More "tails" from home.
Charlie brought in another chipmunk, which Elizabeth, as usual, stole away from her and brought upstairs. My ability to hear and identify the scared squeaks of a chipmunk has become skilled and refined, as well as my ability to nab them in a towel and quickly release them outside unharmed.
I would say I have about an 86% survival rate at this point, but what to do with that other 14%?
Texas Taxidermy to the rescue again! Turns out that chipmunks not rescued in time can be immediately frozen, mailed to Texas and then mounted in ANY POSE for only $50 a pop.
Next year's nativity scene is going to be awesome.
Decorating by kt
All of the products featured below are available for purchase on the internet. I am going to put them in my new apartment!
No, I really, really, want this knife set. The marketing copy says: "
'The Ex' knife set is the perfect solution to all your morbid fantasies. . . This set makes a great gift for any occasion and it's also considerably cheaper than therapy."
I actually have zero crazy knife stabbing desires, I just think that it would be awesome to go on a first date with someone, bring them up to your place for some post-date coffee, and then have this on the counter.
Near the knife set, in the center of the table, I will have this fantabulous gem (from texastaxidermy.com):
Apparently, if you put the words Texas and Taxidermy together, a dead squirrel in a canoe will result. Also, they'll preserve your cat for a mere $350. Let me just make a note of their number in my Rolodex here. . .
To continue this hypothetical blind date from hell, I will also make sure to have this on the toilet, from Target:
And of course, neatly tucked in on the right-side of my bed will be the disembodied Hug Me Pillow.
Hug me, Pillow. Hug me.
(available at Overstock, in case you're desperately lonely. Or you think I might need a housewarming gift.)
Mediocre Romantic Comedy: Opening Credits
I have an apartment. I have a job. I have an apartment AND a job. In New York. This is splendid.
Now the fine print.
My sister and I found the worst apartment in Brooklyn. And then we rented it. Somewhere in the middleI guess there was a decision process that neither of us can explain. We fell in love with it the way you fall in love with a three legged dog.
It is a charming disaster. The disaster part is pretty obvious, but I swear if you squint your eyes and turn your head to the left, just enough to make the floor look even - you will find the charming. There are two bedrooms. My sister's bedroom will have to double as a living room, and my room will not consist of much more than a bed surrounded on all sides by wall, with no windows. A wide hallway will serve as an office area, and there is space in the kitchen for a table. (Because the kitchen is not already occupied with counter space or appliances.) The bathroom is so small a full size bathtub does not even fit, so there's the shortened version. The sink is placed above the toilet, (seriously?) and a pull-lever next to the bath is used to stop the drain.
We are on the third floor of this apartment building, allowing us to see eye-to-eye with the BQE (Bronx Queen Expressway - yeah, thats a highway) just across the way. More importantly, we have a perfect view of the Simple Life Til Death Do Us Part billboard. Paris and Nicole will know where we sleep.
Next door is an auto-body repair shop which clearly only deals in stolen vehicles. The landlord speaks limited English and only accepts rent in cash. Our lease was one page. Where it says "2. NO PETS" he actually meant "1 or 2 cats or small dogs would be fine." This was not specified because apparently, cats and small dogs are not "pets." So, at least we'll have a cat.
Stay tuned as this charming disaster saga develops and eventally becomes my novel, with a pink cover and a photo of a cat. It will appear briefly on the extended New York Times Book Review before being made into another chick-lit-novel-turned-romantic-comedy-film, met with average reviews. Viewers will leave the theatre shaking their heads. "Bridget Jones was so much better. They just sound less whiny when they're British"
This is going to be fun.
Accidental Rehab
It turns out that my parent's house is very, very similar to an extremely expensive detox clinic. I'm going to stop telling people I'm living with my parents and start telling them that I'm doing a stint in rehab. It just sounds more glamorous. I think I am losing 4 lbs a day despite all efforts to feed myself because the closest thing to junk food is dried cranberries (the consumption of which is monitored due to their high sugar content). I can't even remember my last vodka tonic. I am coping well with the severe withdrawal that I am experiencing, although every day I have to fight the urge to buy a family-sized box of Wheat Thins, a bottle of Gatorade and an Us Weekly from Wawa.
I also haven't had a migraine or back pain all week, and that horrible cough is already gone after I had it for two and a half years.
I've even developed an OCD exercise regime with my new pedometer, and am concentrated on achieving the daily goal of 10,000 steps. Right now i'm at 13,930 and its only 6:25 p.m. I get a Gold Star for the day!
Ok, well I've gotta stop blogging now to go draw a picture about my feelings. Super!
I miss chauvinism
In the North, men don't hold the door open for you. I mean, they will if the only other option is to literally slam it in your face, but men here don't not jump out of their way to make sure a girl walks through a door first, gets on a train first, gets a drink at a bar first, exits a burning building first, takes the last chocolate chip cookie, etc.
When I first got to college in the South I was annoyed by guys who would leap in front of me to get to the door first. For like ten minutes. I was soon taking advantage of the deliciously chauvinistic system. Sometimes I would wait outside a public place for ten minutes for someone to come and hold a door open for me. I did not feel I was the weaker sex. I simply had forgotten how to do these things on my own.
I did not remember that this was a regional thing until I visited New York on Tuesday. I reached the door to Starbucks moments before the man next to me and politely stepped aside, as has been the custom. We had an intensely awkward moment staring at the shut door which I apparently was responsible for opening, having reached it first.
I am still trying to get readjusted to open-your-own-door land where a grown man will elbow you to maintain his place in the line to enter the train, shooting you a glance over his shoulder as he takes the last available seat that says "It's the 19th Amendment, and its your own damn fault."
