top to fly off the container and a hellstorm of cat food came raining down on me, the steps and into the basement. I nearly dropped the table. Cat food was down my shirt, in my hair, between my toes. You can't make stuff like this up.
At that point I actually considered letting go and falling backwards into blissful unconsciousness.
I finally did get the table up the stairs. Then I laid on my dining room floor for two minutes. Then I remembered the bathwater (I'm pleased to share that I caught it in time; it did not overflow).
My frenzy was punctuated after I reassembled the table and got cleaned up. I had CURLERS IN MY HAIR and was putting makeup on when I realized my mascara was in my car. I knew Mr. Sexy would be pulling up anytime and I would be spotted in my driveway, hair in curlers and mascara-less like some kind of demented cat lady. I decided to make a run for it anyway... and slipped on the ice in the driveway. Luckily I fell against my car. As I laid on the hood, I wondered for a fleeting moment why these things happen to me. Then I stood up, opened the car door and grabbed my mascara and dashed back in the house...
... only to find a text from Mr. Sexy saying he was running late.
There was absolutely NO reason for me to have run around like a crackhead for 35 minutes. None.
Epilogue
Mr. Sexy did show up. I was a ball of stress for a bit but was able to calm down sufficiently (he talked to me in a slow, soothing voice and made no sudden moves- the way a person might deal with a mental patient or suicidal person) to finish making dinner. He seemed to like it (but boys do lie so maybe it was disgusting and he just didn't want to send me into a wine drinking shame spiral... very kind of him) and there were no fires, explosions, kitchen floods or bloodshed.
Joe Boxer stood there silently begging the whole time we ate. Mr. Sexy wanted to pinch his ear to teach him a lesson but I wouldn't let him.
Then T.V. was watched, I drank all the wine and Mr. Sexy went home. Once alone, I did not curl up in a ball of depression from my harrowing attempt at being domestic. I did, however, sullenly curse myself for not buying a bigger bottle of wine and not being more like Martha Stewart.
Man, I don't like that bitch.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Things I Have Learned In The Past Two Weeks
... since I'm all about you know, uh, learning.
Once you have acquired a Stage Five Clinger*, there is NO shaking him.
Seriously. Ladies, I would like to give you some solid, amazing advice: No matter HOW devastated you are when something bad happens to you, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT seek comfort/friendship/a rebound with a Stage Five Clinger. You will not be able to detach him from your leg. Ever. I'm seriously considering changing my identity, as plainly explaining that I do not want a relationship with him and ignoring his texts/calls/messages did not seem to make it sink into his beady little brain that I would rather chew off my own arm than hang out with him ever again.
Haha, I just had a thought- at least three boys are going to think I am talking about them. I could include a telling detail to put their minds at ease but I'm not that nice. Ha. Ha. Ha. HA!
Artificial Christmas trees ARE easy to assemble...
... if you're not an eager, disorganized jackass like me. I tore into the box of branches like a monkey and spent an hour cursing, throwing things and guzzling wine as I tried to figure out which ones matched and which row said matching branches should go on... only to discover they are color coded at the ends and have corresponding colors on the rows. You know, to make things EASIER.
I can stick my hand in a dark place without freaking out.
For obvious reasons, I have an aversion to sticking my hand in holes, boxes, dark corners, etc. Anything could be lurking there- spiders, a rabid chipmunk, my Stage Five Clinger (see above). My garbage disposal stopped working, see. I immediately called my stepfather and said, "My garbage disposal stopped working, see," fully expecting him to say, "I'll be right over." No. He told me to unplug the bastard and stick my hand down there to fish around for debris that could be stopping the blades.
I actually took the telephone away from my ear and looked at it, just to make sure he was for real.
He was.
I put on six pairs of rubber gloves, unplugged the wretched machine (which I had actually loved up till that point- I could dump stuff and things down there, flip a switch and it would all go bye bye... a genius invention) and peered down the hole. Sick. I shut my eyes and jammed my hand down there (is that what she said??).
I only almost puked one time, because I found a chicken bone and some hair.
After ten minutes of feeling around, it still doesn't work. BUT! BUT! I stuck my hand in a dark place! Go me!
I really suck at beer pong and busting the caps off beer bottles with my hand.
In my defense, I was already pretty tipsy when I started the beer pong. My teammate didn't even want me. I felt like I was in freshman gym class all over again- last one picked (unless my best friend was the team captain) and always dropping the ball. Still, I think I should resign myself to the fact that sports, even of the drinking nature, are something I will never be good at. I am not graceful and I am not good at handling balls (see what I did there? A little word play for my fellow pervs).
As far as popping beer bottles open using my hand and a sturdy surface... this was just a BAD idea. However, when someone, especially a male, encourages or dares me to do something that could potentially showcase just what a bad ass I am, I'm probably going to do it.
Except I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, I really did. I WANTED to pop the bottle cap open, chug it and punt the empty bottle into a raging bonfire with all the smoothness and finesse of a female James Bond. My desire to impress my peers completely overrode my good judgment and I woke up the next day with a giant bruise on my wrist and, worst of all, none of those empty bottles in the still smoldering fire were kicked there by me.
I was not meant to own earrings.
Not pairs anyway. I always lose one, just ONE fucking earring. Sometimes they are returned, other times they are lost forever. I gave up on keeping track of them. Maybe I'll just shut my eyes and reach in my earring martini bowl (yes, I said "earring martini bowl." What, you don't have one? How sad for you!) and grab two earrings, matching or not, to wear when I go places.
Growing a temporary pair of balls CAN get a girl a date (temporary because balls on a girl aren't very attractive).
I recently gave my number to a boy I have been admiring from afar who comes into my work pretty regularly. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I was also very tired of getting all flustered trying to make small talk with him whenever he was there. So, I handed him a piece of paper with my number on it. The delivery sucked ("Uhhh... I don't usually do this but here's my number and uh, I think you're cute, and uh... I'm gonna go away now" then running away like a five year old) but he actually CALLED that very night and we had drinks. Go me!
My ex is a giant douchebag and I am truly better off without him.
Surely you recall my nasty breakup back in October. As it turns out, Mr. Murder couldn't stand it when I actually started to move on. He emailed. He texted. He called. When I informed him I had no interest whatsoever in having contact with him ever again, he informed me his new girl is going to med school and I am a slut.
(I couldn't stop laughing, because he's a such a LIAR- he doesn't have a new girlfriend.)
I went and wrote his new phone number on the bathroom wall of the bar my friends and I were at, with instructions for every female to call and tell him he is a real bastard.
I hope he enjoyed fielding phone calls from drunk, middle-aged cougars. I know the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy inside and was very enjoyable for me.
The picture below depicts how happy I was.
Ok, that's actually a picture of me when I was drunk. But I'm pretty sure I was happy, so it works.
My, what a productive, educational two weeks I have had! And I haven't even touched on some of the shenanigans I got into- but my fingers hurt from typing and I need to go stare at my garbage disposal in an attempt to will it to work with my mind.
*Stage Five Clinger- an individual who latches onto another individual with deluded, one-sided notions that they were meant to be together. There is currently no cure for a Stage Five Clinger.
Once you have acquired a Stage Five Clinger*, there is NO shaking him.
Seriously. Ladies, I would like to give you some solid, amazing advice: No matter HOW devastated you are when something bad happens to you, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT seek comfort/friendship/a rebound with a Stage Five Clinger. You will not be able to detach him from your leg. Ever. I'm seriously considering changing my identity, as plainly explaining that I do not want a relationship with him and ignoring his texts/calls/messages did not seem to make it sink into his beady little brain that I would rather chew off my own arm than hang out with him ever again.
Haha, I just had a thought- at least three boys are going to think I am talking about them. I could include a telling detail to put their minds at ease but I'm not that nice. Ha. Ha. Ha. HA!
Artificial Christmas trees ARE easy to assemble...
... if you're not an eager, disorganized jackass like me. I tore into the box of branches like a monkey and spent an hour cursing, throwing things and guzzling wine as I tried to figure out which ones matched and which row said matching branches should go on... only to discover they are color coded at the ends and have corresponding colors on the rows. You know, to make things EASIER.
I can stick my hand in a dark place without freaking out.
For obvious reasons, I have an aversion to sticking my hand in holes, boxes, dark corners, etc. Anything could be lurking there- spiders, a rabid chipmunk, my Stage Five Clinger (see above). My garbage disposal stopped working, see. I immediately called my stepfather and said, "My garbage disposal stopped working, see," fully expecting him to say, "I'll be right over." No. He told me to unplug the bastard and stick my hand down there to fish around for debris that could be stopping the blades.
I actually took the telephone away from my ear and looked at it, just to make sure he was for real.
He was.
I put on six pairs of rubber gloves, unplugged the wretched machine (which I had actually loved up till that point- I could dump stuff and things down there, flip a switch and it would all go bye bye... a genius invention) and peered down the hole. Sick. I shut my eyes and jammed my hand down there (is that what she said??).
I only almost puked one time, because I found a chicken bone and some hair.
After ten minutes of feeling around, it still doesn't work. BUT! BUT! I stuck my hand in a dark place! Go me!
I really suck at beer pong and busting the caps off beer bottles with my hand.
In my defense, I was already pretty tipsy when I started the beer pong. My teammate didn't even want me. I felt like I was in freshman gym class all over again- last one picked (unless my best friend was the team captain) and always dropping the ball. Still, I think I should resign myself to the fact that sports, even of the drinking nature, are something I will never be good at. I am not graceful and I am not good at handling balls (see what I did there? A little word play for my fellow pervs).
As far as popping beer bottles open using my hand and a sturdy surface... this was just a BAD idea. However, when someone, especially a male, encourages or dares me to do something that could potentially showcase just what a bad ass I am, I'm probably going to do it.
Except I couldn't do it. I tried and tried, I really did. I WANTED to pop the bottle cap open, chug it and punt the empty bottle into a raging bonfire with all the smoothness and finesse of a female James Bond. My desire to impress my peers completely overrode my good judgment and I woke up the next day with a giant bruise on my wrist and, worst of all, none of those empty bottles in the still smoldering fire were kicked there by me.
I was not meant to own earrings.
Not pairs anyway. I always lose one, just ONE fucking earring. Sometimes they are returned, other times they are lost forever. I gave up on keeping track of them. Maybe I'll just shut my eyes and reach in my earring martini bowl (yes, I said "earring martini bowl." What, you don't have one? How sad for you!) and grab two earrings, matching or not, to wear when I go places.
Growing a temporary pair of balls CAN get a girl a date (temporary because balls on a girl aren't very attractive).
I recently gave my number to a boy I have been admiring from afar who comes into my work pretty regularly. At first I wasn't going to do it, but I was also very tired of getting all flustered trying to make small talk with him whenever he was there. So, I handed him a piece of paper with my number on it. The delivery sucked ("Uhhh... I don't usually do this but here's my number and uh, I think you're cute, and uh... I'm gonna go away now" then running away like a five year old) but he actually CALLED that very night and we had drinks. Go me!
My ex is a giant douchebag and I am truly better off without him.
Surely you recall my nasty breakup back in October. As it turns out, Mr. Murder couldn't stand it when I actually started to move on. He emailed. He texted. He called. When I informed him I had no interest whatsoever in having contact with him ever again, he informed me his new girl is going to med school and I am a slut.
(I couldn't stop laughing, because he's a such a LIAR- he doesn't have a new girlfriend.)
I went and wrote his new phone number on the bathroom wall of the bar my friends and I were at, with instructions for every female to call and tell him he is a real bastard.
I hope he enjoyed fielding phone calls from drunk, middle-aged cougars. I know the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy inside and was very enjoyable for me.
The picture below depicts how happy I was.
Ok, that's actually a picture of me when I was drunk. But I'm pretty sure I was happy, so it works.
My, what a productive, educational two weeks I have had! And I haven't even touched on some of the shenanigans I got into- but my fingers hurt from typing and I need to go stare at my garbage disposal in an attempt to will it to work with my mind.
*Stage Five Clinger- an individual who latches onto another individual with deluded, one-sided notions that they were meant to be together. There is currently no cure for a Stage Five Clinger.
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