So, it had been awhile since I did something really good and embarrassing, and I think my subconscious and the karmic police of socialistic happiness distribution were starting to get suspicious. They both sat back and tried to remember the last time I made an ass out of myself in some type of public forum.
“I think it was the push-up bra, deep V-neck incident at the Mexican restaurant,” my subconscious said.
“Haha. Yes that was quite embarrassing, but you are mistaken. It was last week at the grocery store. Remember the grapefruit avalanche?” the karmic police of socialistic happiness distribution reminded my subconscious.
“Wow. Yeah. We must have buried that memory pretty deep, because we’d already forgotten about it. Is it possible to bury things in your subconscious’s subconscious?”
“Well, let’s see what type of damage we can do,” the karmic police officer replied, inviting my subconscious to a hearty chest-bump.
Whores.
I was enjoying a wonderful, lazy Sunday afternoon full of Gregory Peck movies (swoon), knitting, and homemade peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies. One thing that my afternoon did not involve, however, was pants. It’s kind of become a habit this summer. You know, the summer where the earth has apparently swapped orbits with Mercury (which some people would believe quicker than global warming). In an attempt to turn my giant sasquatch-mo carbon footprint into a smaller, cuter, baby carbon footprint, I have adopted a no pants policy in my apartment. Don’t worry. The main clause to this policy is that it becomes null and void when I have company. But it has allowed me to run my air conditioner less and less. Plus, it’s awesome.
In between my double feature Gregory Peck day (To Kill a Mockingbird and Spellbound just in case you were interested), I decided to do something productive. My kitchen was still drowning in the wake of my cookie construction project so it seemed like a good place to start. Plus, it smelled…really bad. After cleaning out my fridge, washing the dishes and wiping down every surface ever, including the floors , the smell was still there. The only other possible culprit was my trashcan. Duh. (Thank God I’m kind of an idiot sometimes. Otherwise my kitchen would never be cleaned).
I got my trash bag all tied up and ready to go and Holy Hannah, it smelled like death. I couldn’t wait to get it as far away from my adorable kitchen that I wanted to smell like cinnamon and dreams. The other side of my the complex’s parking lot would have to suffice though. Slipping on my tired running shoes so I wouldn’t burn my feet on the asphalt, I lugged my trash outside into the sweltering heat.
I looked around my apartment complex and reminded myself again how much I love it. They are these homey brick apartments that were probably built in the 70s before construction was completely monopolized by vinyl, plastic, and metal. All the apartments have these welcoming back porches and since I’m the only resident under the age of 70, they are all covered with beautiful arrangements of petunias, geraniums, and dahlias. There is a huge Oak tree in the middle of the parking lot that makes the best noise when the breeze blows. It’s the only apartment I’ve ever lived in that had any type of character or soul. To be frank, I have a giant crush on my apartment.
When I was halfway across the parking lot,lost in the sublime perfection of my complex, I stopped short. I was having an epiphany. Maybe that’s the wrong word choice. An epiphany suggests that I realized something wonderful, positive, life-enriching. This was none of the above. It was the same, tired realization I’ve been having for the last 23 years, give-or-take a few depending on which school of psychology you ascribe to. It was the realization that I am a complete moron. I realized that I was standing in the middle of my apartment complex parking lot with a giant bag of smelly garbage, my “Readers are Leaders” t-shirt, pink and blue polka-dot undies, and running shoes. Yep, that’s right. I had taken my no-pants policy out into the world, into the geriatric world of my apartment complex to be more specific. I tried to convince myself that no one was watching, but my experience with old people told me otherwise. A lot of old people love to sit and look out the window. For hours. Somehow I knew that in actuality, and statistically, at least one of my social-security collecting neighbors was watching me at that very second.
What was I to do? Where was I to go? I was halfway between the dumpster and my apartment. I could just own it; pretend like I was strutting my varicose-vein free legs across the parking lot. Yeah, I’m not wearing pants. So what? You got a problem with that Gramps?
Instead I squealed out something that would probably be spelled like this: “Meeeeeep!” and I rushed back inside with my bag of smelly, hot garbage that sat in the corner of my kitchen until the next morning when I finally had the courage to take it outside…with pants on.
“Hey, nice job,” the karmic police of socialistic happiness distribution officer said to my subconscious. “Pound it.”
“I think it was the push-up bra, deep V-neck incident at the Mexican restaurant,” my subconscious said.
“Haha. Yes that was quite embarrassing, but you are mistaken. It was last week at the grocery store. Remember the grapefruit avalanche?” the karmic police of socialistic happiness distribution reminded my subconscious.
“Wow. Yeah. We must have buried that memory pretty deep, because we’d already forgotten about it. Is it possible to bury things in your subconscious’s subconscious?”
“Well, let’s see what type of damage we can do,” the karmic police officer replied, inviting my subconscious to a hearty chest-bump.
Whores.
I was enjoying a wonderful, lazy Sunday afternoon full of Gregory Peck movies (swoon), knitting, and homemade peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies. One thing that my afternoon did not involve, however, was pants. It’s kind of become a habit this summer. You know, the summer where the earth has apparently swapped orbits with Mercury (which some people would believe quicker than global warming). In an attempt to turn my giant sasquatch-mo carbon footprint into a smaller, cuter, baby carbon footprint, I have adopted a no pants policy in my apartment. Don’t worry. The main clause to this policy is that it becomes null and void when I have company. But it has allowed me to run my air conditioner less and less. Plus, it’s awesome.
In between my double feature Gregory Peck day (To Kill a Mockingbird and Spellbound just in case you were interested), I decided to do something productive. My kitchen was still drowning in the wake of my cookie construction project so it seemed like a good place to start. Plus, it smelled…really bad. After cleaning out my fridge, washing the dishes and wiping down every surface ever, including the floors , the smell was still there. The only other possible culprit was my trashcan. Duh. (Thank God I’m kind of an idiot sometimes. Otherwise my kitchen would never be cleaned).
I got my trash bag all tied up and ready to go and Holy Hannah, it smelled like death. I couldn’t wait to get it as far away from my adorable kitchen that I wanted to smell like cinnamon and dreams. The other side of my the complex’s parking lot would have to suffice though. Slipping on my tired running shoes so I wouldn’t burn my feet on the asphalt, I lugged my trash outside into the sweltering heat.
I looked around my apartment complex and reminded myself again how much I love it. They are these homey brick apartments that were probably built in the 70s before construction was completely monopolized by vinyl, plastic, and metal. All the apartments have these welcoming back porches and since I’m the only resident under the age of 70, they are all covered with beautiful arrangements of petunias, geraniums, and dahlias. There is a huge Oak tree in the middle of the parking lot that makes the best noise when the breeze blows. It’s the only apartment I’ve ever lived in that had any type of character or soul. To be frank, I have a giant crush on my apartment.
When I was halfway across the parking lot,lost in the sublime perfection of my complex, I stopped short. I was having an epiphany. Maybe that’s the wrong word choice. An epiphany suggests that I realized something wonderful, positive, life-enriching. This was none of the above. It was the same, tired realization I’ve been having for the last 23 years, give-or-take a few depending on which school of psychology you ascribe to. It was the realization that I am a complete moron. I realized that I was standing in the middle of my apartment complex parking lot with a giant bag of smelly garbage, my “Readers are Leaders” t-shirt, pink and blue polka-dot undies, and running shoes. Yep, that’s right. I had taken my no-pants policy out into the world, into the geriatric world of my apartment complex to be more specific. I tried to convince myself that no one was watching, but my experience with old people told me otherwise. A lot of old people love to sit and look out the window. For hours. Somehow I knew that in actuality, and statistically, at least one of my social-security collecting neighbors was watching me at that very second.
What was I to do? Where was I to go? I was halfway between the dumpster and my apartment. I could just own it; pretend like I was strutting my varicose-vein free legs across the parking lot. Yeah, I’m not wearing pants. So what? You got a problem with that Gramps?
Instead I squealed out something that would probably be spelled like this: “Meeeeeep!” and I rushed back inside with my bag of smelly, hot garbage that sat in the corner of my kitchen until the next morning when I finally had the courage to take it outside…with pants on.
“Hey, nice job,” the karmic police of socialistic happiness distribution officer said to my subconscious. “Pound it.”
hehehehehehehe :)
ReplyDeletetears. of. joy.
ReplyDeleteLately, I've taken to a modified version of "Never Have I Ever" called "I Most Certainly Have." The premise is simple- I say 'I most certainly have (walked across a parking lot with no pants on)' and if you have not done that thing, you drink. Thus, you're punished for being a prude rather than being forced to drink for being a fast kid. Brilliant!
That said, when I explained this amazing new game to a friend, her response was: 'So... rather than staring at the floor, hoping your most embarrassing moments aren't revealed to your friends, you willingly reveal your most horrifying behavior for all the world to see -- which inevitably requires you to tell the story of how it came to be?!?' YES! EXACTLY!!
This, my friend, is what your writing does. And I love every poetic word of it.
hilar. whenever i'm writing something i like using parenthesis to make jokes. is there a term for that?
ReplyDeletei think it's called awesome... or an aside within an aside. either way I miss your face guy.
ReplyDeleteoh and brooke...EXCELLENT idea for a drinking game.
ReplyDelete