Since I have been pretty much MIA the past two months, I do believe I owe you some accounting of how shit went down. Do not begrudge me my absence, for in the past few weeks, I have spent entire afternoons looking for the box containing the comfy underwear. When I had missplaced my box cutter for the millionth time, I delved into the underwear rejects that I had already unpacked. These are the undies that I refuse to wear, but I cannot throw out. By wearing these, I subjected myself to a level of discomfort usually reserved for Chinese gymnasts and Green Berets. Had I wanted something lodged up there (which is where cheap cotton panties often go), I would have chosen a different profession.
I believe a woman must have invented microfiber panties, for not only are they are creep-proof, they also shrink down to a dainty size when not being worn. I can look in my underwear drawer and imagine I’m a size three, even though my ass could cast a shadow over the Kremlin. But I digress.
Moving into our new house, we bought up, as they say, and have Stretch Armstronged our budget to the point where green goo is now seeping from our armpits, elbows and wrists. The depths your mortgage lender will let you fall, in order to earn his framed success-themed print for the year. The “Teamwork” artwork he’ll be hanging above his cherrywood credenza will be balanced by the “Delusion” artwork on display in our living room. Synergy. In a year or two, things will be comfortable again, with pay raises and all. But until then, we’re going to have to suck it up and hope to god that the duct tape will keep the Jeep from making that strange clicking sound and that I don’t get booted from the Evil Empire for writing blasphemous blog entries with phrases like “cootch” and “Hong Kong donkey dong” in them over my lunch hour, when I should so clearly be working, or at the very least, refraining from obscene behavior.
This is typical me — and untitledhusband, for that matter. We’re both the types that go full-tilt on our purchases. We do not like to compromise. We want what we want, dammit. We can justify anything. In fact, I credit our home purchase in part to my childhood. My dad was laid off every winter, due to the seasonal nature of his job. Every Christmas tree was littered with hastily wrapped balls of socks, individually packaged to juke the stats. I wanted a Merlin, and alls I got was five pairs of purple and gold Wigwam tube socks and an off-brand Cabbage Patch Doll that smelled like burning Barbie doll hair.
Now, I am the adult and I can buy what I want, as long as I am willing to survive on ramen noodles and Diet Dr. Thunder for the next two years. Even though we be po’, I must say that I fucking love my new house. I do. And I wouldn’t give it up for anything, except for maybe a cheaper mortgage. I’ll post some photos soon. Just don’t pull an untitledmother when you see it, and refuse to pay for your own lunch because you’re with your daughter and she is rich.
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