The new couch came and Boy-O-Boy is it RED. Not only is it red but it had cat hair on it the nanosecond it entered the apartment even though no cat had even eyeballed it yet. The cats, of course, ran for every one of their little nine lives when the intercom rang. (Yeah, I have an intercom - ridiculous and even I'm afraid of it.) Anyway, as the three of us continue to acclimate to this living as though we are members some monarchy (the white trash part of the bloodline that's for sure) I feel like we have murdered someone and have taken over their apartment. Okay, a little severe but this is going to take me a little while to get used to. Every day I see the doorman I am compelled to show him my keys and I have my hand on my wallet just incase he wants to see ID. Hell, Martha still won't go near the windows 'cause she is afraid of heights and this living like Bob Newhart on the 18th floor has her a little flipped too. She is sticking to the center of the apartment building where the bathrooms, kitchen and her side of the bed are. Miss Jasmine naturally, is fine and thinks (correctly) that we are all nuts.
I am finding it harder and harder to go to work. With the beach thing a mere ten days away the only thing I seem to care about more and more is where exactly did I put my beach hat? I found the tent and I know where my books are. I have the laptop (for writing only, no working) but my glasses and hat is still in some box somewhere. That alone is giving me the inspiration to unpack. Speaking of, Martha said to me the other night that someone she works with moved over the weekend too and that they are all unpacked already. Whatever. Do they have a record collection, a massive home office or two computers with two separate workstations? How about a disgruntled and at times down right unbearably moody twenty-something hanging around the shadows of their day? Well?
While the irony of a hurricane hitting the beach house that we have rented has always been lurking around the dark cynical corners of my mind, I managed to catch the tail end of some weather report the other night about one coming close to the Outer Banks. Then, there is the possibility of another one that is currently hanging out in Puerto Rico, slithering up the coast while we are actually there. Cool and oh yeah, what's that I always say? Everything is a photo-op.
Best not to dwell on it all, of course until we are there. Then we can flip out at random. I suppose it doesn't matter where we all end up right? Being evacuated from a "Nonrefundable regardless of what God throws at you." beach house or the "We are poor now and have no fucking money." Super-8 Motel, two-hundred miles inland, a vacation is still a bunch of days when you are not at work. Hmm, hurricane or work? Those are my only choices? How about a bullet to the head?
Sheri baby, make sure to bring the gun-just incase.