So, in the past two weeks, I have become a total slacker. I've ceased to clean the house, walk the dogs, cook, lint roll the cat hair off of my clothes (on those pesky occasions when going outside forces me to put on clothes). Bills, laundry, and oftentimes me are piled up on the unmade bed.
I’m allowing Frank to keep all his HVAC equipment in the living room and pretending it’s just a really cool industrial art installation. I’ve been skipping meetings and appointments like I was a Double Dutch jump rope champ. I showed up for an interview yesterday without a notebook. I started to take dictation on the envelope from my unpaid electric bill, but it already had gum stuck in it, so I had to ask for a sheet of paper. At other times, this would have been mortifying. I couldn’t have cared less. I’m eating whatever I want including Sir Pizza Hawaiian Feast in bed chased down by cheap wine straight from the bottle. For my nightly midnight snack, I’m drinking a chocolate concoction with “Not FDA Approved” stamped in bold letters all over the packaging. It's supposed to have soporific effect, but obviously doesn’t work since I’m typing this at 3AM.
So, last week, in slacker fashion, instead of actually calling in and making a hair appointment I decided to try out a Walk-In Welcome salon, the same one Frank had used the week before. I should have known I was in trouble when the stylist took out the clippers and informed me that she’d taken the job there so she could “practice on her men’s cuts.” Wait…only one problem, I’m not a man. But, fifteen minutes later I wound up looking like one. Now, my hair is one inch long all over my head, and Frank and I are twinsies.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.