Last night, I did the dishes for the first time since 2007. Then I cleaned the 200-year old linoleum that serves as the floor in my “kitchen.” With Windex. And a dishtowel. It was all I had.
This is my new idea for winter. It’s awesome.
I’m going to buy a coat with a fake fur collar and when people get indignant and ask, “Is that real fur?” I’m going to say, “Yes. It’s made from puppies.”
That’s hilarious.
Last night, I locked myself out of my apartment. For the fourth time.
I did not use my regular locksmith this time, as I threw away his card. Last time this happened, my landlord told me to just give him a call and he would let me in, no locksmith needed. That was after he completely replaced the deadbolt on my door because the locksmith had to drill through it.
I thought that third locksmith was fairly poor. The first two locksmiths picked the lock no problem. But that third one- he tried for a solid 20 minutes and then he had to bust out the drill. One of my neighbors poked his head out to inquire about the ruckus. Once he saw it was me, he poked his head right back into his apartment, as he hates me. He threatened to sue me when the City Paper hired me. I thought that was a bit extreme. He was really worried I was going to write about him, even though nothing ever goes on in his life. I know because I live about four feet away from him.
This locksmith didn’t even give it 20 minutes. He looked at the lock and said, “Oh…this is not good.” Apparently my landlord installed the mother of all locks.
It’s times like this I wish I knew a really accomplished burglar.
I tried to take notes during the picking of the lock, so I would be prepared should this happen again in the future, the likelihood of which is apparently quite high. That, however, did me no good.
He had to bust out the drill.
I stepped away during the drilling process, as there were slivers of metal flying everywhere and I was not equipped with the appropriate eyewear. Neither was the locksmith, which concerned me, but who am I, the eyewear police?
Apparently, my neighbors are not any kind of police either. No one poked their heads out this time to inquire about the ruckus, which was occurring at 10:30 at night. They did not seem to be too concerned about any drilling that was going on in the building. That made me feel not very safe.Considering the last drilling took place more than a year ago, it’s not like this is a regular event. And this was some serious drilling, as far as drilling goes. Three drill bits broke off in the bolt during the process. So it’s not like it was amatuer drill night or anything. This was a decent-sized ruckus.
Note to self: If self is experiencing abnormal ruckus late at night, neighbors will not be alarmed. Learn judo.
Thankfully for everyone, he finally cracked the mother-lock. Most thankfully for me, because I really needed to use the ladies’ room. Plus, I live there. It’s where all my stuff is.
I’m going to try and avoid a repeat performance of the lock situation. It’s getting a little tedious. And I don’t know how my landlord will feel about changing my lock on a regular basis.
This is yet another reason everyone should know a really accomplished burglar.
Ok, people I am in the Homeland all week for a conference. I am in very high demand these days, you know. The point is, don’t nobody start saying shit about this being a ghost blog, ok y’all?
Also, there was a bug in my hair today at work. You know what that is? FUCKING GROSS.
Today, she is waiting for the train.
She woke up with that heavy-headed feeling that settles in after a good cry. Only she hadn’t had a good cry. She had taken a Tylenol PM two nights ago, and that usually knocks her flat for days, so maybe it was that.
Today, she is pondering how exactly she will fill all this time left in the waiting room. American women have ridiculously long life spans, so she’s figuring she’s got a solid 50 years to fill. There are long-term things, like having a baby or getting a Ph.D., and short-term things, like taking a trip to South America or mastering the art of driving stick.
All of those things seem like decent things to do to break up the time, she thought.
She can’t stop thinking about that picture, the one taken when she was five, in front of the fireplace at the white-house-with-the-green-porch. That’s the first house she remembers living in. It was a good house. Her mom used to spray down the green porch with a hose and let all the kids play slip ‘n slide on the slick concrete. This was clearly a major head-injury hazard, but that was back before the days of helmets, kneepads and car seats for five-year-olds, so it probably didn’t seem so like it would offend CPS at the time.
In the picture, she’s wearing her favorite Strawberry Shortcake dress with the blue ribbon that tied in the back. Her mom put her hair in pigtails and tied them with hair bands that had big red plastic marbles on the ends. She has on her white frilly socks and black patent leather shoes. It’s all topped off with a grin full of gaps where her baby teeth were falling out.
She hates that picture, but really she loves it. It’s her favorite picture, because everything was perfect. She had long pigtails and she was sure she was the prettiest girl in all of kindgergarten. She wonders if things would have been different if they had stayed in that house.
But she is who she is, so it doesn’t matter. Wasted energy.
Her father had a book called “Waiting for the Morning Train.” He had her read a passage from it at his funeral. She didn’t know which one he wanted her to read, just that he wanted her to read a passage. She figured it was the last two pages. That’s the part about the train. It says that the train comes to get you when it’s time, and the conductor says, “all aboard!” and that it takes you to where you belong when things are finished. He dad liked it because it talked about a train, and he loved trains. He liked that instead of the Grim Reaper or St. Peter, all he had to do was wait for a conductor to say, “all aboard!” and he could take a train ride. That’s what he liked best. Riding trains.
So now she is thinking about the train, and wondering what she should do until it gets here.
She’s just trying to pass the time.
November, you douche, I can’t believe you called this a ghostblog.
You guys are killing me. Let me brush the rust off my knuckles and see what I can do.
I’ve been enjoying keeping my life a secret for awhile.
Note: When possible, date men who can benchpress at least 1.5 to two times your weight. It makes you feel really skinny.
Note: Ask male friends if telling a dude you want to ride him like a pogo stick is hot or laughable.
Note: “What the hell” is always the right decision.
Note: Ask November to validate self for engaging young man in phone sex. Ask him to give the talk that begins with, “Yes, you are still a good person, no, this does not make you less of a person, yes you are still worthwhile, something something something do it in the butt.”
Dear Every-Dude-Who-Ever-Felt-Me-Up-Before-I-Hit-25,
You boys should get down on your knees and thank Jesus you saw these tits in their prime. They’re just not the same prize-winning perky little things they used to be.
You’re welcome.
Sincerely,
Mela’s-31-Year-Old-Tits
Grown men are funny little creatures. They play with big toys and lots of money and they like to own things. They don’t really fight except over things they want to own, like land and resources and women, because those things give them more power than the other guy. If you take his house, the land it sits on, his access to water and his wife, you’ve pretty much made him your slave.
Big Business Boys are like that.
Nothing personal, Boys. I have to say that. It’s my way of taking back a little power, of regaining my footing. If I don’t belittle you, then I’m stuck staring down the reality of my subordination.
I think the Big Business Boys regard me as an oddity, but I can’t tell. Some of them give me a fair shake, some of them write me off immediately, all of them make verbal note of my minority status in their world. The last group rarely mean any harm. It’s natural to point out an aberration.
In every case, they always prove that if the world were a strip club, we could take over in a matter of seconds.
We are their most valuable commodity, and we will never be in short supply. Demand will never decrease. Men will always pay.
How we let you Boys take over the selling and the buying of us, I’ll never understand. Why we still seem to think that hiding our bodies under suits that look like yours is the only way to get ahead, I’ll never understand either. Actually, that one I understand. You still control the buying and the selling. Hence, the topography of our bodies commodifies us. Therefore, we hide it.
I usually picture the Beginning of Things like this:
At some point early on, you Boys started to get surly. You started to make rumblings about taking over the next village and so on and so forth. We looked at each other over the gaggle of babies in our midst, and the homefires we were tending, and rolled our eyes.
“Bless their hearts,” we said. “They’re just full of piss ‘n vinegar, now aren’t they? It’ll pass.”
And now we are looking around at our power suits and our burkas and head scarves and we’re like “WTF?”
But if the world were a strip club, you Boys would be on your knees. That is dependent, of course, on women regulating the industry. You Boys can’t be in charge of the buying and selling.
We all know that would never work. There’s too much to take care of, what with the world peace and global warming. We can’t be running around naked all the time. You Boys would bust a blood vessel, and we can’t have you overwhelming the Emergency Rooms. We’re going to need those for the 75 percent of the world that’s malnourished.
But don’t be surprise if you see my suits turn into dresses and my stare become just a scooch more lethal.
I’m sick of your shit. I want my piece of the pie back.
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