Wednesday, October 20, 2004
The Accusations Fly
So on Monday I momentarily thought that our cleaning lady had stolen my gym clothes. I'll admit that this seemed like a strange choice, given that they most probably reek and there were any number of small, easily portable electronic devices nearby. But I thought maybe it was a fetish thing, that maybe she was irresistably drawn to me like so many have been. (read: Ed Asner) This conclusion seemed, in fact, rather inescapable, after neither my clever crawl under the bed or my journey to the very heart of darkness of my closet turned up any navy blue nylon shorts. Thankfully, however, I decided to take a gander at my roommate's room before phoning the police. The silly woman had for some reason placed my dirty laundry in a laundry basket! I'm sorry I doubted you, Simone. I'm even more sorry I had you placed on an FBI watch list.
In other news, I had a half-hour-long conversation with my mother about the draconian nature of our country's drug laws last night. This is not something I recommend. No child should have to hear about the various controlled substances one's parent may or may not have experimented with, especially not when those experiments may or may not have been contemporaneous with one's own stay at the hotel womb. I never signed up to have a "cool mom," and I would much prefer that she go back to worrying that people don't read enough any more or complaining that Everybody Loves Raymond is too dirty. Or at the very least share.
Life is just exhausting, isn't it?
So on Monday I momentarily thought that our cleaning lady had stolen my gym clothes. I'll admit that this seemed like a strange choice, given that they most probably reek and there were any number of small, easily portable electronic devices nearby. But I thought maybe it was a fetish thing, that maybe she was irresistably drawn to me like so many have been. (read: Ed Asner) This conclusion seemed, in fact, rather inescapable, after neither my clever crawl under the bed or my journey to the very heart of darkness of my closet turned up any navy blue nylon shorts. Thankfully, however, I decided to take a gander at my roommate's room before phoning the police. The silly woman had for some reason placed my dirty laundry in a laundry basket! I'm sorry I doubted you, Simone. I'm even more sorry I had you placed on an FBI watch list.
In other news, I had a half-hour-long conversation with my mother about the draconian nature of our country's drug laws last night. This is not something I recommend. No child should have to hear about the various controlled substances one's parent may or may not have experimented with, especially not when those experiments may or may not have been contemporaneous with one's own stay at the hotel womb. I never signed up to have a "cool mom," and I would much prefer that she go back to worrying that people don't read enough any more or complaining that Everybody Loves Raymond is too dirty. Or at the very least share.
Life is just exhausting, isn't it?
