Tales of Wit and Charm…

My friend, the Bishop, has lunch with me every single Thursday. He calls our lunches Therapy Thursdays. At first I thought it was funny, but now I’m starting to realize just how true it is. We go. We eat. He points out my shitty behavior. It’s fun. FOR HIM!

It’s always been just the two of us, however, yesterday he invited our friend Maddie along. I suspect he was slightly nervous and/or embarrassed to being alone with me after I informed the Internet that he saw the contents of my naughty drawer.

I expected a bit of awkward behavior from him, he is after all very bishop-like, but I was completely mistaken. After ordering our food and sitting down at the table he presented me with a gift:

He is obviously absolved of all bedroom peeking sins.

Maddie and I went to dinner a few weeks ago with a friend of ours. He’s married, older than we are, and Mormon–which would explain why I refer to him as my Bishop. He hates it, which only encourages me further.

After dinner we headed back to my place for some Girl Scout cookies. I’d like to point out I am not in the habit of taking married men home with me. He invited himself, I promise.

I was busy trying to talk my neurotic one-eyed dog out of jumping off the balcony because I invited a stranger into our home, that I didn’t notice the Bishop walk upstairs into my bedroom. I never, ever walk into someone’s bedroom without asking because I know what people keep in bedrooms! I’m a single girl living alone so I’m not exactly in the habit of putting away my… ahem, “unmentionables” or the batteries that go along with them.

When I finally realized he was upstairs my face went white, my jaw dropped. Maddie knew exactly what my reaction meant. Her eyes doubled in size as she whispered, “Sarah, where is your you know what?” “Laying in the middle of my unmade bed,” I whispered back. We both remained silent hoping he would walk back down the stairs and without making his way to my bed. Suddenly a booming voice from above hollered, “Hey what’s the story behind this poem above your bed?”

It was everything I could do to not scream: get the fuck out of my bedroom! Instead I took a deep breath and rose above my humiliation and answered, “It’s a Dorothy Parker poem.”

The good Bishop has not mentioned it to me, but if I get struck by lightening anytime soon I’ll know he mentioned it to god.

I have a friend who doesn’t have cable or Internet access at home. Can you imagine? I couldn’t, so I wanted to see if I could handle it. I couldn’t. At all.

Tuesday Night
7:30 Home from class.
7:32 Staring at my TV wondering what the red light on my Tivo is recording.
7:35 Still staring.
7:40 Going crazy wondering what DAMN SHOW I AM MISSING! Maybe grocery shopping will help.
8:20 Grocery shopping done. Cold cereal and cottage cheese put away. Now what?
8:24 A vodka tonic, that’s what!
8:26 Riding the elliptical.
8:36 Not riding the elliptical. Without TV to take my mind of exercising, I’m fully aware that I’m exercising. Uggg, boring.
8:45 OK, yoga. I like doing yoga.
9:00 SHIIIIITTT! I don’t like doing yoga on my own—can’t remember poses correctly. Need program from Tivo for proper workout.
9:02 I’ll catch up on some reading. I still need to finish the Obama book and there are three past New Yorkers I’ve not read yet, plus school reading. I suck.
9:03 Hmmm… What to read first. Listing pros and cons of starting with different readings.
9:08 Can’t decide. Maybe a vodka tonic will help.
9:10 Yup! Decided on magazine reading.
9:13 Phone call from hooker George. Talking super slow to take up more time. He’s Texan, he won’t notice.
9:27 Wondering if Twitter via phone counts. I really want to twitter how hard this is.
9:28 Really, it’s my phone not my computer, it shouldn’t count. Hmmm..
9:29 Should get back to reading, but my focus is gone. Way, way gone.
9:31 Putting moisturizer on my face for the fourth time tonight. If I break out I’m gonna blame my friend for putting this crazy idea into my head. He sucks.
9:32 Staring at face in the mirror watching to see if any zits surface. Consequently wondering if zits could appear that fast. Probably not.
9:34 Whew, nothing.
9:35 Damn my bathroom could use a good cleaning.
9:36 Remembering fondly the time I manipulated Ben into cleaning it for me. Hmm… Wonder when he’s back in town. I could possibly talk him into it. Wait, I have no idea when he’s back and I can’t check my email to find out.
9:37 Does phone email count? Compromising with Internet addicted self: outgoing mail is OK, past mail notsomuch.
9:40 Clock watching. How early can I go to bed without seeming pathetic.
9:45 Fuck this! I’m taking an Ambien and going to bed.

Last week a friend told me something very peculiar about his female roommate: she shaves her legs one day at a time. Yes, you read that correctly. To save time she shaves one leg, and then the next leg the following day. I was perplexed.

And admittedly, very curious.

So I tried it. I could see the appeal; I’m always late for work anyway, so less time in the shower sounded like a good idea at the time. But it so, so wasn’t.

I got to work and immediately lost my mind. I’m OCD about the weirdest things. And as it turns out, leg hair is one of those things. I need both legs to feel exactly the same, whether it’s stubby or smooth.

I canceled my lunch plans and headed straight home. I jumped in the tub, shaved one leg, and then the other. You know, for good measure–the last thing I wanted was to get back to work and be able to feel a four hour hair growth difference.

I vow to never attempt hippie grooming habits again, no matter how efficient they may be!

Letting Daisy out this morning I was stopped by two sweet looking old lakes. Except they weren’t sweet, they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is damn near devil status. My dog is absolutely worthless. She barks when people she knows come into the house, but outside when approached by strangers she is completely well behaved. Bitch!

She walked up to them and waited to be pet, because she is a worthless traitor dog. It was too late, I couldn’t get away at this point. Daisy was sniffing their giant old lady purses hoping to find one full of bacon treats.

Devil Woman: “We’d like to invite you to a event we’re holding tonight in honor of Jesus.”

Me: “No thanks, I’m not a big fan of Jesus.”

DW: “That’s OK. Come tonight and I guarantee you you’ll leave with a better understanding of our Lord, Jesus.”

Me: “No really, Jesus and I broke up years ago when I prayed for a sister and got a brother instead. Me and Jesus are soooo over.”

Silence.

Me: “And then there was the time I prayed to Jesus for a pony. Instead I got a stupid kitten, that I was allergic to.”

DW: “Here’s the flier, we hope to see you tonight.”

As the women walked away I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of Jesus expects single women to give up Saturday nights. I like the Mormon Jesus better; he only asks you give him Sunday afternoons.

Last night I carefully set out the four pairs of green shoes I own, so that I would have a variety of green to choose from this morning. And somehow I still managed to forget it was St. Patty’s day and wear my purple, polka-dot velvet shoes. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts.