Now, I admit, I’m biased. Not only against the human babies in general, but against this particular atrocity’s father, whom I dated briefly in college, and who, being Christian, could accept my mouth around his penis, but was forbidden by holy scripture from doing much else. Oh, I know … I know! It was a long, long time ago, and, frankly, it was even before I really figured out how to enjoy myself in that way anyway, so what am I complaining about? What can I say? I like to complain, dammit.
Anyway, back to that picture. To me, that unholy creature looks like nothing so much as the tiny, unfeeling emperor of some planet of reptiles or some such thing. “Yessss, yesss,” it says, rubbing its scaly mitts together. “Onssssssce the humans accept Bill O’Reilly assss one of their own, we will implement sssssstep two of The Plan.” I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is very mean of me to make fun of an innocent baby because of its hopeless, genetically inherited unattractiveness. Oh yes it is. But hey: At least I’m making fun of it here, and not to the father’s face. I mean, what could he do, anyway? Hit it with a shovel, before it sucks his brains out through his nostrils while he’s sleeping?
On to something a lot more fun, by which I mean looking for a rental property for two more-or-less unemployed or underemployed people, with seven months’ usable rental history between them, and their two thug dawgs to live in. Oh yeah, and we’re lazy. And we have a meth lab. Kidding! I’m so kidding about the meth lab! But does saying that I did and then saying that it was just a joke make the part about the not having a job and the destructive, unhousebroken thug dawgs sound a whole lot better? Because I’m thinking I could say that to a prospective landlord! Like, he’s all, You guys are the worst tenants to ever apply! And then I’d be all, Oh come on … we could be so much more undesirable!
Last week Rich Bachelor and I went to see a house that was perfect for us—and similarly perfect for every other couple, it seemed. We were lined up along the sidewalk, in fact: a whole J. Crew catalog’s worth of mid-20s to mid-30s hetero couples in dressed-down Sunday morning schlub. We were second in line and were invited in along with Couple Number One, comprised of a very young girl wearing both a dress and pants and a boy with a very expensive haircut and an even more expensive pair of jeans. “What about that apartment building across the street?” the boy asked the landlord, as we filled out applications in the kitchen. “Do you have any problems with them?” (They were black!) No, no, the landlord said. The tenants of that particular building are refugees from
Am I wrong to feel that any response to a civil war in which people’s arms and legs have been hacked off which contains the word “awesome” is, you know, a little crappy? A little, um, how you say, not really understanding the situation in whole?
What I did not have the balls to say, of course, was: “So your take on this situation where people had to flee from their native country because hundreds of thousands of people were killed, and thousands more were orphaned, rendered homeless, raped, or had their limbs amputated is that it’s … awesome?”
And what she did not actually say (though I was expecting her to) was: “I think it’s really awesome that now they live in a country where they don’t have to decide between a dress and pants. They can totally make redundant clothing choices, and that’s, you know, awesome!”
So that was who ended up getting the house, in case you were wondering: The beautiful house with the fenced-in yard that was perfect for tha thugs. Oh well. I’m sure someone—someone really retarded probably, or perhaps blind or masochistic—is just dying to rent their beautiful house to a pair of no-accounts like us.
It’s worth mentioning that, after a week or so of living as if joined at the hip, one half of this no-account pair has absconded to Seattle for the day, leaving the other half lonely, yes, but moreover kinda looking forward to some alone time. My plans for the afternoon included:
Trip to dog park
Short jog along the bluff
Watch stupid rom-com
Eat dinner at Ethiopian restaurant
Most of these, it should be noted, are things that I either cannot do or will not do with Rich. He dislikes Ethiopian food, for example. Or, I’m sure that when he reads this, he’ll claim not to “dislike” it so much as prefer other kinds of foods to Ethiopian, which, he has explained on at least one occasion, has an uninteresting flavor palate, to which I say, We all are allowed our opinions, as mature adults, and phhhhhhhhllllllllllllllbbbbbbbbt. You are wrong! Ethiopian food is singularly delightful, as anyone knows. Go ahead, ask anyone. But then, he doesn’t drag me to pizza restaurants, so who am I to force him to eat food he does not enjoy so much? Even though, let’s face it, there can be no comparison between wat (yum!) and disgusting pizza.
The trip to the dog park isn’t something that Rich would dislike so much as it is something that would be done solely for my (and the thugs’) benefit, while the nap is something that Rich and I could both use, I’m sure, but that I find myself never getting around to as long as there’s someone in the room for me to yap at. “Oh, did you see that funny picture in the paper?” I’ll say, and continue muttering on and on. It’s one of my best qualities, I’m told. I’m a delight.
The rom-com in question—I know you think you know what I wanted to see, and it isn’t that one. Oh, I know we all, as thinking people, have to suck the cock of Judd Apatow and his irreverent comedy, but please. I cannot. I will not. In fact, instead of doing anything on the above list, I ended up taking Goofus and Gallant to get their nails trimmed and made some turkey burgers and drank almost an entire bottle of Pinot Gris and watched King of Queens (no Patton Oswalt—boo!) and So You Think You Can Dance? I am not a fan of King of Queens, but to everyone out there saying that Judd Apatow is a creative genius who has redefined romantic comedy to make way for the less-attractive man/more-attractive woman combo? I give you King of Queens. And According to Jim. And The Honeymooners. None of which also featured the most ridiculous contrivance to get two people together since the Virgin Mary sat Joseph down and said, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” Oh, I suppose it’s just me being all cranky again. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to trick some schlubby man into marrying me and caring for our child, so clearly I’m bitter. And have reason to be, I think!
I guess the point of all that, though, was (1) that I miss Rich Bachelor, even though he’s only been gone for a few hours, or (2) that I was glad to have some alone time today, even though I did not put it to very good use, or (3) that I am extremely lazy, and must be flogged into action immediately, or perhaps at some later date. Must we choose? All three options are pretty good.
Oh, back to the housing situation: I was thinking today that as a half-art project, half-means to an end, I could hide in the attic of above-referenced perfect house with the perfect yard, wearing a sheet and chains, rattling chains and making other spooky sounds. I don’t think it worked on The Brady Bunch, but that doesn’t mean the dress-over-pants girl wouldn’t buy it. She’d be all, “Oh, hey, about the ghost in your attic? It’s awesome! We can’t get any sleep and it scares us? Which is really awesome? But fuck this, we’re outta here, bye.” Which, when you think about it, would be totally awesome.