The seamy side of suburbia

21 05 2011

C and I went out for Thai food tonight and there was this super loud table near us, 2 middle-aged couples, one couple clearly visiting from out of town. The woman of the in-town couple kept trying to convince the other couple to come back to their house for “just a touch of Frangelico.”  She just kept on needling them about it, in her intoxicated way. And the more she insisted, the dirtier it sounded. C and I were trying not to giggle but we kept on looking at each other and she would whisper “Just a touch . . . of FRANGELICOOOOOO” and I would snort so hard that Thai tea almost came out of my nose (a sad waste of an excellent drink).

Here’s the conversation they were having, along with subtext.

Drunk lady: Just come back to ours, we’ll have a touch of Frangelico (also, we’re swingers).
Visiting man: We’d like to, Karen, but it is getting late… (please leave me alone, freak)
Drunk husband: It’s hard to turn her down (when she’s holding the whip), Stan. You’d better just do what she says
Visiting woman: Stan, maybe we should. I might like some Frangelico (light bondage). I haven’t had any in a while (because you’re lame in bed).
Drunk lady: Yes! Frangelicoooooo. It’s so good. I can tell you need some (no subtext needed; I mean COME ON!)
Visiting man: I just don’t think we can (Step OFF, skank!).
Drunk husband: Stan, have you even HAD Frangelico? It’s amazing (you will love it, son).
Drunk lady: (whispering) Frangelicooooooo.

Needless to say, this is my new favorite euphemism.





I suck as a caretaker

8 05 2010

C finally went to the doctor today and came home with a diagnosis of outer ear infection.  I’m at the computer, working on a particularly annoying training video . . .

C: Can you put my ear drops in for me?
Me: What? No. It’s not hard. Lie down there (pointing to guest bed) and go bloop bloop in your ear 3 times.
C: I want you to do it!
Me: Why on earth do you want me to do it?
C: Because you do it better.
Me: How would you know? I’ve never done it!
C: Just put the ear drops in!
Me: Fine. GOD. Lie down.  (I grab the drops and start shaking them)
C: WAIT!!
Me: (almost dropping the . . . drops)  Jesus Christ don’t yell like that! What is it?
C: You have to warm them up in your hand first.
Me: Now you’re just lying. I’ve never heard such a crazy thing.
C: No it says right here on the directions — warm bottle in hands so that the temperature difference doesn’t cause dizziness.
Me: Those must be the wussy baby directions.
C: Well, they didn’t say anything about special directions, it just says it on the label.
Me: They took one look at you and said, “Give her the wussy baby directions.”
C: Do it anyway. It says so on the label. If you don’t follow the directions you’ll go to jail.
Me: Right.  (I proceed to put 3 drops in her ear)
C: It’s cold!! You dripped on my head!
Me: Stop fidgeting then!
C: You didn’t warm them up!
Me: You sat here and watched me snuggle this damn bottle in my palms. Not my fault you have weird ears.
C: You’re no good at this. (pouty lip starts happening)
Me: I was trying to tell you that and now it’s too late. Should have listened to me.

I do feel bad for her, I’ve had TONS of ear infections. A couple years ago I had a middle ear infection so bad I was just sobbing and it was too swollen for the medicine to get in.  So you might think I would be a little more sympathetic, right?  But I’m not.  I’m just all, “suck it up, sicky!”

Oh well.





We can rebuild it, we have the technology

3 10 2009

So . . . this is probably the most unexpected, awesome thing.  Dr. Frankenstein has arrived to fix my household appliances.

My friends Heather and Casey came to town to visit (yay!).  Upon arriving, I informed Casey how upset I was that my very expensive, overly loved primo bar blender I got for Christmas 2 years ago has been dead, died, kaput.  For a while now.  Casey, being the guy that he is, asks if he can tinker with it.  Sure, I say.  Go nuts.

He informs me, after a brief inspection, that my blender has blown some fuse inside.  He holds it up victoriously and I say disbelievingly, “That was the problem??”

So after dinner, Casey takes a trip out to Walmart to see if they have a fuse.  He also picks up new vacuum cleaner belts that he happens to find there because I had been bitching how I couldn’t find any yesterday at Target.  He officially rocks.

Upon his return  the following happens.
Casey: Okay.  They didn’t have the fuse but . . . they had a $5 surge protector.  And some soldering material.  And a lighter that might do the job.  So, uh, I can try this and if I totally blow it up I swear I’ll buy you a new one. But it’s not currently working anyway, right?
Me: What are you asking me exactly?
C: Well, if this works, and it’s gonna work, you can use your blender.  It might glow a really neat light when you use it. Are you okay with that?
Me: What??

After 10 minutes, of asking if it’s going to blow me up or catch my kitchen on fire if I try to use it once they leave, accusing him of being a fly-by-night weirdo who makes explosive devices in the kitchens of friends, I agree to let him do it.  Heather assures me that after 2 years of living with him, she’s not been killed.

And he does the following (I had to quote him because I couldn’t possibly summarize this):  “I sharded a surge protector, cut out the fuse, soldered it in where the blender fuse used to be, heat-shrinked it, and turned it on.  And if the fuse blows out again, just open it up and flip the switch.”

Lo and behold, I have a blender again.  I admit to being a little terrified of using it, but I’m gonna have the fire extinguisher handy.  And it doesn’t glow, but I’m kind of okay with that.  That might have made me even more nervous.

If he didn’t have such a good job already, I would tell him he has a prolific, if scary and weird, new career.





Oh God, it’s true

23 09 2009

I’m codependent.  I admit it.  When C is out of town, I start moping.  I’m fine during the day because I can pretend she’s at work.  But as soon as I have to go to bed and realize she’s not coming home, I deflate a little.  It’s kind of  sad.

Anyway, she went out of town because a family member quite suddenly died.  And upon her return we were talking about how badly we feel for his wife and children, especially now that the rest of the extended family is trickling back to their own homes.  They’re having to deal with this sudden emptiness, the silence, the loss that must seem gaping.

And I told her how I used to have nightmares about her dying.  Granted, they were more frequent when our lives were super stressful, and I was constantly worried about her.  But the nightmares have changed over time and now instead I have nightmares about her being gone.  Just . . . gone.  And dealing with that void.

C: But you’ve always had those.  And I have them.  It’s a normal fear, I think.
Me: It might be a normal fear, but I think it’s a little weird to have nightmares about that kind of thing when nothing is wrong.
C: Well then, we’re both screwed up.
Me: Oh my god, I’m codependent.  That’s what I am!  Crap, can I borrow your napkin? I don’t have one.
C: (smirking) Do you want a sip of my drink, or do you want your own?
Me: I’ll just take a sip of yours.  Oh.  Hey!! That’s not funny.

My girl, bringing it all into perspective.





It’s just so stupid

14 09 2009

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.





It’s always something

12 09 2009

Well, Austin finally made good on the rain. And I was enjoying it until . . .

So I’m cooking, watching Dead Like Me, looking forward to the party. It’s storming. And eventually the rain noises sound a little louder, a little closer, a little inside.  So I start hunting, searching for the source of that dripping noise.

I find it on the stairs. The ceiling in my stairwell is leaking, which means there’s a leak in the attic-ish area and dammit. I grab a Tupperware and stick it on the stairs to catch the water. I call the apartment office.

Man: Thank you for calling —–. How can I help you?
Me: Hi, are there any maintenance people around today? My ceiling is leaking.
Man: Yeah, it’s raining really hard.
Me: . . . That’s right. It is. And that’s why there is a leak in my ceiling?
Man: We’ve gotten a lot of calls today about this, actually.
Me: Okay.
Man: Oh, we can’t actually do anything about it, not until it dries out.
Me: Uh . . . huh.  So do you have a list of all these people that have called? Can you put my apartment number on it?
Man: Oh, no.  Why don’t you just call back on Monday? We’ll take care of it then. Thanks for calling!

And then he hung up on me. I hate this apartment.





My reality can be skewed

23 08 2009

Since we returned to Austin from our Louisiana trip, the lack of humidity here has just been killing us. Really, we had a few blissful days of sticky air and no cedar pollen back home, but as soon as we crossed the state line into Texas, the dryness just started to kill us.

So I’ve been fighting an impending sinus infection for the last few days. Last night I was feeling all feverish and blah-y and just, UGH. I was up until 4 in the morning and decided to lie down in the guest bed since C’s alarms were set for 4:30 (seriously).

Now, this is what I remember from this morning as C came in to tell me goodbye before she left for work.

C: Hi babe, did you sleep okay?
Me: No.
C: Are you feeling all right?
Me: No, I went to bed all crappy feeling and I thought I had a fever. I still feel kind of hot, actually. All my joints are achy, isn’t that weird? I don’t think I have the flu, though. Which is good. Who gets the flu in August?
C: (turns around and exits the room while I’m still talking)
Me: Bitch! I’m talking to you!!

So C gets home from work and this is what she says really happened:

C: Hi babe, did you sleep okay?
Me: Ungh.
C: Are you feeling all right?
Me: I’M SO HOT!!! (followed by a rolling over and burying my face in a pillow, signaling the end of the conversation).

Okay, that’s not at all how I remember it. I recall being very lucid and eloquent about the exact nature of my discomfort and even offering various theories on why I could be feeling so badly. But . . . that does seem optimistic, doesn’t it? I’m going with C on this one.