Sunday, September 28, 2008
I live in a basement. It's "finished" because it has carpet in my bedroom which is perfectly acceptable to me because I am hopelessly romantically in love with cheep little nanook 'n crannied hovels. I can fill in all the cracks with books and scarves and drape the oatmeal floor in my lovely rugs and paint the walls with my crafty fabrics and old time photos. That, madame, is how I make a home, hurrah.
But when I was arranging the furniture (cinder blocks and 100 year old box springs) to my delight, I remember what basement stands for: SPIDERS. Oh no. Oh no. No, no no. I called my parents (yes, I'm twenty one, emphasis on ONE) who spent un demi heur on the phone convincing me the spiders wouldn't kill me and none of them had actually tried to run at me. I might have told you this story five times before.
OK. I will be sensible, I breathe deeply and remind myself. I now just yell at spiders as I search for things with which to pound them down.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON MY TOILET PAPER?!?!! UNACCEPTABLE!!! GET OUT OF MY BATHROOM!!!
YOU ARE TOO CLOSE TO MY CLOTHES!! I FEEL DESECRATED!!!
This is good, I have decided, it gets all my yellings out since there are too few people to yell at here.
But...ce soir, I stay up late late late to death's door to finish my sacrificial worksheets for France. I sit with knees a-folded up a jimbo-like with books piled in me lap and I résumé and synonym my eyes out until it looks like lint is crawling across my knee....THAT'S NOT LINT!!!! SPIDERS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO CRAWL ON MEEEEEEEEE!!!