the slack daily

Before & After.

BEFORE:
Ex-roommate's pee-stained room.

AFTER:
Happy puppy bedtime!

BEFORE:
A perfectly adequate living room.

AFTER:
A detective agency.

 

BEFORE:
My 4'8"baba climbs gutters at 75 years old.  I am around 200 pounds and can barely climb a set of stairs without dying.

AFTER:
I'm a shade under 160 pounds and I spin five to six days a week, sometimes taking two classes a day.

 

BEFORE:
Bad orthodonists can ruin your face. Mine "fixed" my overbite by moving my upper jaw back instead of my lower jaw forward.  For over 30 years, I never allowed anyone to take a candid photo or a shot of my profile.

AFTER:
Good jaw surgeons are worth their weight in gold. I finally look like what I was supposed to look like.  Take all the photos you'd like.

(My surgery x-rays here, and you can see more after photos of the apartment on my Flickr!)

Princess and the Pee.

Everyone keeps saying that I'm putting a woman's touch on the Detective Agency.  I always thought a woman's touch sounded like something out of a douche commercial, where life is all piped-in music and smelly candles and everything fuzzy around the edges (probably due to mother's little helper.)

But a woman's touch seems to be a lot of moving (two couches, two end tables, two coffee tables, an entertainment center, four crates of records, a record player, an amp), and a lot of painting (the bedroom and the living room, mostly solo).

It's been backbreaking work, mostly because I wanted to get it done now. I knew that if we waited - well, if I waited - it would never get done.

Will would help.  It's not like he's been standing around doing nothing, he's pitched in, but the fact is that he's at work every day, and I'm here.  So the bulk of the physical labor has fallen to me.

I got a call in the middle of this all, from a friend I hadn't talked to in ages. 

You're doing the work yourself? she asked.

It's just two rooms.

I just didn't think you did stuff like that.

With just two rooms, I probably wouldn't have hired someone to do it even if I had the money to do so.  It's something I know how to do, and it isn't particularly difficult.  I didn't exactly have a hard-knock life, but my parents taught me how to be self-reliant.  How to figure it out.

Well, I do.  It's not hard, it's just tiring.

So when's your shower?  Who's giving it?

I don't think I'm having one.

Engagement party? she continued.

I think we may throw our own.

I don't understand, she said, this is the one time in life you get to be a princess.

I laughed, bid her farewell, and hung up.

I'm not a princess.  I've never been a princess.  My parents didn't stand for the memememe and aren't I special? that some girls get.  I was rewarded on my merits, not my looks.  The one lesson that I brought into adulthood is you're smart, so figure it out.

I'm good at figuring out what needs to be done.  I have painted rooms and arranged furniture and fixed the wireless connection and networked computers.  I have scrubbed cabinets and drawers and showers and toilets.  I have assembled lists and booked chapels and selected menus and figured out invites.

But I haven't exactly figured out the whole bride part.

Showers are for girls with sister and best friends and who have imagined their wedding since they were six.  I played veterinarian.  I played Pulitzer-Prize Winning Author.  I never played princess.

That's not to say that I don't like nice things.  I love nice things. I just like to be able to buy them for myself.

And I have a lot of nice things: good knives, good pans, nice glasses and plates and cloth napkins.  I have a pink Kitchenaid mixer and a 10-Cup Cuisinart.   It's why our registry is filled with video games and DVDs.  It's all stuff we want, but nothing we really need, as everything we need I already have.  I one thing we really need is money to pay down our debt.  But throwing a shower and charging a cover seems tacky, even for me.

We hadn't even planned on having a wedding at all.  We were going to slip off to Vegas and get married quietly, but we wanted our parents to know.  Whereupon SlackDad offered to pay for a wedding and a reception and my dress and whatever else I need, which was incredibly generous.   

How much do you think your dress will be? he asked on the phone last week.

Two hundred dollars, tops, I replied. 

Silence. 

Is that okay? I asked.  I can figure something else out--

No, my dad cut me off, I just thought dresses were much more than that. 

Not mine.

When we decided to get married, I told him that I wanted the wedding to be about us.  We want it to be small and simple and inexpensive and fun.

But I wonder if I'm missing out on something.  Is it that I don't want these things, or is it that I'm afraid no one will do them for me?  Minus the Internet audience (and Will), no one's asked to see my engagement ring.  There's been a minimum of squeeing, but is that because people don't see me as the squeeing kind?  I wonder if not making a Big Deal of it is making it No Big Deal.

Or maybe I'm just being stupid and girly.

Kind of like a Princess.

If you'll excuse me, there's a toilet bowl that needs one last scrub.

A Few Things.

1. I was at IKEA on Friday after a Meeting in the Valley. I was there to pick up square floating shelves (which they didn't have and I'm unable to find. Think these but smallish and square. Anyone?) and curtains for the bedroom (which is coming along nicely, pictures soonish). As I left with my over-a-$100 worth of stuff, I wondered why. I'm the only one who's going to notice the new pillows for the couch. Mr. Boy spent eight years peeing into toilet bowl that resembled the Ninth Circle of Hell. However, upon my return home he was delighted to discover curatins that blocked out light and new pillows to drool on.

2. My Meeting in the Valley was at Nickeldoeon. I was too cool to put my Visitor's Pass sticker where it belonged, on my chest, and stuck it near my waist instead. I was so cool that I promptly forgot about said pass as it was not on my chest, and wore it all through IKEA.

3. If the 80s taught us anything, it's that if you meet a Bright Red Lamborghini at a stoplight, it will be piloted by Tall Blonde Supermodel, a Columbian Drug Lord, or the Kid Whose Dad is Tearing Down the Rec Center to Build Condos. I thought about this as one pulled up to me at the red light. They revved their engine. I revved mine. As the light turned green, I hit the gas and sped onto the freeway. Mr. Lamborghini put on his turn signal, changed lanes, and edged cautiouslybehind me at a zippy 35 miles an hour.

4. Yesterday, Will found a mask for his CPAP machine (from when he had his gay sleep disorder).

We can pretend like you're in a coma! he said.

For when we have coma sex? I asked.

Exactly, I can practice pulling the plug.

But then it's not Coma Sex. Then it's Necrophilia.

Not if I'm quick!

5. Does anyone know anyone who works in Children's Publishing? If so, would you be so kind to email me here.

VD Wrap-Up.

Yesterday, I tested my love for Mr. Boy and went to the Forbidden Zone. And I'm not talking about back door lovin'.

When I moved in, I knew that if this apartment was going to truly be the future Slackmistress & Be the Boy Detective Agency Headquarters, that it was going to need a little TLC. I scrubbed cabinets and the pantry and even The Roommate's(tm) former room, but yesterday, well, yesterday my love for Mr. Boy was proved beyond a reasonable doubt, beyond what any vow or minister or marriage liscense could ever begin to do.

Yesterday, I tackled...

THE TOILET BOWL OF DOOM(tm)

The building we live in is an old one - the pipes are creaky, we're lucky if there's one outlet per room (there's none in the loo) and the bathroom fixtures have a tendency toward rust. While I had maids come out and clean the place before I moved in, they didn't have the time to address the ring of rust in the toilet. We've never seen anything like it, they told me. Feeling special, I nodded and told them to move on.

I rolled up my sleeves (okay, I really didn't, I was wearing a t-shirt), and armed with gloves and steel wool and a bottle of Lime-a-Way, I faced my opponent head-on.

Forty-five minutes and an assload (ha) of elbow grease later, the bowl at least appears white. Mr. Boy was both shocked, horrified, and grateful that I had tackled this monumental task. I was going to take before-and-after photos and give everyone the play-by-play, but it was truly too disgusting for even this blog. However, you are all invited to witness the difference for yourselves and come poop in our bathroom.

In less disgusting news, let's address last night's dinner. While I'm not a fan of making a big deal out of Valentine's Day, I had a Prime-Cut NY Strip Steak that was slowly growing freezerburn. I told Mr. Boy that there would be some form of dinner waiting when he got home. And there was.

In a fit of brilliance (really, if you tried them, you'd agree) I assembled an appetizer from the remnants of my fridge. I present to you, smoked mozzarella and basil wrapped in prosciutto. I flash-fried them, but in retrospect, I might let them bake in a wire rack placed in a pan in the oven to let the grease drip off a bit.

We followed with the NY Strip Steaks (rare, of course) and potatoes that had been roasted in olive oil, rosemary, and sea salt.

There was going to be a spinach salad, but we wanted to leave room for dessert: a slice of triple-berry shortcake (which I had thankfully remembered was Mr. Boy's favorite) from Sweet Lady Jane.

After dinner was over, I asked Mr. Boy if he wanted a drink.

We're out of whiskey, he said.

No we're not, I replied, I picked up more at the store today.

You're amazing.

I know I am, baby, I told him, I do. But just remember this: it won't always be toilet bowls and whiskey.

Happy Thursday.

Big Guys Don't Cry.

The first time I saw my father cry was when my grandfather died. Deda was my mom's dad, but he had been a father to mine as well. I remember it because I was 17 years old, paralyzed in the kitchen while my father wept. I felt terrible.

I remember it because it was the only time I saw my father cry.

The next time I saw a man cry was my ex-boyfriend, G. G. grew up with dreams of going to Stanford. He had the grades, he had the extra-curriculars. He was also hispanic. However, G. decided to get to apply as caucasian, to prove that he could get in, in his words "on his own merits."

He didn't get in.

I sat in the driver's seat, paralyzed, while G. wept. I would have felt terrible, except that we were 24, and it was time to get over the fact that we didn't get into our first-choice college when we were 18.

It's ten years later and I'm sitting in my new living room of my new apartment with my new fiancee. We've had sort of a rough day, but everything's been talked out and apologized for and we're curled up on the couch drinking wine with the remnants of dinner on the table when The Roommate comes home. The Roommate was given Thirty Days' Notice on January 5th. He comes in through the side door and ducks back into his bedroom, avoiding Will at all costs.

I would understand if The Roommate was 22, all fresh and new and immature and wet behind the ears. I would understand if The Roommate had been busting his hump looking for somewhere new to live night-and-day, instead of using Will's computer to post Craigslist Casual Encounters and place Adult FriendFinder ads. If his search for a place was as focused as his search for pussy, he'd be long gone.

But The Roommate, The Roommate is 37. The Roommate is someone's father, someone's soon to be ex-husband (or so I would imagine.) The Roommate is an adult.

The Roommate doesn't answer his bedroom door when Will knocks on it. The Roommate hangs up the phone when Will calls.

When Will finally opens the bedroom door to confront The Roommate, The Roommate starts to cry. Big, wracking, boozy-sounding sobs. I sat on the couch, paralyzed. I would feel terrible, but it's been over thirty days.

I leashed up Daisy and walked outside in the cool night air, trying not to be mad. I came back inside, trying not to be mad. I went to bed, trying not to be mad.

Ten minutes later I got up, threw on some sweats, laced up my sneakers and grabbed my keys.

Where are you going? he asked.

I don't know.

I don't have anywhere to go. I walk around the block once, then twice, then three times. I sit on the stoop smoking a cigarette and trying not to cry. I am paralyzed. I just feel terrible.

(The solution to The Roommate Issue here.)

Hatecrush 'r Us.

As some of you may (or may not) know, there's been Roommate Drama 'round these parts, as Mr. Boy's Supposedly-Temporary Roommate has decided that an Ass Grows in Our Second Bedroom. With thirty days' notice, he has found himself right where he began, albeit with more Taco Bell Wrappers and empty beer bottles. Of course, he magically disappears when Mr. Boy is home, so the entire script is being played out via voicemail, as Temporary Roommate doesn't like confrontation. My guess is that he's about to be confronted with his belongings on the front lawn ASAP. Stay tuned as the story unfolds.

But today, I'm not going to talk about that. Today I'm going to talk about me. Last night I had an odd dream. I was heading to Vegas (which I'm doing this weekend) avec Will (which I am also doing) and another couple (which we are not doing.) I didn't know this other couple, meaning that they have no counterparts in my everyday life. The woman took Will aside and asked if they could drive separately, and stay separately, and well, pretty much just weekend separately, because she didn't like me.

I called her, more perplexed than upset or angry. But you don't even know me! I countered. Get to know me, then dislike me all you want!

The timing was certainly cute, as last night I was discussing with Mr. Boy my general lack of comments. Sure, when people who have a hatecrush make themselves known. But my visitor to comment ratio is retardedly low. I don't get it, Mr. Boy told me. How is it that hundreds and hundreds of people visit and have nothing to say?

For a long time I chalked it up to the fact that when I started the slack back in 1997, there wasn't really a way to interact with my audience. Regular readers either emailed me or didn't respond at all.

However, there is also the contigent of People Who Don't Like Me. There's the one that called me a slut to a mutual friend (not knowing he was a mutual friend at the time) because I had the audacity to go out a few times with a boy she liked, even though I didn't know her, I didn't know she liked him, he didn't like her in that way, and I even made the effort to be nice. Is she checking to confirm my sluttiness? In hopes that Something Terrible Has Happened?

There's a few folks from MFW who dislike me because years and years ago I dated someone who had a tendency to be an asshole. Or maybe it's just that I was Annoying. I'm not exactly sure, but as one of the few females in the boys' locker room, you get used to such behavior.

So my question for the play-at-home-audience: why do you read? Not just me, but any of the blogs you frequent? Curiosity? Nosiness? Schadenfreude?

If you're too shy to comment, hit me up at theslackdaily@theslack.com.

Bits n' Pieces.

Mr. Boy nicely encapsulates our weekend here. You get a bris, a wedding registry, and a roommate who leaves our front door ajar in a booze-and-taco-bell fueled haze.

However, Mr. Boy neglected to mention two things:

1. The Puppy Bowl. I put it on for Daisy while I was making chili (this year's was definitely my crowning achievement, if requests that we install a vomitorium n the living room were any indication). We were two steps away from putting money on the game, although I think they shot the Golden Retriever full of sugar before he hit the field, the Visla (or was it a Ridgeback?) was a steroid scandal waiting to happen and the ref gave a performance worthy of the Yale School of Drama. Also, Pat Summerall: is his alcohol-pickled brain aware that he's commentating the Puppy Bowl? Or is it part of Community Service?

2. The following exchange:

Mr. Boy: I'm going to try and cut down on my smoking, so no more cigarettes inside the house for me.

Me: Okay.

Mr. Boy: Besides, it's bad for Daisy.

Me. ...

Mr. Boy: And the furniture?

Me. ...

Mr. Boy: Oh, and you!

...

The Detective Agency is slowly coming together after three days of scrubbing out kitchen cabinets. I began my journey as Marlow and ended up Kurtz.

The horror, the horror.

(Although you will no longer need a tetnaus shot should you want to partake of liquid refreshment at our place.) Pictures here.

Sophie's Choice.

I hate whining. But I hate not posting daily even more.

Soon I will post something other than mutterings about moving and marriage, je promis. It's just that betwixt that and the fact that my entire world view is colored by Queen Menses, and you get a small taste (um, ew) of what it's like to be me these days.

Paint Extravaganza 2007! (Part One) is over. The walls have been returned to generic white, so the next inhabitants of Casa Fabuloso can revel in their blankness. Part Two will commence when Mr. Boy's Roommate takes his leave of us, which hopefully will be soon.

This hasn't been the best week, what with me stressed out and oversensitive and exhausted, I've found myself engaging in some Typical Female Behavior that isn't a normal part of my character. I haven't exactly been a stellar girlfr--fianceé. I've been jealous and snippy and I can recognize that I'm doing it, even point it out as I go. This makes me crazy, because my thought is that if you're cognizant of a behavior, changing it shouldn't be difficult. Mr. Boy told that I have a right to my feelings, and that's true, we all do. But let's face it, plenty feelings are unfuckingreasonable.

Again, I know that this is a good change, this is the right change, that when it's all done that it will be amazing. It's just getting there that's the bitch.

To counteract the above, I present to you a picture of Daisy:

Today I Look my Age.

(Tuesday, 5:58pm, after painting coat #1 on the living room, putting coat #2 on the study and the bedroom, and coat #2 on the living room.)

Someone recently told me that I didn't look a day over 30. I'm 34. I currently feel 100.

But the painting is done.

Hopefully.