I love it when it's warm enough to sit on the porch in boxers but cool enough to drink hot coffee without shaking your fist at the sun. That's good weather: hot drinks and chill breeze and sunshine and techniclor trees.
That's a fucking poem, right there, and sometimes I can live inside one.
This weekend I was supposed to go to the dentist. This is way more satisfying than it sounds, because Dr. Good (actual name) is one of my best friends from college, and he's the local dentist in a small farm town out in rural Illinois with his wife, the town librarian. Bunch of land, old rickety farmhouse, "town" is miles away. A trip to the dentist means a five hour drive, country roads, green fields, and sitting around a fire getting drunk and talking about comic books. With very clean teeth and a librarian. Cutest. Shit. Ever.
But, there's thunderstorms and tornadoes wandering around out there, and the Goods' basement flooded and their hot water went out, and Dr. Good had to cancel. The tribulations of living in a rickety farmhouse are disastrous, because it means you don't get to hang out with me. So, my teeth will be cleaned when I have another free weekend to drive five hours to the middle of nowhere.
Instead, we cleaned the apartment, and I made MoLinder dangle our sweet shag rug over our balcony while I beat it with an old golf club. We've decided to get plants, which I will probably kill. Or the wind will get all pissy, and instead of potted porch plants we'd have shattered terracotta scattered on the sidewalk.
It can only end badly. But I ain't so afraid of losing something that I'm not gonna have it. That's a quote from somewhere, but I forget the source. And it's kind of untrue, because really, I'm afraid to own lots of things, like metal shelves and mistakes. But I want neither of those, they're just inevitable, while gardening is an easily escapable fate however desirable, sooooo...nevermind.
Then I got it in my head that it was time to clean out our storage space in the building, which I've never used, but I need the space. My old roommate lived here for about seven years, and when she moved she just left everything in there. So I bought a shiny pair of bolt cutters, having no key for the padlock, and busted that shit open. It was very B & E.
There was a whole bunch of shit that needed to be tossed. Old couch cushions, dirty bedsheets, a useless TV, a sweet, un-salvageable wooden card table with clawed feet and seriously bad finishing. Broken house phone.
A thick, worn, black leather and metal S&M jockstrap with matching fistcuffs.
You know. The usual.