My house is small. It’s a studio in an older building where they have been testing the fire alarms, replacing the roof, and screwing steal grates over our fireplaces because some people are stupid do not fully understand the care and maintenance that goes into functional chimneys. They’ve managed to carefully space out their projects to lull me into complacency before they commence more banging and beeping. I start to feel comfortable in my own house again; I start to leave the deadbolt open. They wait, standing there unassumingly, frozen like little sepia statues whose eyes follow you no matter where stand. It’s a construction thing I guess. And then, a new project begins, or the neighbors get a new dog, and my serenity is ruined.
You know what is not a construction thing? Looking in people’s windows when they are cooking breakfast naked. It’s not like I was making bacon – I wasn’t. I was making muffins. Delicious, home cooked, very-sexy-healthy-housewife muffins. With pumpkin. And flax seed.
I share my house with a man, whom we will heretofore refer to as “the bunny”. I find this hysterical because of certain childhood rhymes which infuriate him to no end, as he was teased in elementary school (*eye roll*). I was teased in elementary school too, you know. All the way through high school - some might even say the teasing lasted until after I was legally allowed to drown my tears in vodka. But I digress.
Anyway, the Bunny is an incredibly extroverted person. This means he’s loud, all the time. All the time. Most of the time, it doesn’t bother me, because it makes us seem like we’re sharing a lot more than normal couples (which we are). I also like that I can narrow down his precise location on the globe, in the dark while wearing a blindfold, just by listening to him laugh. The Bunny is also sweet and cuddly with fine, baby soft hair and ears that taste like chocolate FULL OF MANLINESS. I love him, of course.
That being said, we live in an area where our apartment could fit in some people’s bathrooms. Every day, we must be conscientious of the pet peeves belonging to the other half. And since our space is so limited, I tend to regard it in every way as my bubble. People are only allowed in my bubble upon invitation (usually accompanied by copious amounts of liquor gifts of wine and cheese). Puppies and sunshine and gift baskets; Nothing can pervade my bubble! This makes it especially interesting when the Bunny lowers the blinds slightly to pop his head out into the great world, whereupon he will promptly see his shadow and there will be three more hours of “Deadliest Catch”.
A side note: Do NOT mock the crab fisherman, as they are not only the big-dumb-guys of today, but they are the salt-encrusted-drunks of tomorrow and they tip their benevolent bartenders well. They are also working a job that could kick anyone’s ass, and they do it over and over and over again for hours and days in below freezing temperatures. Respect.
One of my pet peeves is “Abode-sion”, defined as: the process by which the Bunny’s machinations slowly eat away at the exterior of my bubble, usually by utilizing the window coverings to an extent where the distance between the top of the window and the top of the blinds increases exponentially every time he looks outside.
This process is near microscopic, which is why I never notice it.
Finally, we have come full circle, returning to the concept of looking in people’s windows when they are cooking breakfast naked. Now, were I to be placed under oath in a court of law, I couldn’t say it was anyone’s fault. Not with conviction anyway. Unfortunately, it was just a conglomeration of coincidence that day that led to the poor man accidentally glimpsing all of the all of me. You see, I didn’t notice the process of abode-sion happening right before my eyes, nor did I decide to make bacon and therefore use my apron. Nor did anyone realize that I would be standing in the kitchen at the precise moment that man tried to plug his electric blah-blah into the patio outlet outside my window. There was movement, which he tried and succeeded in identifying.
To be fair, it was also not his fault I didn’t realize these things had coincided until I had finished my making-breakfast dance. It was at this juncture that I realized there was a man holding the tail end of an orange extension cord forgotten in his hand staring slack-jawed at the sight of my poor lily-white blossoms (ehem) in the breeze. Needless to say, I hit the floor with all due haste, despite how it was obviously too late.
The moral of the story here is:
If you expect serenity, keep the blinds closed.
If you expect a perfectly manicured yard, cook breakfast naked.
Comments
Post a Comment