I noticed we weren’t guilted, yesterday, about celebrating Father’s Day on Facebook, as opposed to Mother’s Day. On that day, for every funny, cute or whatever mention someone had of his or her mom, there’d be a person kvetching that they HATE Mother’s Day, they can’t STAND to see other people celebrating it because of their personal WOES.
Lemme tell you something [pulls chair closer] [gestures drunkenly with cigarette].
Weren’t you, Mother’s Day kvetcher, the same person who just recently put up a photo of your husband and you? “Thirty years with this guy! Don’t know what I’d do without my boo!” or whatever. Perhaps you even called him “hubby.” That alone would be enough for me to kvetch.
But how about the fact that I am COMPLETELY ALONE with no potential mates in sight? That I’m almost 52, a deck of cards, and it’s been nearly two years since Ned and I broke up–if you don’t count that month or whatever that we reunited before FatGate. How about that, eh? You think that makes me delighted? And yet, did I get on Facebook and moan about how I can’t STAND to see happy couples?
Or, hey, how about your vacation pictures of Madrid when I can’t pay my water bill till next pay period?
Oh, and let’s talk Sibling Day when I’m an only child.
The point is, we all have something that’s sensitive or downright gut-wrenching in life, but how about we LET OTHER PEOPLE BE HAPPY and not bring down the fucking mood, June says, bringing down the fucking mood.
So let’s talk about my doorknobs.
When Faithful Reader (I think) Laurie gave me a box of spray paint, she had no idea I’d lose my mind. All weekend, I’ve been hauling things outside to paint them. I am now officially a person who knows who to take off and replace the doorknobs. It only required 78 texts with my ridiculous handyman, Alf. And 72 hours of watching riveting “How to put a doorknob back on” videos.
Usually, it isn’t that hard, but I had a screwed-up one, which resulted in 412 man/woman parts jokes from my ridiculous handyman Alf. “Once you get on a thing, it’s like trying to stop a runaway train, isn’t it?” I texted him. I text him.
The point is, either Saturday or Sunday morning–they were identical, after unscrewing, washing, degreasing, sanding and having personal sex with each knob, I took them outside and stood them up on pieces of styrofoam I’d unearthed from the attic. I sprayed them on pieces of cardboard boxes I’d carefully taken apart, and just as coat number two was drying,
Edsel plopped down and rolled on them all.
Won’t you enjoy my new Edsel-skin rug? I’m propped seductively on it. Speaking of which, I am completely obsessed with this seductive otter.
Anyway, my days of horrible brass doorknobs are coming to a close. Our national nightmare is over. Now I feel the need to paint all the doors. This is what happens, man.
I gotta go, but I leave you with these photos from this morning.
My current bed situation. If only I were legless like Lieutenant Dan.
After I’ve asked, “You want to get up?” Cats more into the idea than Edsel.
The good news is, my mother is giving me her old curtains. What do you mean, thank god?
Talk at you.