If I've been cranky lately, it's because we're still living out of suitcases. After piling all our belongings in heaps in garbage bags and demolishing the ceilings, the workmen have now taken a mysterious six week break. Some kind of delaying tactic by the insurance companies. There is no end in sight, and, as tenants, we have no say.
My initial burst of smugness about being a bohemian who does not care about material possessions has faded and now I just want to go home, put on a pretty dress, and drink coffee out of the mugs I bought in London that look like Penguin paperbacks. We should have put our stuff in storage right away, because by now most of our furniture is ruined.
The workmen stacked the toilet plunger on top of my boxing gloves – who does that? – and I'm pretty sure they took some of my author's copies of Penthouse Forum. I don't know where the medicine cabinet is, which sucks because I still had one Percocet left from my kidney donation and I want it. Everything smells like a burning tire.
I started taking Spanish to make myself feel better by leaning new things. When I told that to one of my boxers, he told me that when he was homeless and living in a shelter, he used the time to get his GED. This made me feel worse, because how can I complain when so many wonderful friends have opened their homes to us?
Upon reflection, I have decided to complain into the Internet, because that is the modern way. And just in case you can't get enough of my dirty laundry, here's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me.