I have this pair of shorts that I handwashed last night, and I really need them to be dry. Right now. I curse the day I gave my hair dryer to my mother. I never dried my hair with it, but one should always have a hair dryer for emergency clothes drying. I fail the "be prepared" test.
Anyway, I was going to do a load of laundry so I'd have a reason to pay 75 cents to put my shorts in the dryer. Unfortunately, someone was hogging the washer. Hence, an evil thought occurred to me: Why not just dump my shorts in the dryer with their clothes? They'd never know. I'd only need 10 minutes or so. Besides, if they're going to get in the way of my laundry needs, it's the least they could do for me.
(digression) There's this commercial on right now for peanut butter in an upside-down squeezeable container. You know, like the bottles face wash and bath gel sometimes come in. It looks disgusting. Peanut butter is not meant to be squeezed out all over bread and crackers. And if you can do something that awful to it, there's no way it's good peanut butter.(end digression)
But this would entail putting my shorts in with Mystery Laundry. I mean, sure, it was in the washer just a little bit ago, but who knows where else that laundry's been? It could have SARS germs. What if the Mystery Laundry's owner forgot to use detergent? I'm conflicted.
I don't think I can do it. I guess I'll just have a damp rear end. It's a tragic world.
Tuesday, May 13
I will not call you backDear person who shall remain unnamed,
The fact that you e-mail me to ask if you can call is kind of bizarre. But, you know, quirky. It could, in some circles, be considered nice or cute or somesuch that you would want to make sure I would be present if you called.
However, it stops being nice or cute or somesuch or even bizarre if, after you write to ask and then confirm that you will call (unless you are "under a bar somewhere"), you fail to cause my phone to ring.
At that point, when I'm sitting 'round after 11 hours of work, waiting for said nonexistent call, it just becomes extremely annoying. Particularly as it is the latest incident in a chain of events in which you fail to follow through on things you say you're going to do.
I am here most of the time, as you well know. I have an answering machine, as you also know. And I do return phone calls that occur in my absence. So if you want to call, stop asking my permission and
pick up the freaking phone.
Since you didn't, I can only assume that you are, in fact, under a bar somewhere, and if you can't act like a normal human being, I encourage you to stay there until you can.
Love,
K
In other news, woke at the unprecedented post-swing shift hour of 8:30 a.m. and could not go back to sleep. Made me v. grumpy but was forced to get up. Will undoubtedly be hit with overwhelming urge to find a couch in which to fall face-down and nap while am attempting to cook dinner for M. later today. This will probably cause me to dump worcestershire sauce or something equally inappropriate into the pasta, or burn the chicken and mushrooms, or spill everything on the floor. I should have told him I'm making mac and cheese. Even I can't screw that up.
Wednesday, May 7
High lifeBecause I haven't done a list in a while:
Good things about working the swing shift:- People can call you at otherwise obscene hours because you'll still be up.
- You don't mind going to the post office when the boy calls at 1 a.m. to tell you his truck has died and needs a jump. (Incidentally, you haven't lived until you've shoved a truck backwards down a one-way street to get it the right position for jumping at 1 a.m. Or watched someone else groaning and gasping their way through this process while you steer.)
- 24-hour restaurants.
- 1 a.m. X-Files.
- 2 a.m. NPR.
- Knowing you'll never be forced to face the cruelly cold tile and offensively bright lights in the bathroom because you just can't hold it at 4 a.m. Unless you've consumed excessive quantities of beer. But those are exceptional circumstances from which no one is safe.
- Never having to wake up to that shrieking alarm clock you always wanted to hurl across the room.
- Sleeping in until 10 and lounging around in PJs until 1 p.m. every day guilt-free.
Yes, it's a fine life. I recommend you pick one up as soon as possible.
Monday, May 5
I am a rock, I am an islandI am in a bad mood.
I am, as you can see, listening to Simon and Garfunkel, because I am in a bad mood.
Down to You is on TV.
Down to You leaves much to be desired. But my expectations are low right now. "Post-collegiate years: half empty or half full?"
Hard to say, at the moment.
I am tired. I am also tired of work. I am not, unfortunately, tired enough to go to bed.
I wish I were somewhere else.
I also wish boys would quit complicating my life. If that's all you can do, then go away. I don't need your help in that department.
Saturday, May 3
I need more timeI'm all for career advancement. I'm even thinking about advancing mine someday. But I can't even begin to say how much I don't want the boy to move east. I hate leaving. I hate being left. I'm probably going to devolve into a hermit and forget how to speak if I have to go back to a nonexistent social life. And yet, it all makes me feel very
I Am a Rock.*
Today I went on a shopping spree. I bought three shirts, two bras, and a pair of shorts. I feel zero guilt about this because I'm going to get a mondo paycheck next week, courtesy of way more overtime than I want to contemplate, and because I haven't bought new clothes in... months. I can't even remember the last time. Also, there were sales. Great sales. Fabulous sales. Also, in a truly admirable act of willpower, I restrained myself from buying
The Nanny Diaries, because my book-buying is out of control. I have got to get myself a library card.
The other day, I had a revelation about why I dislike my ex-crush's girlfriend, even though I don't know her and she's been nice on every occasion on which we've met. As is the case with most things like this, my dislike doesn't have anything to do with her. It has everything to do with the fact that my ex-crush is not supposed to have found The Girl yet. I venture that he's never actually had his heart broken, which may or may not explain the ways in which he stomped on mine for a couple long years. But after that, he deserves at least one agonizing, gut-wrenching, bone-crushing dumping. It would make him a better person.
There is no justice.
Now I'm going to go curl up with my favorite new quilt, which
Leslie made me, because she rocks, and my Salman Rushdie book, the irreverence, sarcasm, and rationality of which will remind me there are greater injustices than the silly ones wrought upon me.
Did you make it through that sentence? Gold star.
*If you don't know that's Simon and Garfunkel, you should be forced to listen to Michael Bolton repeatedly as punishment. Philistine.
