Archive for the ‘apartments’ Category
Because I’m in the process of decorating my new place I’m doing things like buying 8 sets of curtains and then deciding I don’t like any of them. I really never thought buying curtains would be this difficult and I’m still kicking myself for giving away and throwing out so much of my New York stuff. But anyway, that is beside the point. What’s germane to the point is that I thought I wanted grommet top curtains and I don’t. Wait, that’s also beside the point.
Not in love with you or your grommet tops
What I’m trying to say is I need to hang on to receipts because I’m making a lot of returns and instead of keeping them in a pile in a decorative bowl, thus uglyifying the bowl (pretty sure that’s a real word), now I put them in these ugly but functional post-it pockets which stick on the inside of a cabinet or the outside of a wall or basically wherever you want.
In love with you
If I had more I would stick one on my stomach and pretend I was a marsupial. I’d probably be a koala, in case you’re wondering. And then I would stick a small stuffed koala in the post it pocket. I would name it Joey to be clever, or Fred, just because.
I had an epiphanette!
See what I mean?
While rummaging around my boyfriend’s freezer (for the body parts) I came across something which instantly brought me back to when I had my own freezer and lived like a true adult—a freezer having adult—as opposed to the lives-at-home-overgrown-baby-woman-child situation I now proudly find myself in. (But not for long, I just turned in an application on an apartment!) Anyway, what I came across which brought me back to my own days as a young man was this: a fuckload of ice trays. How does this happen? How is it that you either only have zero ice trays or 11? And that’s not even counting novelty seasonal ice cube trays of which I’ve had my share. Please share your theories in the comments. It’s time to get to the bottom of the tray hoarding. (For ARIYNBF fans, this is kind of a “Just Me Or Everyone?”)
This makes me nostalgic for the whole ARIYNBF gang!
Happy Cinco de Mayo!
As I begin the arduous process of packing up my apartment and determining what goes with me to California and what stays behind to get tossed, donated or sold, I’m faced with the daunting task of figuring out what to do with the following:
my football phone
a collection of twist ties from loaves of bread
A Franklin Mint collector’s plate of “Scarlet and Her Suitors”
A small sculpture of a labradoodle made entirely of raisins
A large sculpture of a labradoodle made entirely of raisins
Franklin, from the Franklin Mint
my collection of blood oranges
various zithers and lutes
1 manual harp
assorted pairs of corduroy pants in men’s extra large
a well-worn scirocco
a gently-used scirocco
a brand new scirocco
a pile of parking tickets
18 remote controls
15 million roles of Kodak film
14 billion calligraphy pen ink cartridges
a rain forest
five footballs fields filled with sports fans
a banana (ripe)
clown shoes (matching pair, scuffed)
A lot of people wonder why I’m single. Often, in fact, they will leave comments to this effect followed by an “lol” and maybe one of these: which I assume is to indicate that they wouldn’t mind having sex with me should it turn out that the reason I’m single isn’t because of anything grody like a raging case of the herps or that I’m psycho or have my period, like, constantly. You guys, it’s all three!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m not saying it’s cool that I’m single. I mean, hello, when am I going to give myself some grandkids?
But here is the thing, whereas I’m quite fetching on TV—I mean, anyone can see that—in real life I’m a total dogface. A real woof. A butterface. A ’scepter head. A pogo stick (fun to ride but you don’t want to be seen riding it.) A spatula. A broom. A carrot peeler. (I have no idea what those last three are.) I mean, I’m a real oboe. A potato. A roomba. And my voice is like nails on a chalkboard and not only that, I litter all the time. Sometimes I throw other people’s stuff on the sidewalk just for fun so it’s not only that I’m irresponsible in an environmental sense but also I’m just cruel. “Oh I’m sorry, were you reading that?” I’ll say in a silky tone after snatching a blender manual out of someone’s hand and tossing it on the floor. “Try making a smoothie now, motherfucker!” I’ll yell, laughing maniacally and then going home alone on a Friday night.
You’d think with all my singleness my sock drawer would be super organized but it isn’t. It’s a real mess, like my love life!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh my GAWD you guys don’t even know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Also, I ask a million questions during movies. Questions like “why did he do that?” and “what did she say?” and “did I call at a bad time?”
Oh and I like to light other people’s farts on fire which basically means I’m constantly accidentally setting my friends on fire.
And I have TERRIBLE taste in music. I enjoy jingles from commercials and the sounds of jackhammers.
And I grew up in a barn so I always smell like hay.
And I collect cows. My apartment is covered in cow memorabilia which I refer to as moo-iana. I call it “mom’s moo-iana” even though I’m not technically a mother to anyone besides my moo cows which are like children to me. Times were tough and I had to put a few of them on ebay. It was udderly ridiculous! OH NO I DID NOT JUST SAY THAT!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I always joke that I’m going to get mad cow disease from my cows but it’s more like they’re going to get silly human disease from me, you know??????? HAHAHAHAHA LOL HA.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So yeah, that’s why I’m single… LOL…
I should be packing. I should be packing clothes for LA and Canada and I should be putting things in bottles and then ziploc bags and I should also be stuffing socks into shoes. By my own logic, I plan to go naked in Orange County.
Anyway though, I just found this site about how to get the set design looks from TV and movies and it’s cool http://silverscreensurroundings.blogspot.com/
For someone who has so little style, it’s weird that I’m spending so much time reading about style. I don’t plan to apply it. I just like to look at the pictures. And yet my words have style. Sometimes I speak entirely in corduroy.
Also, Gossip Girl made me cry tonight.
Earlier today I had a whole temper tantrum inside my own head and decided that when I got home I would write a blog post entitled “I don’t know how I feel about my couch. P.S. I’m neurotic and going to die alone.”
Then I found out that title had already been taken so I had to go with the one above.
See, I’ve been going back and forth on this couch. Not literally. On the upside, it’s comfortable. On the downside, sometimes I look at it and think “it looks like barf.”
But considering how goddamn long I took to decide and how annoying I was about it shouldn’t I just love it? Love it to pieces?
Because I don’t. But I think I like it. Maybe? I don’t know. I like it better now that I bought throw pillows for it (I haven’t decided which ones I like, hence the three different pillows.) Earlier tonight I decided I’d go with a silver, gold and white theme which is neato and, um, yeah. Neato’s all I got on that one. Fancy? Neato and fancy? I could do neato and fancy. And secretly Christmasy.
But then sometimes I look at the couch and think “it looks like a giant gum eraser.” I also think it looks like liver and I also think it looks like steak that’s been chewed up and spit out. Also: gristle.
But then I see it in photos and I think maybe it’s ok.
See, complicating matters is the fact that the delivery men nicked it in a couple spots so C&B offered to replace it. I explained that it was kind of difficult to get it into the space so they’re sending someone out to look at it here to see if he can patch it up in situ. What does in situ mean? Hold please.
God I’m smart.
Um, yeah, so anyway, if I act fast I could get this big gray menace out of my apartment and my life forever and then I could invite something else into my living room that I will go nuts about. Seriously, I’m sick and tired of myself.
But it’s not like I never like anything ever. When I look at my bed, my white duvet covered bed, I feel calm and good. I don’t have this crazy ping ponging meat-comparison making reaction happening.
Yet I’m not at peace with the decision to just return the fucker either. That makes me anxious too.
Let’s talk about my last apartment, shall we? I moved into it under duress. I wanted to stay in the apartment I was in before that, my first real apartment in New York, but it’s a long story and that wasn’t feasible so there my sister and I were, needing to find an apartment or break up and she had a friend who was vacating this great apartment in the village and we went and looked at it and because I couldn’t find anything else I said yeah, that’s fine. But then before we pulled the trigger I began doubting the decision and was freaking out and begged a friend from work who was later my boyfriend, unless he was already my boyfriend at the time, to go look at the place with me. We did and he reassured me that it was a great place and I would be happy there.
Sadly it was a terrible place and I was miserable there.
Or rather, it was a pretty decent place but I wasn’t happy there anyway. I never liked that apartment or that neighborhood. Also, there were mice. Oh my God, my couch looks like a big sheet of mice.
So I was thinking about all this this morning and thinking that if I’m having doubts about the couch, instead of letting myself be talked into it, I should just honor those doubts and not keep the damn thing and just wait until I find one I really feel good about.
But then sometimes I look at it and I like it.
And it’s comfortable. It’s really comfortable.
So then why not just get it in a different color?
Because that will take 12 weeks. And plus I’m trying to avoid having people remove it and bring in another one but I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to avoid that. I mean, just because my idea of hell is moving furniture doesn’t mean that someone whose job it is to move furniture feels the same way.
But still, I just feel like I’m doing it. That thing I do. I don’t know what that thing I do is which makes it hard to know whether I’m really doing it, but I suspect I am. I mean, this feels very me in the extreme. I hate extreme me.
I’m also trying to see if it’s possible to get slipcovers for this couch. I mean, I know you can order them from C&B for about a thousand dollars but for that much, I may as well just get a different couch.
Still reading? I’m sorry to put you through this. On the upside… um…. well okay technically there is no upside. Oh wait, I know! Today I saw a woman pushing two black poodles in a stroller!
Also, I’m aware there’s a world that exists outside me and this couch. I find that annoying, too.