Awkwardly Social

All you need in a fridge freezer is vodka and orange juice, right?

I’m taking a little break. I’d love to tell you all about it, but I’m secretive that way. I hope to be back May 4th or 5th.

If you need new material to amuse yourself with on a daily basis, check out the links on the sidebar. Those people crack my shit up every day.

Ever since Allie moved out, I’ve been without a coffee maker. Which means I’ve had to forage through the various coffee shops (corporate and private) for the most delicious cup of coffee. It turns out, my hatred for Starbuck’s coffee continues (their espresso passes the muster, but their drip, atrocious), The Coffee Table on Rowena never fails to deliver a great Cafe Au Lait, Peet’s (the brand I grind at home) in store coffee is almost as bad a Starbucks. So last night I decided to spend a little to save a little. Buying a cup of coffee every morning is beginning to break the bank.

In my ideal world, I would buy a machine that looks like this. (I realize this is an espresso machine. I still love the style.) It’s called FrancisFrancis! and it wants me to rub my boobs all over it.

In the real world, I was faced with these two options.

The Best Buy guy was hot for me to get the black one. He tried telling me I was too cool for the boring white one. His big sales pitch was that the black one… had a gold filter. I have experienced the ‘gold filters’ and I find them far more annoying than they are worth. Yes, that means I’m drinking coffee that has been filtered through a bleach processed paper filter, but no, that does not bother me. Because in the end, $20.00 more plus having to wash coffee grinds out of a filter every morning, not my idea of a good sale.

I’d like to tell you that I hate wicker, but that sentiment is a little strong. What I really hate is when posh-esque stores try to pass off ugly wicker furniture as ‘beachy’ and stylish and charge $399.00 for a ‘coffee table’ made of the insipid material.

Hello, Art Department? Yeah. You left an ugly wood thing on the table. Oh. It’s what? Right. Nevermind. Tell your brother I think his whittling is really coming along.

Or there’s this black horror.

Hey, Art Department? Me again. You left your paint can on the- what? oh. Nevermind.

When I was looking for an example of wicker that I might allow, I found nothing. So I guess the jihad remains. Also, I’d like to have a jihad against this art director. Keeeeerist, woman (or man…) what. is up. with the seashells?

Don’t get me wrong, I like a well placed knick-knack here and there, but this… this table is fricking ridiculous. With the coral and the shells and the vases filled with rocks. Not to mention the hideously bamboo framed ‘beach’ photos. gack. Get thee to design school. We want to see the table, not your art department’s entire collection of sea shells.

Also, in my extreme distate for the crap on the table I failed to notice the turquoise (turquoise!) chair in the foreground. I’m going to pass out.

In the absence of any thing else to say, except that there is a bit of depression clouding my peripheral vision, I thought I’d tell the story of Rolo. My sister and I, to this day 20 years later (maybe 25) give my mother guilt about Rolo.

We were a ‘cat family’ in that we always had a new litter of kittens nesting somewhere in the wooded area next door, there were always strays coming to live in our yard, and we sort of crazily had to kick the herd of cats out of the way to get outside. It’s not surprising that my mom wanted to give some of the kittens away. They were kind of a nuisance.

Our main mouser was named Annie. We called her Annie because out of the many strays that came to our house and stayed, she was destined to be sort of a favorite. Stubborn, smart and crafty, she was also a bit of an attention whore, who kind of brayed like a donkey. I guess in our eyes, Little Orphan Annie, was also a donkey braying attention whore. So the name stuck, and so did Annie.

Annie was always bringing some sort of carcass to the back door for the rest of the cats to feast on. Gophers, birds, one time I think there was even a rabbit. Annie was a calico, so her litters were always greeted with a bit of excitement. For some reason we got it into our heads that male calico cats did not exsist. That is, until Rolo.

Rolo was a black kitten with bright orange spots. He was a little fluffy and full of personality. So of course when my mom’s friend Trisha came over with her young daughters, they wanted Rolo. But Rolo was not up for grabs in our eyes. Rolo was special. Rolo was OURS. Trisha and her daughters took home 2 kittens that night. One of them was Rolo. My mother was a tricky one. She told us that Rolo just went over to keep the other kitten company. That Rolo would return at the end of the week.

I guess you know where this story is going. Rolo went missing. The Onions (really their last name) lived on acreage like ours, big, open, and riddled with coyotes. Rolo was left outside one night and never returned.

Whenever my mom tries to borrow something, or loan something out of ours, my sister and I tell her that this cannot be a Rolo situation. Whenever my mom tries to bring up the fact that she never gave anything of ours away without our consent, ROLO. My poor mother. I think every time I see her, I have some occasion to bring up that dumb 6 week old cat. Nevermind the fact that my mom has taken in my two cats, Scooter and Owen (the fattest cats in all the land) for me because my roommate, and now my boyfriend, are ridiculously allergic. Nevermind the fact that my parents gave me a horse. Never mind the fact that my undergraduate degree was paid for. Rolo. Rolo. Rolo.

We had a cat named Rolo. And we just can’t seem to let my mom forget it.

So I went into the actual Cost Plus World Market. I physically got out of my car and went into a store. Those who know me well, know that unless it involves books or housewares (and occasionally food…) I fucking hate shopping. Since Cost Plus has all three of those things, I decided to try it.

I’m not so impressed. I couldn’t find drapes. (that I could afford/would match with the paint I’ve chosen) And the only housewares I convinced myself I couldn’t live without were a pasta strainer and creme brulee bowls (as Louie is an addict. To creme brulee, not pasta). And I left the creme brulee bowls because we don’t have a torchy thingy. So now I have a pasta strainer. And that is not that exciting, but that’s all the strength I’ve been able to muster for todays apartment posting.

Louie moves in on Sunday. So this bean study is good news. Although, I’ve already braved the fart discussion with Louie, I’d rather not have to ever fart again. Especially in front of him.

The only person I’m comfortable farting in front of is my sister. I’m sure she’s really happy to hear that.

I was cruising around the Anthropologie website to see what they had in shabby chic curtains. (nothing) And I convinced myself that a little break from the apartment goods search would do me good. So I looked at the skirts.

And came across this horror.

They call it the Los Feliz Skirt. And frankly I’m a little insulted that this is what is represented in their minds when they think of Los Feliz.

(so does Silent Hill, but since I’m pretty sure my readers are smarter than me, you probably already knew that.)

So, waiting around for a refrigerator to arrive is kind of boring. Especially when you know after it arrives your next scheduled activity is travelling through the seven circles of hell the Swedes call Ikea. It wasn’t so bad this time. I guess the hordes of people who normally occupy Ikea were out sick yesterday.

I’m learning more about my relationship every day. And that means opening the crazy doors in my brain and letting Louie see what I like to call ‘the super crazy.’ This weekend things were flying out of my mouth that I think can only be described as peculiar and puzzling, if those two words actually meant ALARMING and LUNATIC (all caps). I’m rolling my eyes right now.

The good news, Louie still likes me. Sort of. The bad news, I’m just getting crazier every day and I don’t know exactly how to rein that in.

eh. c’est la vie

I have to say I’m not thrilled with the brown. After the second coat, it looks much better, but it still doesn’t have the dark rich quality I got in the sample. It’s looking more like milk chocolate (poo) than dark chocolate. And three glasses of wine into the night, I realized that I have grey carpet. I think it’s dumb to have grey carpet and brown walls. It took three glasses of wine to realize that. Clearly I’m a high functioning alcoholic. I’m far more ‘present’ and ‘in the moment’ when I’m wasted.

I guess I’m not changing the color. I’m too tired and broke to go looking for something better. But… brown walls with grey carpet? grr.