Deborah Lipp

So this morning I hobble slowly downstairs. Because it’s the beginning of spring and my feet aren’t used to any of my spring shoes yet. And I get to the car and discover I forgot my keys. How can I forget my keys? So I hobble back upstairs. And halfway up I discover that there is the stinky stink of a cat who recently did the poo thing. So I clean the cat box and then go back downstairs with more facility this time (practice). And I get to the car and discover I have no keys. Now, to be honest, I am worried about my brain. So back upstairs, and I realize that there is a piece of paper—the schedule for Arthur’s dance recitals—inthe basket by the door, covering the keys.

So this is what has become of my brain. Out of sight out of mind is now literal.

To call tonight’s experience a Date From Hell is to insult the actual Dates from Hell I’ve been on.

I looked nice. I didn’t put on makeup until just before I left the house so that it would still look fresh and not blotchy. I had on my magic Date Bra.™ I got a pedicure today. I smelled good.

This guy-thing-creature-person was smelly. Smelly. And unkempt. A front tooth appeared to be chipped. Slightly cleaner than a homeless person. I’d bet he could win a homeless guy beauty contest if he entered. And that’s as far as I can go.

And also? I’m a catch. Okay, fat. But if you like ’em large, I have everything you could possibly desire in womanly womanness. I’m smart. Accomplished. Stable. Own my own home. Funny. A good mom. And did I mention the smelling good? And I think I should be able to go out with guys who can meet me on more or less equal footing. I think there should be parity of catchfulness. I think creepy unemployed smelly guys who collect SSI because of mental disability and BLOW THEIR NOSES IN THEIR SHIRTS should not ask women like me out. Should. Not. Ask. Date within your own species, mofo.

The room is painted. Really looks good. I mean, for an empty room with a couple of pieces of furniture shoved into the middle it does.

You have no idea how much stuff is in a room until it all gets moved into the hall.

Now I have to figure out what to do about the socket covers. Paint them? Buy sorta matching ones? Decide not to give a fuck? Decisions, decisions.

Redecorating is just a roiling, festering crisis that ruins your life right up to the very minute it is a pleasure.

Arthur the Wonder Teen wanted his room redecorated. And this was reasonable; he still had the cool bunk beds he got when he was five. But figuring out how to redecorate, and putting the steps in the proper order, was like hell on wheels. And then there’s the execution. (An apt word, I begin to suspect.)

First pick out furniture. Then clean room such that furniture could be moved in. Then get rid of great huge honking bunk beds. Pick out paint colors. Then paint. Meanwhile, Grandma makes curtains. (Grandma, not for nothing, is a decorator, and has been the major force behind the furniture and color selection, bless her.) Then get furniture, assemble. Live happily ever after.

Let me explain about the great honking bunk beds. » Read more..