Hello Internet Peoples!
I’m back! Your shittiest blogger friend ever! It’s hard to write everyday, and I really want to, but I have these two little things called children that greatly hinder my ability to do so, especially over a holiday weekend that also happens to be my son’s birthday.
So I do apologize, I hope that one day you can count on a daily post just as sure as you can count on Kirstie Alley melting cheese on 20 Jenny Craig Entrees and eating them all at once.
Did you have a good weekend? Great! Or Sorry! Depending on your answer.
Ah, let’s see…I mentioned that my son had a birthday. He turned 7 this weekend and insisted on a sleepover (amongst many other things). My 4-year-old is really learning some key words from his big brother and his friends. It was about 12:30am and he came upstairs, looked down his pajama bottoms and said to all the grown-ups, “my balls are tired.”
He was so tired he didn’t even laugh at his own joke, he just kept spinning in slow circles trying to keep himself awake.
Anyway, I’m sitting here thinking about what the hell I’m going to write, and I realize that I have no idea what I’m going to write, but I have to write something in order for me to justify another day of not putting a weeks worth of laundry away.
I hate it so.
It’s like something right out of Dr. Seuss around here, intimidating stacks of carefully balanced piles all over the place. The stacks have gotten so tall that I cannot risk tipping them over. I have even resorted to trying on my other clothes from the closet.
My typical textile friends are pretty boring, mostly black tops, tee shirts, shorts and jeans. But my other clothes are there to keep them company, make them look cooler than they really are. I have some pretty slutty friends hanging in the back. There’s sequins over there next to tube top and short skirt. Then there’s the really in crowd on the other side, with their maxi dresses and featherweight cashmere caftans. Way way way in the back there’s the conservative crowd, with their blazers and cardigan’s and shit. We really don’t ever hang out unless I have to fool someone into thinking I’m professional or someone dies.
These are the clothes that for some delusional reason we hang onto just for moments like these. They’re only there to keep our real clothes company so that the 5 staple outfits we really wear won’t look too lonely. We want them to be popular so we buy them friends. Some with bright shiny personalities like the sparkly sequin tank top you’ve never worn. Or the flowered sheer button down that was supposed to look awesome over your red cami, but instead just hangs there with its tags still on.
So like amnesic’s, we start snapping them off the hangers.
“Oh look, damn! This is a cute ass top! Why do I never wear this? This will go perfect with those jeans!” These are the clothes that we have always wanted to love, but never could, like a stepchild. We hope that someday they will magically transform themselves into everything we’ve ever hoped and dreamed for them. To be able to live up to their fullest potential, like the teenager who sits in the back of the class and you know she could do so much better if she just applied herself!
But again, we are disappointed. The top is still too short and pulls across the boobs and has that weird thing going on in the back. Fuck. Into the heap you go, adding further to my Laundry Bulimia.
You would think I would learn by now. But nope, I will continue to throw my shit on the floor and not put my laundry away just as sure as Meredith Baxter Birney will continue to play a battered spouse.
It’s the same thing with shoes. I love them, they’re so pretty! On other people. I could spend my life in flip-flops or Ugg’s, seriously, but I have quite a collection of heels that I like to look at but can barely walk in. When I walk in heels, I look like I’m trying to walk in heels. It’s ridiculous.
But I keep all this extra shit hanging around, year after year, dreaming that one day I’ll try on the sequin tank top with the old jeans from college that I’ll never fit into again unless I have my pelvis shaved down, slip on that stellar pair of heels – and it will finally just all come together.
And I will look fabulous while typing my blog about not putting my laundry away while not putting my laundry away.