I will never again mock Esteban for his ability to move on household projects again. The man has changed. Not only did he arrange for my mother to come over and paint the insides of the new windows, but he also arranged for the hideous potting shed to be sided so that it matches the house. Oh my lawd’s yes, the potting shed, the bane of my existence. The neighbors on our street love us but the neighbors on the side street must have been cursing our names, or the pretend names that everyone gives their anonymous neighbors. We had to have been The Fugly Garden Shed People. But now it’s all pretty and just needs to have the trim painted and all will be well. Amazing! I can’t believe that I’ve been meaning to do something about that shed for nine years and never got around to dealing with it and now with one fell swoop, the backyard isn’t so hateful. Well, the evil Rosebush is back there, so perhaps I speak (write) too soon. It’s probably ripping the siding off right this minute.
Of course, our house couldn’t be respectable for more than twenty four hours. As I was walking out the door this morning, I pushed at the door with the corner of the cardboard box I was carrying, and then heard the tinkle of broken glass hit the sidewalk. Yes, I broke the window on my front door. Mom always said don’t play ball in the house. Or carry a cardboard box out the door, apparently. Stupid stupid stupid. Then I stood there like a moron, with the tremendous guilt that you get when you are a kid and break something of your mom’s, but then I remembered that it’s my door, one that I specifically wanted to take off of the house because it sucks, so no need for guilt. But still, it’s the black eye on the face of our house. Now we’re the People In The Crack Den.
I remembered to write a note to The People, so hopefully they will not banish the cat to the library for ten hours. However, because we’re stupidly weird about The People (witness the fact that I declared my intent to hire a cleaning service many months ago, but only have felt comfortable with the reality of that decision eons ago while they have been under hire for months and months) I don’t really talk about them very often, mostly because I very quietly referred to them while talking to my mother-in-law on the phone at work and then Someone-Who- Shall-Not- Be- Named- But- Eavesdrops- On- Everything-And -Is ‘Annoying ‘And ‘Also ‘A -Coworker started talking to someone else and said ‘Well, you should hire a service like I just heard Weetabix did!’ And then proceeded to act as though I were wearing a big powdered white wig and had just suggested that the poor eat brioche. Or whatever the current hubbub is about what poor Marie actually did say.
And first off, let me say that I really detest the societal convention that women are somehow less than whole if they can’t keep their house clean but women who hire someone else to keep their house clean are even less moral than women who are giving it the old college try but can’t quite manage to clean that skunky area behind the toilet. Or maybe that’s just a Midwest thing. Anyway, Andie McDowell doesn’t want you to hate her because she’s beautiful, so man, don’t hate me because I have a cleaning team terrorize my cat twice a month.
So fine. I’m dealing. Esteban is dealing. We’re getting through this trying time. However, to add to the miasma of repressed class guilt, my mom was scheduled to come and paint windows today. Except that the People come today. And my god my GOD under no circumstances is my mother to find out that we hire People! We are already considered snooty (wait, pretentious! Thanks, comment section!) by my family, with my reliable car, my high falutin’ mortgage and credit score with the hoighty toighty three digits. And luckily Esteban did the math and damage control, creating a diversion so that the house elves are there in the morning and then my mother comes in the afternoon. Although, I’m still probably busted because they usually leave an invoice and also the house actually gleams. How could anyone not notice the choir of angels singing when you lift the lid to the toilet bowl?
In other news, I am in full bore panic attack for my impending trip. Seriously, I want to cry when I think about it. I’m doing carry on luggage, so I’m severely limited and I don’t even know that I can fit my shoes in the bags, let alone clothing and make up. Ok, only there for two days, but that’s like fourteen pairs of shoes, right? Eighty? What?
Mopie and Jenfu are driving east to GB as I am flying out of GB towards the west. I will very likely miss Ms Fu, a fact that will make me weep and be certain that God is punishing me for going to the Capital City of Sin to drink vodka and drive around in a Jaguar yelling fashion advice to hookers. Not at the same time, of course. Don’t drink and drive, kids, not even in Vegas. God, I hope I get me a drag queen boyfriend. I want her to teach me how to walk in high heels.
It’s been really cool recently, sort of a switch from the hellacious heat of earlier this month. Not that I’d notice, since I’ve been on some kind of crazy freelance marathon (the kind in which no one stands on the side of the road with signs and cups of Editorade), doing nothing but making a very very quick impulse run to the new Sephora in Milwaukee. Nothing but God could keep me from it, said Alice Walker’s make-up bag. I scored some Dior lip stuff and a few other little pots and potions that they wrapped neatly in red tissue paper. Sephora and my credit card are combustible.
Ok, I had given myself half an hour to crank out an entry and didn’t even tell you about the birthday or Mafia Grandma or the reggae barbeque. Ah well. That’s my time. Thanks and tip your waitstaff.
