So you might notice I put up a little Paypal link over there, amusingly titled “pay for your meds”. It is, in fact, an account that goes directly to me and may or may not actually be used to fund anything useful. I’m not saying you have to donate or whatever or ANYTHING, but I thought, hey, I did sell anecdotes for a dollar at that festival that time, so it’s not really that much of a stretch.
At least I’m not standing at the corner of Mass Ave and Melnea Cass with a bunch of roses or something.110112
I have this list of meaningless things I hate to do. It’s not a real list, it’s just in my head, but it’s definitely there. And lately, it’s been compounding.
I’ve always kind of hated filling ice cube trays, an effort which usually ends with me having to mop the floor, which I only mildly hate to do. And you always seem to have to fill the ice trays just when you’re in the mood for a cocktail, thus delaying your liquid pleasure and making your life harder. I hate it when things make my life harder.
And pumping gas. I hate that. Like, you’re going places, you’re doing things, and then, oop! Gas light’s on! Gotta stop! And it’s always raining or cold or snowing while I’m standing at the pump. Always.
I’m not big into showering, mostly because I hate getting out and being all wet, but also because I hate shaving my legs. Washing my hair’s recently gone on the list as well, as has brushing my teeth at night. Unrelated to the shower but in the realm of the bathroom, so it bears mentioning.
What’s been troubling me recently, though, is that I hate standing up once I’ve sat down. Like, this is a primary function of life, right, standing up, but I sit down and I get so damn comfortable, and I hate being uncomfortable, so I hate getting up. I’ve taken to having B! fetch me items like a glass of wine from the kitchen, a box of tissues from the bathroom, or that thing over there by the DVDs. It’s bad, people.
Pretty soon, just breathing is going to start bugging me. And then where will we be? Where, indeed?
I have such a story, and it’s so unbelievably awesome (in the sense that it’s so unbelievably bad), but I don’t want to put it on the blog. At least not yet. If you’re interested in a sneak preview, leave a comment with your email and I’ll send one along.
I’m waiting in line at Target, online return with packaging in hand. It’s not a day that’s as bad as yesterday, but it’s also not a day that’s terribly GOOD. I’ve just come from Home Depot, which probably my #1 place to wish I could just curl up and die. Except maybe the East Boston Neighborhood Health Center. But that’s another story.
There’s two, maybe three people in front of me. It’s hard to tell, because one of them is the size of a spaceship and the other keeps wandering around, pushing his TV-in-a-cart to and fro and to again. The girl on register moves like she’s underwater. No urgency there. No sir.
I’m checking my email. I’m reading signage. I’m getting annoyed by all their ads encouraging me to “Shop Jolly”. I’ll shop jolly when I’m damn good and ready, Target, and I don’t need YOU pushing me around. I’m playing a losing game of Scrabble on my iPhone, thinking back to all those NPR pieces about how playing games on your iPhone all the time is bad for your brain. The computer gets a Bingo. The line inches forward.
Now the girl can’t figure out how to return the TV. He must’ve bought it on some crazy Black Friday sale, he looks the type. The girl is kind of running her fingers absently over the computer screen, I want to scream. Finally, after a complicated shuffling of flat-screen boxes, it’s my turn. I take my items out of the packaging and use my “let’s be friends” voice to explain that I’d bought them online and here’s the receipt. I’m looking forward to getting my refund and getting the hell out of there.
“Oooh, you can’t return this with this,” the girl tells me.
What. After all that waiting? Seriously.
“Yeah, seriously. Says so right here.” She points, and, sure enough, the packing slip can’t be used as a return receipt. Whatthefuck. “I think you can use those computers back there to print one, I don’t really know how, but…”
Would you bet that the computers were all broken? Would you bet that I left the store with my unwanted merchandise still in hand? Would you believe that I may never shop Target online again, if this is the kind of thing I’ll be having to deal with?
Oh yes, my friends. Yes, yes.
This was a steal, even by Craigslist standards. $25 for a futon frame? Super sold. So B! and I hopped in the Yaris, buzzed across town, and knocked on the door of one of the nicest beachfront condos I’ve ever seen. Its owner, an early 20-something dudebro, gestured behind him at the pile of metal and wood that was the disassembled futon frame.
Hm, I thought, those arms look awful high.
“Those are some high arms,” I said.
“Yeah,” replied dudebro, “it just didn’t work in my place.”
But shit, for twenty five dollars, I’ll buy just about anything. So we put it in the car, we cart it back to Revere, haul the thing upstairs, and put it together.
Ladies and gentlemen, This thing is not a futon. It’s a bed. Or a restraining crib for cantankerous adults. You choose.