Sunday, April 17, 2005

sore feet

Do you ever have a moment when you just have to sit back and appreciate the completely insane, Monty Python sketch-esque DISASTER that is your life?

Put yourself in our heroine's shoes - running late for an evening engagement. No particular reason she is late. The bulk of the day has been spent sleeping, reading trashy novels and eating treats from a nearby Polish deli. For some unknown reason, she was completely unable to rouse herself from her slothful, be-crumbed state to get ready. Until, holy FUCK she has to leave in half an hour. Then the fun begins. Leap into shower. Leg shaving can be saved for another day. Leap out of shower. Madly apply lotion, scramble into clean underwear and begin to blow-dry hair. Once hair is dry, rush into closet and search high and low for favourite (missing) black tank top. Find tank top five frustrating minutes later in sock drawer. (?) Blame mice for moving it. Effers. Plug iron in. Turn to pick up extremely wrinkled pants, turn (quickly) back to ironing board and knock iron flying. Spend five minutes scraping melted carpet off the iron and soaking water from floor, while cursing liberally. Throw yourself into (wrinkle-free) clothing, rush back into bathroom. Remember belatedly that one of the things you didn't get around to doing today was buying deodorant. Search through scary under-sink cupboard in desperation - there's a random mini sample deodorant in there somewhere. Swear you saw it a few months ago. Hastily apply makeup and brush teeth. Rush back into room to throw together over-night bag (because of course, you're going from this evening's engagement to a walk-a-thon the next morning, and the cursed TTC doesn't run early enough to get you there on time, so you have to sleep on a fellow walker's couch). Remember your sweatpants. Forget socks. Remember night-gown. Forget toothbrush. Shove clothes, sneakers, make-up case and pledge sheet into plastic bag. Go put coat on, grab birthday present, house keys, metropass and cellphone. On the way out of the door, grab the plastic bag with overnight-stay accoutrements. Stare in horror at the broken pieces of plastic handles that remain in your hand as the contents of said bag tumble into the hallway of your building. Curse. Kick the bits and pieces back into your apartment, throw gift/keys/cellphone/metropass onto couch, scramble in hall closet for large black duffel bag (seldom seen outside of airport, for aesthetic reasons) and shove contents of original overnight-stay bag (including broken, useless, handle-less plastic bag) into duffel bag. Pick up gift/keys/cellphone/metropass, duffel bag, and exit back door of apartment into sun-porch. Try to open screen door to the outside. Stare in horror at listless, flapping door handle. Try again. Curse. Shove screen door really hard. Curse. Throw down duffel bag/gift/keys/cellphone/metropass and stab hand through the screen itself to try to pull on the handle from the outside. Curse some more. Pick up bag/gift/keys/cellphone/metropass and unlock door back into apartment. Walk out front door and around the block, giving the useless screen door the finger as you walk past.

It's not so bad looking like you're running away from home late at night with a duffel bag full of your favourite things - but only if you don't forget the pbj and oreos.


Blogger Toxic Chi said...

THAT was impressive.

11:02 PM  

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