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Nesting Behaviors
We live in a house now, not in an apartment like rent-paying barbarians. It's thrilling. Houses are somehow much quieter than apartments. So naturally we crank the music really loud.
We're getting a bit domestic lately. Patrick installs ceiling fans, toilet valves, and faucets, while I sweep the hardwood and wet sponges for various things that need sponging. I sometimes wear an apron so as not to ruin my clothes. I don't even know what to do with all this comfortable domesticity. I feel like I should, I dunno, go to a punk rock show or a tattoo parlor or something, just to shake off a little of the tradition... but I've got a pie in the oven.
(Okay, I don't really have a pie in the oven, but I have baked pie here, and, anyway, I don't blog to be accurate.)
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Hand washing sweaters. I'm against it.
I've been putting off doing my hand washed laundry since, well, whichever month last had snow in it.
So today, I say to myself "no more!" and I pick up my charmingly domestic wicker basket of soiled clothes, and prepare to eliminate one more project before moving. I fill my clean bathtub with water and a squirt of castle soap.
... And then I wash nine articles of clothing, five of them sweaters, which evidently, when wet, hold roughly 80 gallons of water a peice and weigh as much as a small motor vehical. I wring them out the best I can, roll them in towels like my mother always showed me to do, immediately end up soaking through said towels and find that I don't have any more.
My whole apartment is so damp and woolly right now. You wouldn't even believe it.
EDIT: I guess I posted this twice...? Yeah, I know, it wasn't that good.
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| I've Got A Hundred Dollars and Some Really Bright Paint
Patrick and I bought a house*. It was built in 1963, has wood floors, a fireplace, a backyard, a garage, and no signs about sizzling summer rates lining the street in front. It also, apparently, has no maintenance staff.
There's a joke Patrick told me. It goes like this:
A guy's sitting in a bar, and a woman of ill repute walks up to him, and she says "I'll do anything you want for a hundred dollars." So the guys pulls out his wallet and hands her a hundred dollar bill. She says "what do you want?" and he says "paint my house."
Any women of ill repute out there?
*Technically speaking, Patrick bought a house, and I got to sign a couple things because he's married to me. After borrowing nary a dime in school loans, and never possessing a credit card, my credit score is a big N/A, and thus I was unable to take part in the actual transaction. You know where fiscal responsibility will get you? Homeless, apparently.
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Long-Term Feelings Brought Out By A Recent Viewing
Elizabeth Swan totally screwed her shit up. The prim, grammar-school manners of Pirates of the Caribbean's Will Turner speak not so much of crafting swords or sailing the high seas, so much as they do pouring tea, practicing posture, wearing sun hats to maintain a milky complection, and combing at the willowy shadow of that coiffed and flowering mustache. Did I not watch this movie to see a society dame hook up with a damn freaking pirate? If I want gender amibiguity in my blockbuster action/romance, I want Johnny Depp's eyeliner and nothing else.
Also
Married life is bitchin'. I highly recommend that everyone get married. To anyone. Right now. You won't be disappointed.
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And We Danced To "Don't Stop Believin'"
On February the eighth, I done and got myself hitched. I've spent one week (minus roughly two hours and twenty-six minutes) being married to Patrick, being happy in his company, being humbled by the help and love of everyone around me, and probably being the most complete I've ever been.
Go ahead. Say "aw."
More to come.
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