We spent a rare but much needed weekend in town. Being that we’re Greek, Mr. X and I had plans for Sunday which was our Easter. I love that the Orthodox Easter (or as I call it, “Greek Easter”) happens after regular Easter because all the candy at CVS is half price already. Win! Anyway, this was the reason we didn’t go to the beach. He asked what I wanted to do the rest of the weekend.
“It’s time to start cleaning.”
You see, my summer plans include the exodus of myself and dogs from the city to take up residence with the man in the burbs. This means we have to consolidate two households into one. This means I have to figure out what to do with all the furniture I cherish so dearly. Thankfully there’s that mostly empty house at the beach…and the garage…sigh.
I needed to address what’s in every drawer, every closet and every orifice, with enough of a break inbetween to ensure my own orifice is, well, you understand.
Friday night I did my customary evening 3 miler, then came home and began to clean. I started in the bedroom closets. I opened a paper bag in the bottom of one closet and it ripped while I was looking in it. Several things I had long forgotten I owned came spilling out all over the floor.
Five dead and no-longer-in rotation vibrators. All the usual suspects were there. The rabbit. The dolphin. The little plastic one that was my first. The broken bullet. Some of them were malformed, not from use, but from time I suppose. Maybe from neglect. Poor wittle wabbit! I looked at Mr. X and said, “What the fuck am I going to do with these?” He asked if I wanted them. I said no, because let’s be honest. Who needs anything else when you have the Magic Wand? So he said, “I’ll take them. I’ll throw them out in my dumpster.”
Well, that was enough of that. Cleaning was suspended until Saturday morning, we headed off to Larry’s Lounge to enjoy the unbelievable weather and make out with the Megatouch Machine. En route, Mr. X is holding the bag with the five broken vibrators inside a hat box.
V: What are you doing with that? Putting it in your car?
X: I’m just going to throw it out on the way.
V: You mean in a garbage on the street?
X: That’s right.
V: But the homeless people dig through the trash looking for food.
X: Well, I think all they’ll find in this bag is your DNA. Did you ever wash any of these when you were done?
He had absolutely no problem dumping that bag in the first trash can he saw. Well. Make that the second trash can he saw. The first one was in front of my building and before he could even think about it I said, “Don’t you dare!”
Cleaning commenced Saturday morning and after several hours and some Bloody Mary’s, we were ready for dinner. I’ve been following a strict South Beach diet for 6 weeks. I completely revamped my life. Since March 2, I have been all-South-Beach, all day, all night. I’ve run close to 60 miles. My clothes are falling off of me. Mr. X says I look wonderful. Everyone who knows me has said I’m melting away. And you know how much weight I’ve lost? Five pounds. That’s right. All that work for Five. Fucking. Pounds. That’s a major frustration. So I decided that now I’ll be taking weekends off my diet. And so off for pasta we went. Yum fucking yum. We ate at our favorite restaurant and I rolled my fat ass out of there 1000 calories richer, so to speak
We went back home at which point I discovered I’m officially 84 years old and my back was in major pain from being hunched over drawers and closets all day. I had to sleep with an icy hot on it. Hot as in hot, yes. Hot as in sexy? Not so much. Nothing screams, “Buddy are you sure you know what you’re doing with this whorebag like, ‘Baby, can you take off my Icy-Hot?'”
Sunday we went up to Baltimore to spend the day with Greeks. All I’ll say about that is, “There’s one in every family.” You know the one. The asshole? This post is too long as it is, so I’ll just leave you with this: Don’t look in any Dupont Circle garbage pails until after next trash pickup, if you see Icy-Hot’s on sale anywhere in the metro area please let me know, and the Psychiatrist is the person who probably most needs to be hauled off in a straitjacket.