I have a question, well two.
1. Any ladies interested in the Annual Girlie Meet-up this year. I have figured out a way to have it AND enjoy it, rather than being totally focused on hostess duties. I also have a manicurist who will come to the loft and perform magical mani/pedi’s. Let me know and I’ll start in on logistics.
2. Any Northerners want to plan a mini meet-up? I know a few of you via e-mail and failed attempts to meet, but shall we try to do this for real? Ian?? PapaScott? Kim? Love Immigrant?
I’m feeling particularly social. Probably because I’m sort of a bachelor these days. Sparky is holding down the fort in Boweltown and I’m rocking the single girl ‘tude up north.
Had a fabulous day Saturday shopping and preparing for a full day of nesting and making the apartment my own. It was a balmy 12 degrees C so I dropped the top on the cabrio and tooled around town listening to Miz Winehouse.
When I lived alone in the states, I had a routine I followed shortly after I moved to a new neighborhood. I’d drive around looking for my grocery store, hardware store, vacuum repair shop, Ikea, dry cleaner and coffee fix. Important places, you know.
All is well as I have found all my places in my neighborhood, Winterhude, except for the Ikea, but that is on the way to my gym so it’s technically crossed off the list and I have a Dyson vacuum so I skipped the repair shop. The Dyson could suck up the sun and still function.
All was perfectly perfect until I drove up to my lovely art deco apartment building. Some schmuck parked in front of my driveway. MY driveway.
In the middle of my outraged “what do I do now?” snit, MY balcony door opened. Then a hand, a male hand, popped out, messing around with stuff on the balcony.
Turns out it was the landlord doing the twice monthly cleaning I had requested be arranged. Arranged and perhaps communicated. Had I known he was coming, I might have scooped the cat litter. Had I known he was coming, or anyone was coming, I might have put my shoes away or perhaps stored my “Items of a Personal Nature” in a drawer rather than a topless box under the bed.
I walked in to see him on his hands and knees vacuuming under said bed, hand on box.
Later, after he left and my face resumed its normal Germanic winter white tone, I noticed that the box had been pulled to the bottom edge of the bed frame and all those errant shoes I had left out were lined up like good German soldiers guarding my shame.
I don’t know why this stuff embarrasses me anymore. Really.