My mother doubles as my own personal chef and live-in ironing wench. When left to my own devices, I tend to set things on fire while cooking and slice gashes into my hands when wielding a knife. So for everyone's sake, I tend to nuke things instead. My dinner guests will choose from a delicious menu of Lean Cuisine Mac and Cheese and Stauffer's Lasagna. Because I care. I am certain they will salivate like Pavlov's dogs.
And since I burn myself every other time I attempt to iron, I"ll end up just foregoing the ironing all together and wearing clothes that look like they've been languishing in a mountainous pile of clean-but-unfolded laundry for like 6 weeks. Because they probably have. My boss, in all her rigidly starched glory, will be so pleased when I start rolling into work looking like I just survived an F-5 tornado.
Aside from those unfortunate consequences, living on my own will be stellar. I've spent the last couple of weekends "unpacking" the mounds of bags from my old house (before I moved back in with my mom) that I stored in my garage four years ago. And by "unpacking", I mean sifting through the random garbage bags full of crumpled-up shit I forgot I had and praying that spiders and bats don't jump out at me and that I don't stick my hand in something squishy.
* super-webby cobwebs
* like 20 sticks of deodorant Guess I was a stinky woman 4 years ago.
* 7 melted Tootsie Roll Pops (Which, incidentally, are stronger than super glue. And they RUIN towels, FYI.)
* 4 dismembered spiders
* 3 cockroach carcasses
* 2 Janet Jackson cassette tapes (WTF?)
* and a partridge in a pear tree
|Tootsie Roll Pop aftermath.|
Anyway, upon assessing my *ahem* home goods situation, I realized that I need to do some serious shopping to buy some home decor and, you know, towels without melty, crusty, cherry Tootsie Roll Pops stuck to them. Which is doubly sad because not only did the lollipops ruin my towels, but I really, really like cherry Tootsie Roll Pops and now they're all wasted. *violins*
So I drove out to this backwoods home goods store called Val's Basket Warehouse because I insist on nothing but the finest furnishings and decor for my new abode.
|It's every bit as classy as it looks.|
I was met with things I didn't expect. Like this:
|For all of your ceramic parrot needs.|
|Ask and you shall receive!|
Just when everything was going well, *this* happened:
|This will haunt my dreams.|
*fetal position* Please make it stop.
I've never fancied myself an accomplished interior designer or anything, but with the help of the fine folks at Val's Basket Warehouse, I think my new apartment is really coming together. Pics of my new ceramic reptile family to follow...