Monday, October 11, 2010

Yuppie fail

BadInfluence came to visit this weekend, and he brought GinBucket and MC to stay with us on our glorious new futon. Those of you who have been reading my blog for years and are primed to the word ‘futon’ may know where this is going already.

Spaz and I planned for her to come over Friday for dinner, and then we’d have one or two drinks as we waited for our friends and lovers (in reality it was an entire bottle of white, and half a bottle of gin, to the point where Spaz was playing Barrel of Monkeys with my cat).

Friday would be the first time I had guests in our new, beautiful apartment.

Let me backtrack a little. I also started working 7am-3pm shifts at work this week. Since I still have to look professional and not like yesterday’s whore, I have to wake up at 5:15 in the morning. You know what wakes me up every morning? The dulcet tones of the British media. You know why? Because 5:15 is too early even for CBC. Fucking CBC even acknowledges that no one should be awake at 5:15. No one. So I wake up to their BBC stream. This depresses me, even though it makes me feel closer to Cleavage. Connected through the radio, if you will.

My point is that I have to go to bed early. At 11pm on Thursday I looked over at the futon just in time to see the bastard cat release a torrent of hot urine all over it. A fucking jet stream of liquid SATAN. He made eye contact the whole time, so nonchalantly, all like “Ya, that’s right. I’m doing this. It feels great.”

11pm. On the only place to sit in my apartment, and where the lesbians were to sleep the next night.

I went through seven stages of grief. Six of them were weeping, and one of them was calling BadInfluence in a fit of rage to tell him it was his fault BEEEECAUSE YOU LEFT ME HEEEERE ALOOOOONE.

At 11:30, I began the scrubbing. I scrubbed like a little slave-girl until 1am. I was delirious from the fumes of cleaning products and piss. I dragged the mattress into the sun room, lit some incense, sprayed half a can of aerosol, opened all the windows, yelled at the cat, felt bad about yelling at the cat and patted his little head, spent the next 20 minutes blocking his attempts to bite my arm off, the little fucker, scrubbed my hands to get the smell of piss off them, and passed out for a solid 3-4 hours of sleep. Wicked.

I gave the futon another vigorous scrub the next afternoon, before the arrival of the guests. Then I flipped it over, put it back on the frame, covered it with blankets, sprayed more aerosol, and hoped for the best. Everyone said they couldn’t smell piss, but they could be lying because I look like a serial killer right now, all pale and dark-circled and muttering to myself.

This was my first yuppie fail of the weekend.

Part 2:

BadInfluence and I went to the big farmer’s market downtown on Saturday. I like how big cities go to great lengths to make you forget you’re in a big city so you don’t get depressed and start shooting people from your office window. I’m pretty sure that’s why they have farmer’s markets (food other than Indian takeout!), group yoga classes in courtyards behind offices (exercise! Relaxation! Being part of something other than the commute!) and the occasional caged-in tree on a sidewalk (wait. waaaait. I know what that is. I've seen one of those before...).

So we totally douched it out, white-person stylez, and went to the market to buy local veggies and meats. We felt very sophisticated yet earthy, choosing our peppers and picking out our steaks.

And there was music in the background, barely audible above the market chatter. Sweet, soft music. I looked around for the source.

And my eyes stopped on a midget playing a mandolin. A midget. Playing a mandolin.

He was sitting on a little crate.

I’ve gotten in trouble for this kind of talk before, so I’ll just leave you with the image.

Part 3:

Because we weren’t quite douchey enough yet, we stopped at the wine store on our way back from the market. I was looking at the $8 bottles, like a classy bitch, when the salesman asked me if I’d like to taste their vintage Trius.

I’ve never been one to turn down free booze.

He poured BadInfluence and I each a little glass, swirled them for us, and set them down.
I immediately dumped it down my throat, opening my esophagus like a snake digesting a mongoose. I daintily returned the glass to the counter. The salesman eyed me warily.

“Oh, sorry. Was I supposed to spit that out or something?”

Yes I was.

We bought our cheap wine and were on our way.

Part 4:

By this time, it was early evening. We thought about watching the sun set over the lake, from our awesome view, but instead had dirty jungle sex for two hours, the kind where people get thrown around and you come-to with slap-marks on your face. You know, romantic sex.

I do not regret this choice.

Part 5:

This was not part of our Saturday, but needs to be mentioned. We were having a wine and candlelight night before BadInfluence left for CapitalCity. It was very romantic, what with cuddling and love-chatter.

Until I said this:

“You’re not funnelling water into my ass. I don’t care how much you want to get laid tonight.”

The context is unimportant.

Isn’t this exactly what you imagined I’d be like as a yuppie?



Cerky said...

A second post? That's it. My hopes are up.

Don't you ever fucking leave us again, woman.

Or I'm going to have to fly over and kill you. :(

Anonymous said...

no let downs peach! keep it coming! (your crazy anon reader)

Anonymous said...

aerosol? may I suggest... febreze? and dammit don't stop writing like that again! Thanks!

Cleavage said...

Incense seems to mask the smell, even if your hair stinks of hippies every time you leave the apartment!