I’d have made a shitty pioneer.
Our dishwasher stopped draining last Tuesday, because fuck you. Scott and I are in budgeting season, when everything is a tip-toe balance to make the rest of the year run smoothly. “We can fix this,” I said.
Scott was not so optimistic. “Well, let’s try.”
We checked the filters, the obvious culprits, and got hopeful when we removed a trapped popsicle wrapper. (Don’t ask how it got there.) But no, after I ran the drain cycle, the two inches of chunky food-muck remained. Disgusted, I turned off the power (the appliance has its own switch) and jammed my hand down its works.… Read the rest
My phone rang, a Lexington number, and I prepared my, “Sorry, we moved five years ago but never changed the cells” spiel.
“Ms. Powell?” The woman’s voice was hesitating, as if she were surprised I had answered.
“Ye-ess?” I have no more professional connections in Kentucky. Friends, yes. Strangers who think my last name is Merriman and want to sell me life insurance? Yes. But people who call me by my own last name and yet somehow know better than to say “Mrs.”? None.
“This is Tessa from Central bank in …”
And I knew. The safe deposit box. We’ve tripped over those fucking keys for five years and not sent them back.… Read the rest
When my friend Jenny is deep-cleaning her life, she has three categories: Keep, Pitch, and Donate. Scott and I are digging out from under our own hoarders lifestyle, and I’m trying very hard to emulate Jenny’s example. Keep, Pitch, Donate.
Only I don’t think that’s enough categories for me. We’re working on our bedroom, and for my clothes alone, I needed eight classifications:
Dear God It Has Holes In It: Pitch
Christ that’s ugly, but somebody could still use it: Donate
It still fits me but I hate it: Dona…no Pitch…no no … decide later.
In Season: Keep
Out of Season: Keep
Holy Shit When Did I ever Buy One of THOSE?… Read the rest