“What happened to you right there?” he asked, pointing to the scab between my eyes.
“I scratched myself,” I replied (if “scratching myself” is code for picked at a painful zit then I wasn’t lying).
Besides, didn’t anyone teach him it’s rude to point.
The building vacuum kept dying after only 3/4 of the hall was vacuumed. EVERY FUCKING TIME.
It would have been almost funny if I wasn’t under a time crunch to get it done before the carpet cleaners arrive. And the vacuum wasn’t just over 6 months old.
So after three floors of that bullshit, I gave up and drank wine while watching the Food Network.
I dropped my cell phone one too many times so the flip part of the flip phone was cracked. After sending a text, I accidentally dropped it on the floor of my car and the screen went blank. NOoooOOOooo! I was a master texter on that phone. I could text without looking with minimal mistakes. That’s an awesome skill!
I managed to get a very nice customer service agent at the AT&T store (hi Callie on Broadway) who hooked me up with a new red SHINE. It’s pretty but I can’t for the life of me send a text without mistakes and I have to LOOK when I text. I can’t even finish a damn text without accidentally sending it because the back mini joystick is also the send button. Smart thinking phone maker people! (Not.) To those of you who have had to suffer my lame, half-finished texts, my sincere apologies. It almost makes me want to call people instead of texting. I know! What has the world come to!?
Why did I fork out $100 for a Bluetooth when all I see are people holding their cell phones while driving? Didn’t they get the memo? It’s AGAINST THE LAW.
Being a goody-goody has never served me.
At 10pm on a Saturday there was a knock on my door. Since my face was covered in a green anti-acne mask, I ignored it. Besides, someone was throwing a small party and I did not want to deal with a noise complaint. Ten minutes later while I was washing my face I heard knocking on my next door neighbors door and voices. Next thing I know, another knock. . . my downstairs neighbor who is throwing the party, plastic cup full of red wine in hand, along with a friend were standing outside my door.
“Oh! You must have just arrived home!” she remarked.
“Can I help you?” I replied, skipping over the fact that I was avoiding the door earlier due to my bra-less, facial-masked self.
“Do you have a plunger I can borrow?” she asked sheepishly.
“Sure,” I said, closing the door to retrieve it from the bathroom.
As I handed it over she promised to return it right away. “That’s okay. You can keep it.” Because really, a plunger is not something one wants back unless it’s been sterilized.
I gave up my cushy volunteer coordinating job to manage fundraising events during horrible economic times. Why did I do that? Oh right. For the challenge. I wasn’t actually prepared for THIS.