My decorating/home improvement IQ has sky rocketed in the last few weeks. The thing I am most proud of is replacing the light fixture in the dining room.
It was a crappy, white plastic dome with a huge glaring floodlight.
Now it is a beautiful, modern five-spoke chrome chandelier with warm orange frosted glass cups holding small candle bulbs.
The foray into electrician occurred roughly a month ago. I clapped my hands and sat on the couch for a few hours just staring at it. Both because it was pretty and I didn’t trust myself that it wouldn’t spontaneously combust.
Nothing caught fire, but for the past month you could not have the dining room light on and microwave something for longer than 53 seconds without the circuit tripping.
To me, this was hilarious. The reactions from friends and family ranged.
My mother was so impressed I changed the fixture I don’t think she would have fussed over a few flames. (“Whatever. It’s just eccentric. You did this yourself?!”)
Then there was T, who was angrily quiet and could not be cajoled into a good humor about the scenario. (“Really, it’s fine.” “Actually, it’s not.” “Yes it is.” “No. It’s not.”) He felt that perhaps he should move back so that my life wouldn’t be in jeopardy over other home improvement endeavors.
Today I replaced the bulbs with lower wattage ones and heated up O2 for two minutes successfully. It’s anti-climactic compared to the rush I got capping wires and muttering “junction box”, but now I don’t have to make dinner in the dark.
Of course, tonight the microwave is only serving as a thawing cat-proof compartment for cheesecake. That’s cool too. Either way, I have pretty light.
“The boobs look familiar, but I can’t place the face.”
“I would call what Jessica’s wearing as ‘Hunting for Boys’”
“No dear, not boys. Men.”
The wardrobe malfunction had been explained the minute I stepped into the room.
Unfortunately, my breasts got there before me so no one really paid attention to a damn word I said.
More than with God, I make deals with my body.
“Please don’t let it look like I’ve been crying. I’ll never rub anything harder than Egyptian cotton over my lids again.”
“Please don’t let that scar. I’ll start moisturizing tomorrow.”
I believe we all know the most famous one.
“Please let the test be negative. I will never have sex again.”
Of course, here I am, 29, and I often use Bounty (or worse, restroom paper towels) to rid myself of eye makeup. I moisturize on a bi-monthly basis. And I will have sex again.
Despite feeling that I am somewhat old-fashioned, at girl’s night I am the hussy. Perhaps I need some new girls.
“I just want to settle down again before I run out of fingers!” That was right before I initiated D to shopping at sex stores. And right before I drove to the new boy’s for a little something-something.
It’s not fun to think of dating again. It’s harder to think of that number climbing. And climbing.
Well, I got three fingers left. And then the shoes come off. (Unless the shoes complete a fetish. Because I think we all know I’m really not as old-fashioned as all that.)
If you haven’t ever wanted girlfriend who, for both grammar and humor reasons, asks you to clarify whether you meant the roommmates or the brownies when you joke about starting the eviction process, I am probably not for you.
For some, they are brown. Some find the blues appealing.
Mine come in two colors: orange and green. It is the green that get me.
I started the green pills last night. And today, every breath felt muffled unless moaned. Every touch and sensation led my mind to wander to what it would feel like naked. I lay in bed very little – it actually just caused lots squirming. I swear I might have had a temper tantrum if the motivation behind it weren’t so laughable.
This is my first month of green pills. It’s a new script; the last one I was willing to try after the horrible month previous.
At least next month we’ll know. I am so writing the new boy a note excusing him for work.
Other things that went wrong this weekend:
1) Lost my watch.
2) Found blueberry stains on my duvet cover only after completing laundry marathon.
3) Found stains on my “stainless” steel knife.
4) Cats peed outside litter box not 5 minutes after cleaning it entirely.
5) Left wallet at home for grocery shopping.
6) Left environmentally-friendly canvas bags in car for grocery shopping.
7) Publix was out of Diet Dr. Pepper.
8) Cashier dropped my apples.
You may not chalk all of that up to hormones, but I certainly do. Or at least, my reaction to them. My mother had to agree, I have not been myself. It’s totally like me to plan a trip home on two days notice. To change my mind and not come? Not so much.
So, this morning I am leaving “Take little pill” off my to-do list and calling my doctor.
I’m pretty sure the new boy won’t mind. He might like his girlfriend back.
After lamenting that a girl should not have to deal with a new birth control prescription, a weird period (due to said script), Flu-like PMS symptoms, signing a contract to buy a condo, and negotiating a six week leave-of-absence in the same day, I settled in for a cranky fight with the new boy as he took an on-line driving test.
T beeped in mid-crank. When I got back, I whined, “T won’t bring me cake!
“Wait…I was mad at you. Never mind.”
“No! No! Be mad at T! He won’t bring you cake!…And you won’t bring me cake!”
“I’ll bring you cake.”
Guess what’s on it’s way here right now? Single layer lemon cake from Winn Dixie with chopped nuts on the side and lemon gelatin topping.
Oh yeah, and it will be accompanied by a side of quite possibly the world’s most perfect boy.