A few weeks ago, while Pie and I were at World Market stocking up on bottles of wine to ensure that the Meh Race is actually entertaining, I spied a fluffy cream-colored shag rug. I am rather persnickety about things that go in my house; witness the two-year search for a microwave cart and the yearlong quest for a replacement sofa. The first year with the hardwood floor, we used a hand-me-down country blue rug from Ward and June, which didn’t really go with the feel of the room at all, as my sister pointed out every time she walked into the house. I got sick of hating the rug, so one spring, I rolled it up and stashed it in the basement, where it will sit until I undoubtedly need to use it until I find the perfect rug for my office (suspected discovery date: June, 2008).
And quite frankly, the cream-colored wool shag rug was exactly what I had wanted, nay ENVISIONED for the living room. It didn’t detract from the charcoal sofas with the red pillows. It blended with the black and white pictures on the wall and big black mirror. It was a touch smaller than was ideal, but given that it was so inexpensive, it was a much better deal than my other option, which was to buy a piece of shag at a carpet store and have them bind the edges. The particular carpet I had picked out would have been at least three times the price of the World Market one, before the custom edge work. Even if I needed two of them, it was still an incredible deal. And not five feet away was the perfect desk, for which I’ve been on a quest at least eight months. Score.
I bought the rug on the spot, and then the next morning, Esteban and I borrowed a truck (I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but Esteban’s truck blew up and he has decided to wait until spring to replace it) and fetched the desk. Despite the great deals, it was an expensive weekend.
I didn’t have a non-slip rug pad big enough, so I didn’t put out the rug right away. I had a bunch of things planned on Friday (none of which involved braving crazy unkempt women seeking door buster savings at 5 am) but everything was dashed when I severely pulled the evil muscle at the base of my neck while performing the rather acrobatic feat of GETTING INTO THE CAR TO GET COFFEE at 10 am. I know. I should obviously have done some stretching head movements before even attempting to mount the Chrysler. So instead of getting coffee, I whimpered and tried not to vomit and then did a stiff, pained shuffle back into the house, slammed a CycloBenzaprine (a prescription for which the evil reoccurring neck muscle has made mandatory) and some Advil, then fell asleep against an ice pack. Many hours later, I woke up. Breathing was no longer painful and I could move my arms, but couldn’t really move my head, nor walk around upright. Pie and I had planned to see Rent and then play Texas Hold ‘Em at Scotty Boom Boom’s house, but all of those things involved my weak little seized neck muscles supporting my teetering bowling ball of a head. Instead, I sat in the chaise and watched television while Pie helped Esteban finish the wiring in my office. I made it out to dinner with them, but then gave up and decided not to go through the agony of bravely attempting poker, which involved looking down and using my arms, both of which needed to be paid for in electric pain spires resonating from the middle of my back. Instead, Esteban brought me home and before he left for Scotty’s, he retrieved my comfy pants from the dryer (the laundry was another To Do list casualty) and fetched various increments of a night spent on ice in the chaise watching Lost In Translation in a codeine haze. Which was, actually, very enjoyable, despite the circumstances.
The next morning, my neck was markedly better, in that I could walk around without feeling like my head wanted to do its best imitation of a Pez dispenser. I moved a little more slowly but was able to make my spa appointment for my monthly facial and then picked up Pie to see Rent. Which was very sad and wonderful and also funny, but only because of the appearance of a fake movie called The Snapping. And I was happy to recognize Shaun Earl in a bit part. He played Angel in the performances I saw a few years ago, so go him, because he’s fantastic. Watching the original Angel however, I am really glad to have gotten to see the original Broadway cast. I wish that if they couldn’t use the original Mimi, they had used at least another Broadway Mimi rather than Rosario Dawson, whose performance (not to mention, voice) left me a bit clammy. And also, Adam Pascal? I was wavering on the Hot Or Not train, having cut my teeth on one Mister Jeremy Kushnier (also known as Broadway’s original Ren from Footloose), who oozed bad boy sex appeal without hardly trying. But despite a song montage that I swear could have been a Bon Jovi video in 1990, Adam Pascal had me at “wallet chain”. It is apparently one of my bad boy triggers. Please make note of that, boys, in the How To Make Weetabix Go All Weak And Giggly cheat sheet.
And while I normally try to suppress my secret shameful stereotypical fat girl joy of angst-filled solos and big emotional finales, we’re going to Chicago this weekend and will be attending a performance of Wicked, so I may once again lapse. I swear, if I had a better voice, I would be living a different life, the beard for some very lucky gay man while opening in Omaha’s production of Chicago. I’d be type cast as Big Momma, of course, but only because the patriarchy can’t handle a chunky Velma. Actually, I don’t have the gams to be Velma, but it’s more realistic than a mezzo-soprano thirtysomething pulling off Christine Daae. Can you tell that I have still not gotten over my bitterness that I was not cast as Miss Hanigan in the local production of Annie because I wasn’t the director’s daughter? Or the Cowardly Lion because I was a girl? Stupid patriarch. Herein ends the musical theatre dork part of this entry.
One of the other things that I did manage to complete was make a run to Home Depot. However, I forgot my list, so the entire time, I was walking around trying to remember three things (rug non-slip pad, closet lights, and Super Glue), only to (rug pad, lights, and Super Glue) find that they (rug pad, closet lights, glue) did not have (rugpadclosetlights SuperGlue) the closet lights that I wanted. The same ones I saw advertised as being available at Home Depot. I did get the rug pad and the Super Glue, and, because I was in a foul mood, NOTHING ELSE. Although I did stop to play with the paint computer a little bit, because I am not made of stone, people.
I went home and moved the chaise and put up the rug, which was entirely too small, but still looks all fluffy and white and nice. I think I need to buy a second one, though. Or a larger one. I’m not entirely pleased, personally, but do like it. However, my spidey sense was tingling and I knew that Esteban would complain and grunt and stomp his feet about the new presence in the living room, because he is obsessive compulsive and dislikes changing the status quo, even with the status quo sucks. He won’t even let me move the living room clock, claiming he likes it where it is, despite the fact that when I moved it there from where it had been in the first place, he moaned about how much he hated the new location for almost a year. I sent Esteban a prophylactic IM while he was at his Dorkathalon, informing him that I put out the new rug and I did not want to hear him complain about it, but if it prevented his ability to use his laptop caddy, we could swing it around and have it run the wide way rather than the long way. He promised me that he wouldn’t complain, even though I have this weird compulsion to CHANGE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD. Therein lies the fundamental difference of our collective dogmas.
I worked until well past my bedtime and then went to bed. Esteban came home from Dorkathalon late and then apparently had insomnia, as when I woke him up at 4 am and asked him to stop twitching the arm that was resting around my waist, he mumbled that I was always waking him up all the time with my ruthless demands (I am not making that up, the man used the term “ruthless demands”) and the asking to back off when really I should be the one to do the backing off because he had just fallen asleep twelve-ty five minutes ago, okay? OKAY?
Whatever, crazy.
I let him sleep this morning, since he was going to be working for home waiting for my new credit card (Hi, credit card number stealing bastards in Encinitas, CA? Burned!). I received a vaguely coherent phone call this morning, in which he claimed no knowledge of protesting my ruthless demands and also informed me that he was ridiculously tired and might have fallen asleep while in the shower.
And then he said “And also? I think we have a big problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Um, someone seems to have killed a pimp and dumped his body in our living room.”
True to his word: it wasn’t a complaint. The man is lucky that he’s so charming.
