colonization of p

we're getting a new coffee table today. we are very excited about this. unreasonably excited. it complements the new couch and chair and ottoman and end table delivered a few weeks ago. if we are unreasonably excited about the new coffee table, we were absolutely batshit crazy irrational about that couch and chair and ottoman and end table.

a few months ago, we replaced the dishwasher. i still get a little zing in my soul when i pour in soap and push the start buttons. so many buttons on this new model. it's obviously a very important machine.

new curtains. i have new curtains for the purple room. they're not up, yet. The hardware to hang them, i mean, has not been wall anchored and screwed and junk; but i have the curtains. sometimes i pull them out of the bag and touch them. i fantasize about what they will look like hanging over my grandmother's old laundry bench with the flashy pillows.

i'm really excited about making split pea soup tonight. i've never made split pea soup. i think i'm going to throw in some spinach and kale, and this makes my heart speed a bit.

don't even get me started about how frothy i am in anticipation of my teeth cleaning in february.

these are the things that excite me lately. i have been colonized and domesticated. this is an outrage. an OUTRAGE!

this might be marriage.

i packed my gym bag, took it downstairs, set it by the bathroom, and then i climbed the stairs and went to bed.

just before achieving sleep, i realized i hadn't put a bra in my gym bag.
i muttered something to the effect of "goddammit" into my pillow.
wondered briefly if i would remember to get it in the morning.
recalled all the times i did not. (nor my underpants, nor socks, nor shoes).

i got up.
fished a bra out of the drawer.
thought about all the time and energy it would take to walk all the way down the stairs, put it in my bag, and then walk all the way back up.
so, i threw it down the stairs
and went back to bed.

i lay in bed thinking about what a classy lady i am
and about what chris will do when he is on his way to bed and finds a bra sprawled across the bottom step.

then i realized this image would no longer faze him.
6 years ago, maybe he would have thought, "huh? what's this doing here?"
but now… he would think nothing of it.

chris will no more wonder why my bra is sprawled across the bottom step
than i wonder at the sight of his boxers on top of my piano.

this might be marriage.

mr. wednesday and the poop filled sock

I feel like writing, but I don't feel like connecting any of my thoughts. Poor you.

My workout this morning was pitiful. The only way it could have been any more pathetic was if I had curled up on a weight bench with a bucket of fried chicken and a pillow. But you know, I went and all that.

I've had a lot of delightful moments this week. I say "delightful moments" because they were relatively insignificant blips in the day that made me happy. The first was when I was stuck behind a school bus on the way to work. We stopped at an apartment complex, where a group of elementary school kids lined up to board. Then, other kids came running out of buildings. Right in the middle of a flashback to my own school bus days, the very last kid busted out of a door, half the coat on, half the coat flapping at her side, hair a mess, and papers popping out of her unzipped backpack. And then I thought, "Ah, yes. There I am." And then I laughed loudly in my car for at least another 5 blocks.

I've been painting this week. I've been painting instead of practicing guitar and trying to write songs for the COFFEE project. (I've decided to call it "resting" instead of "avoiding.") I am not a good painter by any stretch. I don't paint things that look like other things. I just like to play with colors and brushes and see what happens. Yesterday, Chris compared my painting to "a sock filled with poop." He will deny this. But here is exactly what happened:

Chris: [Stands above painting, which is lying flat and in-progress, on the kitchen table.] Huh. Is it finished? [He smirks.]

Patresa: [Laughs.] What, can't you tell?

Chris: [Laughs.] Sure. [He continues to stare at the painting.]

Patresa: Do you love it? Is it your favorite? I think you love it. I'm going to hang it from the ceiling above your side of the bed, face down. So, you can look at it every morning and every night.

Chris: Oh yeah? Well, I'll fill a sock with poop and put it on your side of the bed.

Incidentally, no, it isn't finished; and I have no idea what it is, but it might turn into a bird. Note: Chris is actually my biggest fan and super supportive. He is also very honest.

We got a new dishwasher this week. The delivery/installation guy called me to set up a time to deliver/install. He left a message. Listening to his message, I jotted down some notes:

TIM          WEDNESDAY
555-5555
DISHWASHER

Chris saw the note and said, "Who's Tim Wednesday?" No, he wants to come over Wednesday. That's not his name. But we referred to him as "Mr. Wednesday" for the remainder. Tim came over on Wednesday and installed the dishwasher. He handed me his business card before he left, and I had a moment of genuine confusion when the last name printed on the card was not "Wednesday."

In anticipation of Mr. Wednesday's arrival, I told Chris, "I hope he has a nice crack."

Chris replied, "Nobody has a nice crack." I thought that was quotable and true. Nobody has a nice crack. It's not a remotely sexy part of the body. Butts are weird.

I wish grocery store produce aisles would label the produce more clearly. I had a recipe for sauteed parsnips and turnips. Standing in front of the produce, I didn't know which was which, only that they were one and the other. So I took one of each and figured, well, they'll both go in the pan. Covered. But they didn't have stickers, and the cashier asked me what they were. I said, "I don't really know," which I'm sure she found strange.

pull it together, p

It's Pull It Together, P Day at my house. I'm not sure 1 day is enough, so thankfully tomorrow is Sunday. My shiz scatters to the 4 winds so easily, so regularly. I don't know where anything is. C is patient, but last night, while cursing everything solid as I hunted for lost things (things I needed in order to complete a project I should have finished at least 4 months ago), I realized my mess had kind of buried him, too. I don't understand exactly how my piles get so disorderly; they just do. I am some kind of human hurricane, bumbling bermuda triangle, two-legged typhoon. I am, from time-to-time, a natural disaster. At least I'm nice. And I make good cheesecake.

Surprisingly, I'm really good at setting up organizational systems. I even like doing it. I have color-coded files at work and a "directory" indicating what goes in each color. I don't actually put anything in those files, however. The intended contents are dog-earred and busting out of off-colored folders on my desk.

Yesterday I had lunch with Katie MacDaddy (who isn't "MacDaddy" anymore, but I can't let go), and we discussed our dual personalities -- that likely everyone has multiple personalities; it only becomes disorderly if they start talking with accents and making important life decisions. For instance, I house both an introvert and an extrovert. Sometimes my introvert wakes up and finds that the extrovert has abandoned our person in the middle of a party. That's bad news. Sometimes my anal retentive librarian takes over the wheel to discover that the Bohemian Baton Twirler has filled all the labeled accordion files with leaves and doodles during her shift.

I see a cobweb by the TV. Gross.

And so, today, on local (very local) Pull It Together, P Day I will dig through my crap and organize my crap, and find my lost crap, and throw out some old crap, and crap like that, so that C will not be tempted to go out and find himself a nice, tidy librarian.

air swimming

I once had a dream that I was a special investigator who could sense the presence of the devil. I found a dead chicken in a shower and knew it was the devil. And then, I knew that I was both the chicken and the devil. I refer to this as The Chicken Devil Dream.

I had another dream that a tall skinny man sat in a dark corner of an empty room holding an old traveling doctor's bag, and Magic Johnson was walking around with his head cut off asking for wooden nickels.

I used to swim through air in my dreams. I once air-swam laps around a giant plantation house.

I am frequently chased. I am frequently running through the dark and jumping over picnic tables and making out with Keanu Reeves under stadium bleachers. A few weeks ago, a giant green dinosaur stomped through the neighborhood and split my house in half.

These are my dreams.

The following are Chris's dreams:

Last night, Chris dreamed that he ordered a new screen door for the back porch and called to have a tree trimmer come out to groom the walnut in the backyard. The end.

One of us has an easier time with the idiosyncrasies of the world than the other.