You know how I’m a lazy ass?
If you didn’t know that, I’m telling you right now. I’m a lazy ass.
It’s not so much that I’m lazy, it’s just that I don’t have follow through. Neither does my mom. For instance, when we did the kitchen painting project, like, fifteen years ago (ok, two months ago), it took me so very long to empty out the cupboards. In reality, if I had just buckled down and emptied the cupboards all at once, I would have ended up with, oh, maybe fifteen copy paper boxes. But no. I had to draw it all out because I’d get disgruntled, or need more boxes or whatnot. So it was like ripping a Band-Aid off your arm, slowly, over the process of ten days.
My mother, incidentally, took many many days to actually PAINT the cupboards. She’d come and spend about fifteen minutes at the house and then she’d be gone again. She’s like that. I’m like that. It’s genetics or just my wacked family, I don’t know. I’m not in the mood to argue nature versus nurture today. Go look up some websites on BF Skinner or maybe Karen Horney.
Whose name makes people want to get it on.
No. Seriously. That’s really her name. And she’s got letters after her name and everything. I know. I would have changed my name too. But then, I picked Weetabix as a name, so what the heck do I know?
Anyway, because of my broken concept of how things get done or my general lack of motivation, there are still two copy paper boxes filled with kitchen stuff. One is sitting in the unfinished portion of the kitchen, along with my really big Eddie Bauer clock and a monitor box of Esteban’s. The other is sitting in the hallway outside of the bathroom, where, many moons ago, there used to be a laundry hamper. I have since moved the dirty laundry area to a bag thing hanging on the inside of the linen closet. Mostly, this is just an Esteban Dirty Underwear receptacle anyway, as my stuff tends to stay in the bedroom or I take it with me to the bedroom when I’m finished showering.
But Esteban is a creature of habit. And I’m a lazy ass. Sometimes, instead of taking my dirty whatnot to the bedroom, I throw it in that corner. (It is to be noted that I stopped doing that when Chelsea started peeing wherever she wants) And if Esteban sees soiled clothing there, it’s an excuse for him to also be lazy. Because, hey, why even make an effort if I’m not there setting the standard, right? It’s this entire slippery slope of slackerosity.
Yes. I just made that word up.
So, because there is a box full of kitchen implements there, this apparently counts as general untidiness, making it open season for dirty laundry dumping.
I’m not completely blameless here either. My boxer shorts sit there as well. The other night, I had an urge to shake my naked bottom around the house, dancing to a song from Moulin Rouge that I had playing in my head. It was the Can Can song and my can can felt hindered by my baggy boxer shorts. Plus, sometimes, one just has to run around their house bare-assed in order to really feel the full impact of home ownership.
Yes, my sexually frustrated neighbor does seem to chop wood on the mornings after such bare assed performances. Why do you ask?
And the reason for that entire backstory is this:
On the top of this box is my springform cake pan. And nestled inside that cake pan are two pair of dirty Fruit of The Loom tighty whities.
That’s right. A cake made completely of dirty underwear. An underwear cake.
Yeah. I don’t think I need to be making cheesecake ever again.
I only told you that because he made me feel guilty for not updating. So thank him for that mental picture the next time you’re offered a slice of blackberry torte.
