This celebrates my return to blogger. Hello.
The thing that I dislike, really, the only thing (except for my child-abusing WT neighbors), about my apartment is the glaring absence of a washing machine and dryer. At this point, I would settle for a washer, a la The Second Marlborough Apartment. I'd string a clothesline out my window and recreate an Irish ghetto in New York in the 20's. At The Second Marlborough Apartment, we'd jam about three loads of clothes into our finicky, loud washing machine. We'd drizzle in the cheapest laundry detergent I could find, the kind that basically just foams a bit and takes a stab at the chicken grease smell on my roommate's clothes, before giving up and getting sucked away into the nether regions of the town's water supply. We'd drape our clothes over a meager clothesline on our closed-in porch, letting them dry in the frigid New Hampshire winter, caking with cigarette ashes and cat hair. When they were dry, you had to roll them with a lint brush for an hour or possibly wash them again. Or be lazy and just throw them on the floor until next week.
That said, it provided us with the luxury of being able to do our laundry without having to traipse down the stairs and into Keene.
I'm at the point where I'm going to haul my clothes down to the little river down the road and beat my laundry against a rock.
The third, less glamorous option is to bring my laundry to the car and make the half an hour drive up to my parents' house and do my laundry in exchange for some hard labor and only a mild dose of parental guilt and Patriots football. This is what I usually do. I see my dog, talk to my parents, watch a few mind-numbing hours of football (or worse, GOLF), do my mom's ironing and clean the bathrooms. Sometimes I stay for supper. Sometimes I brave the barrage of parental guilt and say that I'm not staying for supper. Other times, like today, I make the phone call and say I'm not coming at all.
I just don't feel like it, ok?
My finger hurts. My mother thinks I broke it and that I should go to the hospital. I am typing this right now with my middle finger and my pointer finger on my right hand. My father said I sprained it and laughed when I told him how I, cat sitting for a coworker, slipped on a puddle of cat piss and landed on the porcelain sink with my pinky finger and right shoulder, uttering loud obscenities into an empty house. This also comes after administering third degree burns to my right hand while making bread earlier this week.
I may just amputate my right hand and teach myself to type with my right foot.
However, I don't feel like making the drive today. I'm listening to NPR and reading and making bread and making my apartment messy. I just want to sit in my POANG, read some Sedaris, and listen to the useless, near-maniacal ramblings of the ridiculous woman on 'the Delicious Dish'...otherwise known as 'the Splendid Table'. Whilst listening, I must constantly remind myself that Lynne Rossetto Kasper is not Molly Shannon swooning over Alec Baldwin's Schwetty Balls or tripping her toes off on wild mushrooms with Sean Hayes. It's not SUPPOSED to be funny, Jen.
Luckily, it is slightly, accidentally funny. No one gets that excited talking about kugle. C'mon. She describes a cranberry sorbet in the voice most people reserve to relay a hot night of freaky sex. Maybe she's drunk. Maybe I should be drunk. Maybe I should get drunk, call in, and get her all hot and bothered over German Roasted Nuts.
I'm in a weird mood this afternoon. I've got a champagne headache from last night and I have very little remorse that the bottle and way too many glasses are still hanging out on my coffee table, along with my cereal bowl from this morning. I'm losing the battle with the dirty dishes. I did a whole sinkful (which is not that impressive once I tell you I have a bar sink) this morning and have more to do. Blah. This is boring.
Maybe I'll turn of the radio and tune into the Endless Drama that is My WT next door neighbors.
By the way, that kid who wrote 'Eragon' is full of shit. People like that make me nervous.