June 18th, 2009
I have been cleaning my apartment all day (except for the part where I went to try on my bride’s maid dress and had the distinct pleasure of the matronly seamstress manhandling my breasts in an attempt to get them to “sit right” in the bodice – don’t you love getting felt up by strangers?). So far I have tackled the kitchen and bathrooms, and here we are, six hours later, nowhere near done. Today I’ve been doing those semi-invisible tasks which slowly pile up until one day you realize there is more dust on the fanblades than fanblade itself, and you have to dismantle the whole thing to clean it. And you’re sort of a stereotypical girl and have trouble making the screwdriver work so it’s really frustrating and the whole time there’s fine dust getting dislodged and floating up into your allergic sinuses and you start to sneeze which only dislodges more dust? Yeah. Me too.
Truly, there is something deeply despair-inducing when you have been crawling around for ages wiping baseboards and gathering woodbug corpses from the carpet and really, from five feet away, it all looks just the same as before you started. I believe this is why housewives kill themselves. Wait, do housewives kill themselves? More than other people? I don’t know but I wouldn’t be surprised if they do.
OH MAN I cannot believe I almost forgot to tell you this. It’s hot out, right? And earlier I was cleaning the showers so what do you do when it’s hot and you’re about to start spraying water around to get the Vim off the walls? You take off your pants. Or at least I do. Why ruin a perfectly good pair of Levi’s? Plus, as I said, it’s hot. BUT oh the humanity: I sort of mindlessly started on the Great Fan Project, which involved a lot of standing and bending in the area of my fan, which stands by the big sliding glass door of the bedroom, facing at least two apartment buildings full of people… WITH NO PANTS ON.
The whole block now knows what colour underpants I am wearing. AWESOME.
So all in all, today has had a lot to do with nudity and frankly, I am disappointed it didn’t feel better.
Underwear isn’t nudity.
Touche!
I’m long past the point of caring when it comes to walking around in underwear. And I only consent to those because I have roommates. The prudes.
Dusting: get yourself one of those compressed air cans. They’re amazing. Yes, it only blows the dust somewhere else, but most likely that somewhere else is the floor, and then you just vacuum it all up. You can clean a fan in no time.
As for being manhandled by tailors, I have one word for you: Inseam. Yeah.
Inseam: WHOA. Okay, you win. Actually I guess this means all men win. Wait, what did I just say?
“Which side do you dress?” is the best euphemism ever. It means “I’m going to touch your testicles now. This is non-negotiable. I might be able to avoid firmly grasping your penis if you tell me down which pant leg it is currently dangling.”
Ahhhh!! Gah! I had no idea fondling was part of the male formal dress experience too. THough as I say clearly you have it worse. Crap!!