Every day, for at least 10 minutes a day, it occurs to me that I need to stop staring at my cuticles and sweep the hardwood floors in my living room. Then I think, I should probably put down the remote and clean up my bedroom closet. It also crosses my mind that, rather than planning a Glamour Shots photo shoot for my dog, I should fold the laundry that’s been sitting in a hamper for two days.
And, you guys, I always REALLY think I’m going to do some of these things. I pinky swear and cross my heart and hope to die promise myself that I’m going to get my act together and make chores my bitch.
Here’s what usually happens instead:
– I end up spending a good hour and a half tweeting about what color my hair is or how awful tropical-flavored skittles are.
– The internet sucks me in to a mean game of “read the first two paragraphs of everything published today” (I’m still not clear on the rules of this game, but I’m pretty sure I’m losing.)
– My DVR has some Bravo programming saved on it that I NEED to watch.
– There’s something shiny on the floor, and I want to play with it for a while.
Ladies and gentlemen: I am a domestic disgrace.
And I spend a lot of time beating myself up about this fact. I tell myself that normal people are cleaning their houses daily and not complaining about it. I ridicule myself for having no real job and, consequently, plenty of time to get lots of housework done. I practically beg myself to straighten up and fly like Martha Stewart.
And sometimes it works. And I am shamed into dusting or vacuuming.
But today, I’m too tired to dole out and/or endure the beating I deserve, so I’m considering another tactic.
Today, I’m going to try going all Grey Gardens on my failure.
If you don’t know what Grey Gardens is, then you don’t have time for this post. You have to go read this Wikipedia page and get Netflix to send you the movie same-day delivery. Not the HBO movie. The real movie, circa 1975. Go. Do it. Now.
If you do know what Grey Gardens is, then you know that the documentary followed two classy broads who sat in a ramshackle home–complete with a raccoon–for over two decades, ate what was probably cat food and wore their skirts upside down (or as capes).
And they were fabulous.
Now, I’m not saying I’m ready to dine on Fancy Feast (although, I might look good in a skirt-cape.)
And I don’t think I’m sparkly enough to shine through two decades of mess like these ladies. In fact, I don’t even know what kind of dedication it might require to take a house from this:
Grey Gardens in 1936
To this:
Grey Gardens in 1971
I’m just saying that today, I’m not going to beat myself up over all of the things I think exemplary domestic-types do. Today, I’m going to do like the Beale ladies, who, as far as I can tell, didn’t subject themselves to any mundane chores at all.
Instead, I’m going to read poetry or sing or wear a head scarf. But in order for this scenario to play out, I’ll need a partner in crime.
Hence the title of this post.
I am currently seeking a character to be the Edie to my Edie.
Here are some of the required job duties:
Please list your qualifications in the “leave a comment” section*. Act fast, and this could be you:
*Fear biters need not apply.
Update: FIXED! It only took a day. Excuse me while I take a victory lap around the block. OUT OF MY WAY, NEIGHBORHOOD CHILDREN!
So, the site is going through some ch-ch-changes. There were a few things about my basic WordPress template that made me smad. (See: sad and mad.) And I thought, “I’m a clever lady! I met a graphic designer once! I can fix that.”
It turns out I am a fool. A damned fool.
To fix my foolishness, I’m trying to figure out how to write code. (See: monkey learns calculus.)
This could take a minute.
Here’s what happened: I downloaded Thesis.
The good news: There are some new awesome things that I enjoy. For example, hey! look at that treatment for the comments! Isn’t it darling?
The bad news: I can’t figure out how to make those stupid stock photos in the upper-right-hand corner go away. Don’t look at them! Look at me!
Stock photos burn my eyes and ruin everything. I hate them.
So, I think I have to create a custom css to make the site not so plain. (Feel free to jump in at any time to correct me. I could just be making up words)
I’m not sure what it might take to kill those photos. But trust me when I say: I want them dead.
I’m going to do the best I can to fix this mess, but I’ll make you this promise: If I can’t fix this new site stuff in a timely fashion (let’s say five days) I’ll bring back the old format. Which was acceptable and DID NOT have offending stock photos.
Have I mentioned I’m on a lot of cold medicine today?
1. If you spend too much time traveling and not enough time resting, you will definitely get sick.
2. When you do get sick, the internet will be there for you. Like your mom. But in my case, way funnier than my mom.
3. I have wasted every sick day of my 20s until this one. Why didn’t people tell me that I could have a party on the internet when I’m sick? Why? I feel like there were at least six sick days in the past five years I could have spent tweeting snarky thoughts instead of resting. Rest is for punks. Spending a day on the internet is awesome.
4. Spending too much time on the internet tweeting and reading blogs leaves little time to get better. I may still be sick day tomorrow. But the internet will take care of me if I do! Win!
5. Being new in town has its perks. You can wear yoga pants to the grocery store and feel certain you won’t run into your boss or the girls from the Junior League. (Because let’s face it, the girls from the Junior League make you nervous even when you’re wearing your nicest outfit.)
6. I MUST stop responding to men who ask me “How you doing?” It took me several years to realize that these men weren’t actually asking how my day went or how the weather was. And even after it occurred to me that they didn’t give a crap how I was doing, I was too polite not to say “Fine, thanks.” But tonight, after a very suspicious gentleman asked if he could “holler at me,” I realized that I’m not helping anyone by responding. (I told him I was married. He said, “That’s too bad.” And I thought, “Because that’s the only thing standing in the way of this love connection…”)
7. There are already at least 3,459 people on the internet who are practically clones of myself. They’ve been tweeting and blogging since forever, and I should give up now.
8. I WON’T give up now, because I’m still not done talking.
9. If you pass a pick-up truck on the road in a Prius, the pick-up truck driver will try to race you. The bigger the wheels, the more determined the driver will be. Let the pick-up truck driver win. It’s better for everyone that way.
10. The jury’s out on whether or not blogging after a shot of Nyquil is one of the “Five Tools of Awesome Bloggers,”* but that won’t stop me from trying it.
(*Don’t Google “Five Tools of Awesome Bloggers.” I don’t know what you’ll find. It’s not a thing, I just made it up.)
Update: Googled “Five Tools of Awesome Bloggers,” so you don’t have to. Nothing to see. Unless you’re the author of “Five Tools of Awesome Bloggers.” If that’s the case, great job. Super thoughtful title.
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