It was very hard to write that title, since saying it out loud might make it go it away, but it’s true.
I waited a few seconds for the ceiling lamp to come unhinged and fall on my head striking me dead and thus making life not freaking rock as much as it does right now, but it didn’t happen. Whew!
To the handful of you (a very small handful, like a midget’s handful) who read this thing on a weekly basis, I have to apologize for being slack lately. In fact my brother called me from the airport last night and was like “WTF! I’m sitting here dead bored so I thought I’d finally look at your blog and you haven’t written anything that doesn’t suck lately.” Again, SORRY. I’ve been BUSY. Moving. Twice. First from Atlanta to a one bedroom shotgun on Magazine St in New Orleans and now, finally, to a two bedroom (the devil accepted my soul. Yipee!) that’s still in the same vicinity of Magazine but a little quieter. As in, I can finally sleep again because there aren’t tractor-trailers barreling down my street in the middle of the night right into my dreams. Or maybe that was the Southerner’s snoring. Either way, I got earplugs and a beebee gun so if that kid who was waiting for his school bus this morning yelling at the top of his lungs to his mother about his lunch thinks he’s going to ruin my newfound peace of mind in my new neighborhood, he’s got another thing coming.
The new place: it’s awesome. I have a real office with doors that close so I don’t have to worry about the Southerner busting in on me while I’m enjoying my lunch hour cocktail or the one I have during snack time a couple of hours later. That way he thinks the one at 6:00 p.m. (Whew!, I’m wiped babe, it’s quitting time) is the first one of the day and we’re all happy.
There’s also a real kitchen that is pretty and will probably stay that way since unless I finally get those magical powers I’ve been hoping for since I was a kid, not much will be happening there. Except for me calling the takeout place while I look in the fridge for a beer.
The coffee Shop: Il Posto. I can walk to it and it makes me unbelievably happy. My ability to inner orgasm over these kind of places would horrify even the least dedicated proletariat. But they can suck it as far as I’m concerned. Il Posto has takeout paninis and CUPCAKES. And I can walk there! They also have Sunday brunch and super friendly staff. I would do almost anything for good service. Which is why it is very difficult for me to get out of my car at Wal-Mart (amongst other reasons, see more below).
The boyfriend. I struggle with this word. People refer to my boyfriend, and I have to pause and think, huh? Oh, they mean that man I live with who makes me very happy. That man I spent four days moving all of my heavy-ass furniture with and we did not fight ONCE. I think we set a Guinness book of world records. It’s not that I’m opposed to the concept of a boyfriend but I have a hard time with labels and couldn’t we have thought of a better word by now, really? Partner sounds weird. It always makes me think of country line dancing. Lover is too Victorian. And human-being who-makes-me-so-unbelievably-content-I-could-shoot-puppies-out-of-my-ass is just too long. Oh well, I’ll think of something better eventually.
My family: I miss them, but we talk every day. I especially missed my mother today after going to the store to try to pick out some bathroom mats and rugs for the new place and not being able to decide. Mainly, because she always does this for me. She knows how to coordinate things with color and navigate the evils of mega blood-sucking stores that are so generic and inefficient they make me want to cry and hyperventilate at the same time (WAL-MART). More importantly, she knows how to make quick decisions about these things. I, on the other hand, could spend hours trying to decide between a map of the world shower curtain and one that has the periodic chart on it, and then not end up getting either because that shower curtain could last me the rest of my life and it better be the right one and because I can hear mom’s voice in my head saying “when are you going to grow up and stop staring at things while you’re on the toilet and just wipe your ass already.”
Once we get all of our stuff situated and adult looking, I’ll post some pictures. For now, here’s one of a Mardi Gras parade that went right by the front porch of our old place:
Happy now, Brother J?