Apparently asking to have one shirt and one pair of pants dry cleaned in the span of five hours is entirely impossible short of slipping c-notes through the drop-slot along with the pants (which reminds me, i didn’t check the pockets for cash…).
So, i am still not packed. I never pack until the last minute, really, so actually having picked out the clothes i want to take with me and laundering them seems to be a huge step in the right direction if you don’t count against me that i just gave my favourite three pairs of pants to the dry-cleaner who will guard them safely behind bullet-proof glass until Wednesday. That’s three less things for me to pack, i suppose…
Personal
Okay, so, that’s how my hair is supposed to look. What it actually looks like is… um… frosted cherry nail polish. However, my webcam doesn’t seem capable of picking up the subtle (highly metallic) nuances of frosted cherry, so instead it displays the color i meant to get my hair dyed to. Isn’t it ironic? Yeah, i really do think. Apparently i left the dye in about an hour too long after leaving the Chop Shop (i decided to walk home, it was pretty outside, i screamed along to Weezer on the way).
Nothing cures a bout of depression like a violent haircut and $40 worth of imported cd singles, that’s for sure.
redredred
firehead
firehead
Yesterday i was whining to the theatre peeps about my yet-to-be finished upstairs bathroom, which mostly owes it’s unfinished state to the fact that inside of the stall shower there is belly-button height bar along the three walls that isn’t entirely secured to the wall. It isn’t that i need some sort of safety catch in case i slip while reaching for soap or shampoo, but at any point where it isn’t firmly connected to the wall there is a gaping hold in the water-proofing and i’m afraid i’ll make the inside of my wall rot if i take a shower before it’s finished.
So, anyhow, i was lamenting that i want my shower fixed, not only so i can take quick morning showers, but because the handle-bar seems ideal for two-person maneuvering inside of a stall shower. This brought a hearty chuckle from the sexually frustrated theatre crowd, and then the conversation kept moving.
So, today the repair guy came by to see what was still left to be fixed in the house, and when i remarked to him about the broken shower bar he replied: “Well, you know what that’s from, don’t you?” [insert blank stare from yours truly] “Sex in the shower.”
I rest my case.
Everything is slightly under control. Or, i keep telling myself that. Whether it’s true or not is not going to matter until Tuesday because i am escaping Philadelphia for the weekend. It’s quite insane, actually, but it’s just about the only insane thing i’ve tried to do since i got out of my own house, so i’m enjoying it. Meanwhile, my mother wants to know when i’m leaving. When i’m getting back. What my flight numbers are. The number the place where i’m staying. What train am i taking to the airport. My answer to her went something like: Hello, get the fuck out of my life.
Typically i can tell her to back off and she does – this is a typical dance for us. But, lately i’ve really let my guard slip and suddenly my mother is in my face every time we see each other. All i let slip is that i’m going though a slightly depressive few weeks (which i’ve been having on and off for years and have never been so stupid to say anything about it to her), and then she sees the tiniest pipe in the world sitting on our table and suddenly every question is to the Nth degree. And, so, here i am whining to you about it instead of doing my Creative Writing Homework.
I just… hate her in a lot of ways. Aside from how awfully retarded my social growth was, i am a perfectly capable 20 year old … i hold down a huge academic scholarship, i’ve had a regular job ever since i started school two years ago, and this is my second year living on my own in an apartment without really asking her for any help with money. And, what really gets me, is that she has no concept of any of this… if i tell her that i can’t see her on a Wednesday because i have so much work due for Thursday she just stares at me with these blank eyes asking “Well, this will only take an hour or two.” If i complain that books are too damned expensive this term she tries to slip me twenties all day, but is then amazed when i was under the impression that she was going to buy me a package of toilet paper at Walmart.
Same old shit. Going to college in Philadelphia was at once the best idea and the biggest mistake i ever made. I wish so hard that i had chosen Boston instead, and then i’d be far away from her grasp and she couldn’t help but believe i was capable because she wouldn’t be able to lay a hand on me. But, here she is always able to track me down and find the chinks in my armor, no matter how small.
Sure, that’s what mom’s are for. Excuse me for not appreciating it just this once.