Detour City

Here is information about me that I have known for years: I am an excellent procrastinator. If procrastination were an Olympic sport, I wouldn't win. Know why? I'd be too busy procrastinating to actually complete.

This post? I'm procrastinating.

I'm supposed to be writing some of the 50,000 words to "win" at NaNoWriMo. Earlier instead of writing, I read articles about writing. Before that I took a nap. Before that I actually did do some writing.

In fact, I've been writing a little bit at a time throughout the day. Here's a sample:

The Learning Channel?

I started my highly productive evening by watching The Learning Channel. What did I learn you ask? Well, quite a bit actually.

I learned that TLC is effectively the modern equivalent of the circus side show, or freak shows, from the early 1900's. All the shows and the advertisements for TLC that were on this evening were about women who discovered they were pregnant when the baby's head crowned, little people, a New Yorker who speaks to dead people, and obese people obsessed with food. That last one I made up. Mostly. Cake Boss does sort of fit that description.

Primarily Monkey Faces

I Should Start Hitting Ignore

The mobile rings and I look at the caller ID. It’s Mom. I debate pressing ignore. I should do that, but sometimes calls from her are actually important. Really quite terribly important. Not this one. Nor most of them. But sometimes…

She called to tell me that the floor in the upstairs bathroom near the tub has wood rot (which I have known and been complaining about for MONTHS) and that when my cousin was reaching in to get a piece of rotted wood that had fallen into the gap between the floor and the ceiling, he inadvertently put his hand through the dining room ceiling. It has water damage too. And the extra fridge died. The fridge dying is not water damage related; it’s just poor timing.

After asking me if I had a few minutes to spare at work, Mom started the conversation by saying, “Well, the shit has really hit the fan this time!” She was going on about how much money it will cost to fix. She was completely annoyed with me when I asked if my cousin was okay (He didn’t fall through the ceiling? He didn’t get electrocuted on the wiring inside the ceiling?) and said it wasn’t so bad then.

Had my parents listened to me almost a year ago when I brought the state of the floor and the tile to their attention or when I started complaining about it or when I took a picture of a mushroom growing between the tiles it might not be this bad. I told my dad that if a mushroom is growing in the floor that means the floor is turning into dirt! It’s what mushrooms do.

I will admit though, that I was vaguely impressed by the mushroom. Firstly, it was a very pretty color: a mix of grey and purple. Secondly, it was there. I think it must be rather difficult for mushroom spores to make it into houses, up to the second floor, into a room where they might be able to grow, and then find purchase somewhere. This was an amazing mushroom. Thirdly, that fucker was a pain in the ass to get rid of! I pulled it up at least three times, washed the floor with anti-bacterial stuff, and eventually scrubbed under the tiles with Clorox bleach wipes. I think the bleach wipes finally did it.

I haven’t see it in a while and don’t want to contemplate that the mushroom finally rejected our floor because it was no longer pleasing to fungi.

Update

I got home to find that the hole in the dining room ceiling is literally the width of my cousin's index finger. He didn't accidentally punch a hole in the ceiling. He quite purposefully put a small, barely noticeable hole in the ceiling whilst testing the amount of water damage.

I would like to hand in my Membership Card

I have a confession to make: I hate Bridal Showers.

Actually, I hate non-watery showers in general. Oh, the idea is good: a bunch of people get together for a party to celebrate some big event in a friend or family member’s life. Hold the party at a local hall like the American Legion or the Polish Club: you know, some place with a bar, a bartender with a heavy hand, and really low prices. And someone should provide food. There should be chips, dips, pasta, cookies, and the like. Stuff that really sticks to your hips. Oh, and a cake.

So far, so good, right? Who doesn’t like a party? Especially when obscenely cheap booze is involved? No one!

Happy birthday hot dog

CONTAINS: PEANUT.

We's

Marie sat on the hard plastic bus terminal bench, staring. A man sat across from her. He looked at the floor. Marie wondered if he was curious about how all those little speckles got into the tiles too.

“Don’t stare Baby,” her mother said then ruffled her magazine and continued reading.

“I’m not.” Marie continued to watch the man. His hair was dark. Greasy tufts stuck out in all directions from under a knitted cap that was too tight for his head. His clothes were rumpled and dirty. He wore a large dark green jacket and brown pants. Long johns the color of dirty dish water poked through holes and worn spots in his pants.

Bar art at its finest.

It's Pacman!

The Patience of a Saint

I may not have the patience of a Saint, but I do have the self-restraint of one.

I woke up at 10 minutes to 2 this morning to the sound of someone pissing on the floor outside my room.  I thought maybe I’d been dreaming since I did have to go.  I got up, went to the door, and opened it to find Jamie standing in the hallway in his underwear. 

I asked, “Did Lady piss on the floor?”