untitledlife

My infrequent posting as of late can only mean on thing — we are about to move. On September 29th, to be exact. We move to a hotel for one month, and then to the house we cannot afford but we insist on having. Plenty of people use ketchup to flavor their spaghetti noodles, right?

We have been busy packing and throwing stuff out. Note to self: call the Sharpie company and tell them to make “Sharpie on a Rope.” A Sharpie that hangs around one’s neck is desperately needed in this world. If I ask untitledhusband where my Sharpie is one more time, he will see to it that I have one permanently lodged up my ass.

Perfectly good stuff that I forgot we even had must now be tossed. Things like coagulated hand lotion, clumpy nail polish, and antiquated hair product that has no business being around my follicular regions or an open flame, for that matter. Among some of my more interesting finds:

My electric leg shaver. My mother got it for me when I was 12, along with a maxi-pad “belt” (she had no clue about technological advances in the feminine hygeine industry, given that she had a hysterectomy 10 years earlier).

A bath “bomb” for scenting and carbonating one’s bath water. So THAT’S how you do that (take note, untitledhusband).

My old Caboodle, complete with abadoned make-up remnants eyebrow pencil shavings. I would still be using it, but everyone makes fun of me. Haters, the whole lot of you. Begrudging a girl her Caboodle. You should be ashamed.

13 red Virgin Mary candles that we used for decor at our 2000 Halloween party. Yeah, I know. Going to hell, we are. But at least our path will be well-lit (much like we were on that night).

Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR rolls of medical tape. Perhaps I should use this to seal some of my boxes. Brilliant.

Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR tubes of antibiotic cream. So why is it I can never find this stuff when I need to treat a wound?

Disposable nursing pads and nipple cream, both unused. What a shame. And no, the nipple cream does not heat up upon application, which is a damn shame.

A near-empty bottle of Vicks Vapo-Rub (which pervy untitledhusband uses to get high).

Several hair dryer attachments (diffusers et al). Who uses these things?

Some other things I unearthed, but did not toss:

Three boxes of children’s band-aids (Dora, Care Bears, Cars), but NO adult band-aids. That’s not to say untitledhusband hasn’t slapped on a Cars band-aid, though (and liked it).

Three boxes of pantyliners. Methinks they might make some damn fancy post-it notes. Quilted and scented, even!

A battalion of crusty curling and straightening irons. I could never toss aside my comrades, seeing as how I am responsible for their current condition. Not that they have ever done ME any favors.

That’s about it, for now. I’ll keep you posted as I continue to unearth such treasures amongst our stockpiles of junk.

untitledhusband and I have been in home-building hell, trying to select, among things, faucets and exterior materials for our new house. If I don’t pop a cap in the next person who says “that will be an add-on,” it will be a miracle.

In the past few weeks, we have spent a vulgar amount of time (mostly during work hours) on such pressing issues as the finish on our faucets and the number of data jacks untitledhusband wants in the master bath (3). I am convinced that he won’t be happy until he can work from home whilst scrubbing his netherlands, watching re-runs of “Silver Spoons” and reading “Rolling Stone.” He claims this has been a dream of his since childhood, and only now has technology advanced enough to make his dream possible.

Far be it from me to stand in the way of a man and his dream. So we went to Best Buy over the weekend to peruse our flat screen TV options. Poor untitledhusband could hardly navigate the aisles, with his wang at full-mast. Every once in a while, I’d catch him brushing up against one of the massive screens, and he’d get this blissed-out look on his face. I find it funny that people get all up in arms over a porn shop moving into the neighborhood when Best Buy is right around the corner.

All in all, we’ve been staying on budget, aside from our plumbing, where we are all kinds of over (like to the tune of $3,000). Turns out the plumber bid in entry level plastic faucets — you know, the kind with plastic jewels for handles. Jewels, my ass. When I saw the faucet in the display room, I felt like saying, “What part of me says ‘plastic handles’ to you?” I will have, at the very least, brushed chrome in this new house if I have to sell my snootch on the weekends to make it so.

After I made this declaration, I found out that a brushed chrome finish is twice as expensive as polished chrome. And don’t even ask about brushed nickel, which would require us to send untitledson off to the rice fields of Cambodia. It’s quite yummy, this brushed nickel, and don’t think that I haven’t weighed the options.

An even bigger headache is the home exterior. We fell in love with a stone called “Tulsa Rubble,” but it turns out that it is no longer being quarried. Now we have moved on to a “cultured stone” (it’s actually concrete) called “Great Lakes Split-Face.” No one else around here has this stone on their house, so we can only view the online sample, and the photo of this house, which we also found online. We plan on trimming out with a contrasting brick, and using a light tan siding. Shiteous? Heinous? Righteous? Please share your opinion, as the flames inside my head could use a Molotav Cocktail about now. If it turns out to be a nightmare, you can count on untitledhusband posting photos of me beating my noggin bloody on the front of our house. Â

Yes, I have been offline a bit this week, my time consumed by reading your thoughtful comments on “The Last Ride.” Thank you for your kindness. We are already thinking about another dog, but it will have to wait until we move into our new house in November. I wonder if I’ll ever stop hearing the jingle-jangle of his dog collar in my mind.Far be it from me to remain solemn for long. I return in a blaze of blasphemy to call out the dregs of society — those who back into parking spaces. Yeah, I’m talking to you, old man. You and your red Silverado with the foam cactus on the antenna. Your motivations are unknown. Your regard for my time is zero. And yet, you go to great lengths to inconvenience me by backing into your parking spot.

Perhaps you feel that after you make your appearance, you will need to make a quick getaway. Had I known that Leif Garrett was in my midst, I would’ve thrown my size 10 control-top panties with the withering elastic into the bed of your truck. Or maybe your machinations are of the evil ilk and you’ve got an Glock hidden in your glove box, nestled between the Wet Ones and your map of the Show-Me State. If this is the case, as you were my friend. As you were.

Regardless of your intentions, I must point out the obvious — it takes no more effort to back out of a spot than it does to back into a spot. In fact, I’m pretty sure the difficulty level and risk for collision are higher when backing into a spot that’s surrounded by other vehicles.

If you or someone you know is a parking spot backer-inner, please tell me why. What is the benefit? Do you know it drives others crazy? Then why oh why do you still do it? Personally, I think it’s passive-aggressive behavior and all practioners need to remove the corks from their respective asses.