Misfit Thanksgiving

So, my mom came to visit for Thanksgiving. We put Shannon's boxsprings on the floor in the office and inflated the camping mattress on top of them. The air mattress has a very slow leak, so when you wake up in the morning, you are kind of swallowed into it. It's hilarious. I want all of you to know that I offered for my mom to sleep in my bed and for me to sleep on the air mattress, but she insisted that she preferred the air mattress. It's true.

Anyway, I don't have a dining room table, so my mom and I went shopping for a card table on Wednesday afternoon. Well, apparently, so did everyone and their uncle, so the pickings were slim, and expensive. Ultimately, we had a whole scheme concocted that involved balancing the pegboard that the old homeowners used for their tools on top of the big Rubbermaid bins that my mom makes me keep with all the family photos because she is terrified of a Florida hurricane blowing her house away. We were planning to sit on my porch chairs and the piano bench (I only have a bench, not a piano). It was totally a la Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, or Dinner at Jeff's. Then I remembered that my desk is basically a big table (I am an office furniture minimalist), so I put the computer on my coffee table, and the printer on a nightstand and dragged the desk into the dining room. Brilliant!

Our festivities started at 9 PM on Wednesday with chocolate cake and a 2-episode Project Runway Marathon. We love Tim Gunn. Shannon almost passed out when SJP was the mystery fashion icon!!

My friend JD came over for french toast on Thursday morning and then we all went to the movies to see No Country for Old Men, about which I will only say, "Holy Crap!" My mom was cracking up because the movie was very bloody and emotionally intense (wait for it -- she's not a sicko) and Shannon, who was sitting next to her, kept squirming and squealing and scrunching up in his seat and watching through his fingers. I, of course, was doing the exact same thing two seats over. By the end I had both my feet up on the seat and a death grip on JD's shirtsleeve. I almost (almost) had to stop eating my popcorn.

We came home and played a VERY lengthy game of Tri-Bond, during which we all kept forgetting to move our pieces on the board and the nickname "Crappy McCrapperson" was used liberally. I won. We also put together a 500-piece puzzle that was a collage of clock faces. Shannon kept working on the beige ones (which all looked exactly alike) while the rest of us worked on the unique, colorful ones. We don't know why he did that, but my mom kept encouraging him, because she's the mom. The best part was when we did "joins" where two big parts came together. I know, I know -- nerdy. But I bet we had more fun than you.

Our Thanksgiving meal consisted of beer, make-your-own-pizza (except I sort of -- go figure -- took over the project), field greens (but not Shannon, who has issues with lettuce) and more chocolate cake. Hooray! I hope we have another one just like it next year!

Photo by heypaul

Pure Terror

Last night we were sitting around the island in Shelley's kitchen eating dinner. She was sitting on the stool, and I was opening the refrigerator when she screamed liked banshee. Shelley jumped off the bar stool, ran into the hall and stared wild-eyed into the kitchen. After checking my pants for poo, I asked, "Was it a roach?" I walked over to where she had been sitting to investigate. Nothing. As she gained her composure, Shelley said, "I thought a rat dropped on my head but I think it was just my scrunchy that fell on my neck." Wow. That's all I could think. Wow.

I Heart Mac

I drug my computer savvy friend, Lisa, outside the perimeter last weekend. We went to the mall. I know. It's disgusting. But we did it. But I had a noble reason. I'd say it was to buy Christmas presents for needy children, but that would be a blatant lie. And I'm not a liar. Besides, I haven't bought a Christmas present for anyone in about five years. I know. It's awesome. So anyway, Lisa was there to guide me in my purchase of a MacBook. I know. It's thrilling. As the packed parking lot indicated, the mall was busy with mindless shoppers, and the Apple store was no exception. Lisa and I stood in front of the MacBook display and waited to be noticed. It took about 10 seconds. I know. It's amazing. A nice, young, skinny guy approached us with nice, young, skinny woman in toe. I informed him I wanted to purchase a laptop. He started talking about features and some $250 warranty package. I let him talk, but not because he was cute in a quirky, disheveled way. I was staring at his discolored tooth. I know. It's unfortunate. After his little speech, I was like, "Uh-huh. I'm ready to buy it." So he leads us to the back of the store to check out. And so we did. It was the easiest $1,200 purchase I've ever made. Until I got home. Being computer retarded, I had no idea how to rig my computer to get online. I waited for Shelley the Great Domestic Goddess to get home, but she was a bit business with her own life. I know. It's inconvenient. But Shelley assured me she would try to hook up the wireless Internet over the Thanksgiving break. Meanwhile, there's a hunk of expensive equipment sitting unused in my room. I know. It sucks.

Driving the boat

My Shitzuki is in the shop again. I swear I hate that car. Long story short: bought brand new in 2005, replaced transmission six months later, replaced transmission another six months later, transmissions problem again but "fixed" after hooking it up to a computer, a/c breaks and rattles, a/c replaced but doesn't cool, a/c replaced again but doesn't cool. So my craptastic car is currently in Marietta as mechanics try their best to figure out what's wrong with it. Meanwhile I'm driving a maw maw car (aka Ford Taurus) that drives like a boat. All the parts are in the wrong place. The lights are on the dash. The gear shifty thing is attached to the steering wheel instead of in between the front seats like my car. It only has a tape player. Who has tapes anymore? Blah!

Dinner with a Methane chaser...

So, last week, most of our original improv cohort from Dad's Garage got together for dinner at Jeff's new apartment. Although we are all still connected in various contexts, it was great to see everyone all at once. Jeff's apartment is kickass, and dinner was an excellent assortment of his surprisingly delicious cooking and items everyone brung (most of which I had to forgo because of the aforementioned sugar/white flour hiatus). The new IKEA dining table, which we all helped fund (I think we probably contributed, like, two legs) was very comfortable, though lacking in adequate chairs... thus, various coolers, crates and even the coffee table were enlisted to provide the missing seats. The best part was looking at Kevin sitting about a foot lower than everyone else on a plastic storage bin -- his chin was almost resting on the table. Hilarious.

Anyway, we're all having a good time, chattering away, when Katie, in her typically dramatic fashion, says "Oh my god, y'all..." and proceeds to tell us, in highly graphic detail, how she recently read about a new teenage "getting high" fad that consists of (I shall be clinical) collecting human excrement into a bottle and leaving it out in the sun for a few days to ferment... at which point in the story I exclaimed, "Please, Katie, I am eating here!" to which she replied, "It's okay, it's okay.... they don't eat the poop!" and then went on to explain that they inhale the fumes, pass out for awhile, then wake up utterly hallucinogenic and, as Kevin so punfully described, "sh*t-faced." Katie's closing remarks consisted of an enthusiastic speculation about how crazed drug-addicts would desperately seek out people with the worst eating habits, who would thus, presumably, produce the most noxious/potent poop (again, I have edited for decorum). Here I pushed my plate away.

I love my friends. I truly love them.

Back pain and singing

First of all, I did have legitimate back pain on Monday. It was very ouchie and uncomfortable, and there were moments where I couldn't even walk. I think it was back spasms or something else weird. Even the slightest move would send me writhing and cursing. And it was the Diet Coke. I know it was.

Now, here's some dirt on Shelley. She likes to sing while she walks around the house. But she doesn't sing a whole song. She'll sing one line and stop. Then a few minutes later she'll sing another line. And stop. It's amusing.

The Pressure...

Okay, okay, you nagging a-holes. Here's what I got...

The week in bullet points:

• Shannon was born and raised in Mississippi and never snapped green beans until last week. He did a fine job. He just told me that he has also never picked cotton. That will be our next adventure. Does anyone know when cotton season is?
• Shelley has met a man person. She is not inclined to blog about it. Just deal with it.
• Shannon won't stop talking to me while I write this. It's making me feel schizophrenic. I told him to stop talking to me and he responded "But I haven't seeeeeeen you all daaaaaaaaaaaaaay!" (I love him SO much!)
  
• Shelley has gone off sugar (and white flour) again. That means no beer. Tragic. Just tragic. Also, she has not gone grocery shopping to prepare for the event, so yesterday she was reduced to eating a lot of melted mozzarella cheese on top of tomato slices (genteel folks might could call that a "crustless pizza," but I call it pathetic).
• Shannon hurt his back on Monday for no apparent reason and had to stay home from work. He thinks that his Diet Coke consumption may be the culprit. His back was better in time for him to go to his improv class.
• Shannon is wandering from room to room singing a ridiculous made-up song with only one line, which is: "Fat guy in a little co-oat." He has repeated it approximately twenty times. He is doing it to drive me insane while I write this goddamn blog entry. I left our friend Karen's hoodie on his bedpost so that we would remember to take it to her tonight. He put it on and came in here because I wasn't paying any attention to him. Thus, the song. (UPDATE: Shannon has just informed me that the song is NOT made up, but, rather, from that classic cinematic masterpiece, Tommy Boy).
  
• Best for last: we both own possibly the smallest cars on earth, and yet we cannot seem to maneuver the parking pad to get down the driveway in less than a twelve-point turn. And I was really good at geometry in high school, so I just don't get it. We are giving the whole "woman driver" stereotype a lot of traction.

For Our Readers (continued)

*Disclaimer* You really should read the previous post to get the full effect of this one.

Let's recap. Frozen pizza. Rapid conversation. Shelley changing. Thanks for the warning this time, roomie.

...she froze in the hallway and screamed like a banshee. Usually, my initial reaction to a screaming woman is to scout for the Gremlin and haul ass in the opposite direction. But I didn't have time to react, because I'm pretty sure Shelley laid a death grip on me and thrust me in front of her. I could have imagined that, but I'm writing this friggin' half of the story. Frantically, Shelley points at the ceiling, and I follow her trembling finger to a moving black spot on a stark white strip of crown molding. It was a roach. Granted it was a big roach, but it was just a roach.

Apparently She-Ra has her weakness, and it was staring right at us. Now I must admit my admiration for the woman who bravely walked outside in her bare feet only days before to investigate strange noises faltered in that brief moment. But only for a moment. I was happy to be the "man" of the house if only for the time it took to capture Shelley's kryptonite. Or so I thought. I do get macho points for approaching the situation with gusto. I grabbed the empty California Kitchen pizza box and a Swiffer with cool confidence. I located my target. And then I turned to Shelley and said, "If this thing falls on me, I'm going to scream like a little bitch." I held the box above my head and jabbed the critter with the Swiffer. Of course it didn't fall in the box, which would have been convenient. Instead it fell on the floor and scurried around blindly. I, in turn, squealed and attempted to keep both of my feet in the air. I did all of this while valiantly trying to usher the roach into the box. Obviously it wasn't a fan of barbeque chicken. I, however, highly recommend it. Since the little bugger just wouldn't cooperate, I squished it with the Swiffer. Thus another exciting night ended in the household of Shannon & Shelley.

For Our Readers (all three of you)

It was pointed out to Shannon and me today that we have not blogged in four days and we had better get on it. Sadly, there has been nothing especially blogworthy happening, and, we know how everyone has come to value our high literary standards. It would simply be "beneath" us to compromise quality in order to meet the demands of our tiny but rabidly loyal readership (Shout out to the peeps! XOXO).

Well, hold on to your hats folks... There has been a development! I know you are brimming with anticipation... Let me just say, it involved copious giggling, a pizza box, a Swiffer broom, and lots of screaming like little girls.

The setup:
I was changing into PJs and Shannon was standing in my weird, wide back hallway, talking to me through my door. We were dishing about our improv class and waiting for the frozen pizza to bake. Incidentally, I have gotten so much better about not simply ripping off my clothes to change while not even pausing the conversation. I am not an exhibitionist, and it's not that I think Shannon is not a "regular man" because he is gay. It's literally that I view him as an extension of myself, so it seemed perfectly logical to my amygdala to just go about my business without even giving it a thought. (Yes, I always close the bathroom door, you weirdos.)

Anyway, I came out of my room, talking a mile a damn minute, headed for the kitchen and... I will let Shannon tell the rest, as his version is sure to be way more entertaining than mine.

Wonder Woman

I had no idea I was living with Shelley the Fearless. Last night, we're sitting in the living room when we hear what sounds like someone running across the roof. My initial reaction was, "There's a Gremlin in the attic; where are the flashlights?" Shelley's initial reaction was, "Some bum is stealing my garbage can; I'm going to kick his ass." So Shelley stands up, opens the front door and goes outside. I've seen enough horror flicks to know that quizzical white people get their guts ripped out with a butcher knives. "Oh what was that noise? Let's investigate. Scream. Run away. Trip. Stab. Stab. Blood. Die." Apparently, Shelley hasn't seen a scary movie in her life. So She-Ra strolls out of the front door and around the corner of the house to check it out. I'm scrambling to catch up and finally get in front of her. I'm not sexist; I just don't want Leatherface to quarter my best friend with a chainsaw. And after successfully investigating, we discover there's no green monsters, masked maniac or drunk bum. What I did discover is that maybe Shelley can make me more fearless by the end of my stay. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get Uma to carry a sword.

Shannon's Bed, revisited...

So, it occurred to me that I have this whole empty attic, and it's nice and cool now that fall has settled in. I suggested to Shannon that we take the box springs, which don't actually weigh much, from his crazy mega-bed, and store them in the attic for the next few months. He was game. So, my friend JD was over and I wheedled them into performing the chore while I supervised.

Shannon's first comment upon seeing his beautiful, normal-height bed was "Dang, now I'll be at the wrong angle to play my Playstation." I ignored that. They carried it down the hall and started into the attic, but the stairs are steep, the opening narrow, and, alas, the project was a bust...

So now Shannon's box springs are leaned against the wall in the so-called "breakfast room" (Listen, I neither built nor appointed this room -- I was told that's what it is, and no one -- men people, anyway -- seems to understand when I refer them to retrieve something from "the breakfast room." It is most frustrating).

I am left asking myself: Why are so many of my best ideas thwarted by architecture?

Potty break at 1 a.m.

Shelley and I are both light sleepers. Shelley and I are both considerate people. Therefore we both have dilemmas when the other is sleeping. The morning after my first night in her lovely home, Shelley took her blender into the living room to make her morning health shake thing so she wouldn't wake me up. I imagine her crouched in a corner over the blender with beads of sweat dripping down her face as she creates a buffer with her body in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise. She's so thoughtful. Last night it was my turn. Sometime after midnight or 1 a.m. -- I'm not sure of the time because I was in a sleep daze -- I crawled out of bed and gingerly made my way to the bathroom. The bathroom is located right next to Shelley's room. To get there I have to cross an expansive floor of creaky wood and open a squeaky door. It's enough to give me palpitations because it reminds me of my childhood. I grew up in the house my father lived in as a child. That's a nice way of saying it was an old house. We lived in the middle of the country with creaky wood floors and squeaky doors. My room was located across from my dad and stepmother's room, and the bathroom was down the hall. So I learned to creep down the hall with my body as close to the wall as possible. This somehow reduced the noise. I tried that last night, but I'm not as small as I used to be, and Shelley's floors are just so damn creaky. I had another tactic when I was a child. I would pee in a cup I hid under my bed, and sneak into the bathroom that morning to dump it out. I know it's gross; I was a kid. I have no plans to revive that tactic. It's gross, and I'm an adult.

Personal Prostitute

So, the thing is, my house really is in the 'hood. The neighborhood itself is an adorable oasis within a questionable (but improving) geographic area. As such, during my daily commute, I often pass one or more prostitutes on the road. "How do you know they are prostitutes?" you ask. I am telling you, you just know. There is a huge part of me that is terribly saddened by the poverty and desperation I know are driving forces in these women's lives. I can't imagine that being my life. I feel sickened, grateful and a little guilty every time I see one of them walking along and scouting...

That being said, there is a particular prostitute, a scrawny, chain-smoking, mullet-sporting white woman (the only white prostitute I have seen in these parts), with sunken pock-marked cheeks, scared eyes, and an assortment of daisy dukes and flip flops -- whom I have come to think of as my prostitute. I find myself searching for her as I drive along. I feel bereft and mildly disappointed if I don't see her. I get excited when I bring someone over to the house and we pass her on the street. I have actually flung out my arm, and exclaimed gleefully "There she is! There's my prostitute!" and been literally excited that her existence has been confirmed by one of my friends. (Now that Shannon lives here, I think of her more as our prostitute).

What the hell is wrong with me?

Sex and the City

When I mentioned my nightly ritual of watching "Sex and the City" to Shelley, she immediately embraced the idea. We decided to watch it together from Season One as a means of winding down each night before bed. We started with the first episode last night. I don't think we watched 10 minutes of it. At some point we'll need to stop talking to one another if we truly want to make it through Season Six by January. It's a nonstop jabber fest in that house. You'd think we hadn't spoken in 10 years. We have to make ourselves go to bed. I intentionally avoided her this morning so we could both make it to work on time. I assume eventually we'll run out of stuff to talk about, but we've known each other since January, and that hasn't happened yet.

Shannon's Bed

I am afraid the utter hilarity may not translate, but yesterday when Shannon moved in, we put his "real" bed onto my guest room's platform bed frame (in case that doesn't register: platform beds are made for a mattress only, no box springs -- all slick and minimalist and modern and asian-y).

The result: Shannon's bed is about four feet high -- that thing on the left is a nightstand and that thing in front of it is a footstool I put there so Shannon could actually climb into his massively high bed.

When I saw it, I was immediately overtaken by a fit of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter, which lasted a good five minutes. It was the best thing that has happened to me in ages.

And that was when we knew we were going to have the time of our lives.

Bright Lights

On my first night living with Shelley, I couldn't help but notice the intense brightness of the bulbs in her house. For the first time I realized how dirty my sheets look. It's kind of gross. Hello bleach. You're my new best friend. Her luminous bulbs also revealed just how white and hairy my legs are. It's kind of gross. There's not much I plan to do about that though. I shaved my legs once in college. It was weird. I felt like I had someone else's legs when I wore pants. I used to tan too when I was in college. Apparently that was as experimental as I got back then. Except for the sleeping with fellas thing. But I digress. Yes, Shelley has really bright lights in her house. They expose so much.