I finally asked Esteban about the blue screen on the television. It seems that somehow, something I did with the stereo remote flicked something on the television, so that I had to push something on the television remote to fix it. I don’t know. Crazy Ken Ober Collin Quinn logic.
So I had off on Monday because this is my hell week. And I was feeling pretty guilty for spending almost the entirety of Sunday at Hogwarts, so endeavored to do something worthwhile with my day off. I first went out to breakfast for a mushroom and cheese omelet with Esteban (who got French toast even though he NEVER gets French toast. I suspect it was just to taunt me, as he is terribly passive aggressive). Then I went to the moulding place across town to check out the crowns for the dining room and the trim for the living room, as we still have a ring of The Ugliest Paint in the World around the base of the living room where we removed the old planks. After that, I was distracted by an extremely lovely play list on the radio, one that went from REM to Bush to some edgy song that I really like but have no idea who sings it but the singer sounds geeky hot to Ghetto Superstar, which NEVER gets radio play in Green Bay Wisconsin, so it was like the universe wanted me to drive aimlessly around until I blinked and found myself back in my own neighborhood. I suspect the Monte is part pigeon.
I decided to get a load of laundry going before I headed to Home Depot to compare pricing on mouldings. Then as I was picking up the laundry, I looked with dismay at the pile of unread books sitting on my nightstand. They are everywhere, every which way, sticking out of a basket below the table too. I decided to straighten them up. Then empty the garbage. Then before I knew it, I had embarked on a full fledged Cleaning Nazi campaign on the much maligned bedroom. You see, my bedroom is large (240 sq ftish) and because no one ever actually sees our bedroom, it becomes a dumping ground. All of the well meaning projects in the world go to die in my bedroom. There are piles of woolens, folded but ousted from their normal habit on the shelf in my closet in exchange for 42 t-shirts and a growing stack of jeans. There is a box full of clothes destined for goodwill (the kind of box that used to get filled with Too Snugs and now gets filled with Way Too Bigs’ heeee!), a hamper of unmatched socks (The Singles Club, I call it’ everything in my house has a pseudonym), a miscellaneous hamper containing clothes meant for the cleaners, a basket full of clean clothes that need to be put away and usually another basket of stuff that must be washed. And this week, there was not only my collection of yet unpacked luggage from San Francisco, but also a flurry of luggage from Esteban’s last trip (which I had refused to unpack for him because I try not to be codependent if I can help it).
So.
Cleaned up that stuff.
That simple sentence makes it sound so easy, but it wasn’t. It involved many trips to the basement and around the house, and three plastic storage bins filled with sweaters. Then I was flummoxed because the bins didn’t fit under the bed. ‘It’s ridiculous that I have eight closets in this house but no where to put these things’ I said to my teddy bears, all watching me from the back of the loveseat, including a disgruntled Gatsby bear who had fallen to the cushion and then been obviously used as a love toy by the cat, as his side was completely obliterated by cat fur. I turned to the linen closet, which was stuffed to the gills with blankets, sheets, extra pillows and my wedding dress and veil. I started pulling stuff out and realized that I only ever use three sets of sheets (the three which are 350 thread count or higher). I am loathe to put one of the plebian sets on because I won’t be able to sleep. After the smooth cool luxury that is a lovely set of white sheets, to sleep on anything less, I swear that I can count the threads with my ass cheeks. I grabbed one of the big 55-gallon trash bags and started filling it with no fewer than 12 sets of sheets. I couldn’t believe how many inferior sets we had inherited from June (who doesn’t see anything wrong with sleeping on burlap, apparently. She gets rid of sheets because she changes color schemes) or been given through the years, some of them still crisp and starched from their packaging. No more trying to hide behind a veil of ugly patterned percale. I will stick my nose up at cotton/poly blends and be proud. My brow had started to sweat as I filled that garbage bag to the top but I was buoyed by a sense of self-righteousness. I made plans to give them to some charity that sells them to the poor, figuring that it was better than a straw mat or some such.
Make as many princess and pea comparisons as you would like because was there ever any doubt that I’m a princess? Damn right.
You know, you may have determined from some of my writings, I am very particular about my bedding in ways that go beyond thread count. For instance, I have a very difficult time sleeping under anything that isn’t a down comforter. It feels too heavy and both too warm and not warm enough at the same time. Also, I hate printed sheets. At risk of sounding Victorian, I suspect that it gives me disjointed dreams. A nice white on white stripe is lovely, as is a pseudo-embossed delicate floral. Also, I greatly dislike dark colors on my bed in the summer, because they feel too hot. I have one set that I allow for the darkest winter months, a deep navy blue, but that is it. And if I use that set, the duvet must be white, for the contrast. In general, my perfect bed is white everything, but apparently I married a creature that emits some kind of man grease and turns his side of the bed this disgusting yellow color. I think it’s man grease. If I were an analytical type, I think I’d do a study, perhaps garb the bed in litmus paper and eschew the Egyptian cotton in the name of science, if it were not for the fact that Esteban is also a miscellaneous bleeder. That is, he must scratch or otherwise injure himself in the night, as there are always spots of blood here and there. Screw the Red Baron, my sheets have more to fear from a vigorous case of Esteban’s jitters. So I endeavor onward. Besides, the tell-tale marks make it easy to remake the bed and help me to avoid sleeping on his wear patterns.
After all of that cleaning, I had an enormous sense of completion, so I met Esteban at the parent’s house and went swimming with Ward & June. It was lovely. I didn’t wear sunscreen, and thus, magically, no hives. Although I’m still not sure if that is what caused it last time. I guess we’ll find out the next time I put it on. After several hours of pool time, Esteban went back to work and I went home and decided that the day had been quite lovely and wished that I could get that much done every day of my life.
In other news, I have this weird Tech Support flirt thing going on with one of my clients. He’s actually an intern, in his early thirties and apparently went back to grad school. He’s based out of San Francisco, going to grad school in Berkeley, but interning in New York, so we talked about The Bird in Berkeley and the differences in society between the coasts. The first thing he said to me when he found out that I was in Green Bay was ‘Oh, I just read John Irving’s The Fourth Hand which is based there? Have you heard of it?’ And I told him that Irving was my favorite author and then explained my whole theory that the book was a shout-out from John Irving to me and that I’m disappointed that he didn’t call if he was in town. And we could do lunchies. Yes, I am 32 years old and used the term ‘lunchies’. It was the ‘I carried a Watermelon’ of the conversation. I like to think its part of my charm. Also, he was tired on Friday because he had been up until 4:30 am reading Potter. Then today, I mentioned that I had started and finished Potter since the last time we talked and he was all pleased.
I love the harmless Tech flirt. It’s such a fun way to spend an hour on the phone with someone. It doesn’t happen often. In the hundreds of people I’ve talked to, I think I’ve only had legitimate Tech flirt with four different people. So it’s making my day a little better.
Speaking of innocent diversions, did they get a new Verizon Guy? Because he doesn’t say ‘Can you hear me now’ the same way in the new commercials. And his face looks somehow stretched out weird, like he was made from Silly Putty and someone did a squishy stretching thing to him. Man, that’s just crazy talk, messing with the Verizon guy! Besides, he’s my Can Do boyfriend! Don’t take away my Can Do boyfriend!!! My Evil Dead boyfriend is Hoover fodder and Russell Crowe just got married. I can’t take much more heartbreak this summer.
