My entire apartment reeks of meat. I say "reeks" now because it smelled awesome yesterday with the pot roast simmering all day in the crock pot, but now after 24 hours, the fact that I still stink like a giant slab of slow cooked cow with potatoes and carrots every time I go into public makes me a little self conscience. The smell just seeps into everything, your hair, your clothes...your brain.
I just can't get away from it because not only did I transport my culinary delight in my car over to Kate's house last night giving my car that lovely air of beef, but my domestic goddess self also spilled a shitload of meat juice on the seat of my car. Fucking sick, dude. So now there's this weird stench of meat and my failed attempt of a clean up with all purpose cleaner in there.
Poor little Andy even smells like meat now because since he can't seem to be anywhere except right under my feet at all times especially when there is so much motherfucking meat smell in the air, little drops of meat juice splashed onto his head as I ladled it from the crock pot to the stove to make gravy. He climbed into bed with me last night and I was all, Goddammit! Why does my bed smell like meat? Before I realized that Andy's little greasy, furry head was actually the culprit.
After a couple more domestic mishaps including Kate burning the shit out of her hand on the oven while making tiny chocolate lava cakes and me dumping the entire contents of the Brita Water Pitcher on the kitchen floor, we managed to get quite the lovely meal on the table for our Sunday night "Big Love" viewing ritual.
Afterwards, I usually leave the leftovers of whatever I bring over for Kate's hubbins Sam, since I have no hubbins to cook for (don't I sound all house wifey saying that?) and if I take them home, they'll just sit in my fridge for however long it takes for them to become unrecognizable, then I get all pissed off at myself because I have to touch this once solid now liquified food for a split second when I finally decide it's high time to clean out the fridge. I'm kinda gross.
Anyway, Sunday nights always sort of depress me because the weekend is full of drunken togetherness combined with our Sunday night dinners then *poof!* I'm alone in my apartment with my dog by 11 p.m. Well, not completely alone this week since I'm sort of counting this lingering meat smell as some sort of presence...
I've always been a bit of a loner. My mom always says that I'd come home from preschool and be pissed because the other kids would try to play with me and I wanted to play by myself. In hindsight, I think my little 3 or 4-year-old brain just couldn't quite get the message across to my parents that I actually thought all the other kids were annoying and retarded and that's why I didn't want to play with them. Especially the boys. Most little boys are such pricks — constantly throwing whatever they can get their hands on at the other kids, screaming and running around, trying to take charge of every situation — and then they usually stay that way for the rest of their lives. I was aware of the world around me and participated in it and soaked it up like a sponge, but the world inside my head was much more appealing and something that none of the other kids could possibly grasp. Therefore I'm not a loser loner, but a loner by choice. If that's not the make up of a writer, I don't know what is.
While my introverted childhood has done almost a complete 180 into an extremely extroverted, social and outspoken adult, I still find that I love, and basically have to have, alone time. Maybe my alone time as a child stemmed from shyness, but now it's purely because I can't stand the general public in more than moderate doses. It's no surprise that I love living alone most of the time and not just because I get to walk around naked whenever I want. I was pretty proud of myself when I moved into this apartment. It was a starting over for me from what I called my "trainwreck of an attempt at a domesticated life." Then things sort of took a wrong turn...oh say, around April 20, 2009 and it was only after this turning point in my life that I ever felt any sort of loneliness living alone.
Living alone is never more fun than when your dog wakes you up a couple minutes before 3 a.m. barking hysterically at the front door like Andy did a few days ago. I shot out of bed and of course immediately thought vampires and shape shifters and half man, half bull-like creatures were outside my door ready to rip my face off. Damn you, "True Blood!" I got out of bed, turned on all the lights in the apartment, then stared out the peephole for about five minutes while Andy let out a defiant "woof" every minute or so. And, hell no, I did not open the door. Are you crazy? Vampires are stealthy creatures. Then for the second time ever in the year and a half I've lived in this place, I wedged one of my kitchen table chairs under the door knob, thought seriously about bolting out the door and driving to my parents' house, decided not to be such a pansy ass and then tried to get horrible "Three's Company" reruns to lull me back to sleep.
Those are the times I wish some tall, dark and strapping man was consistently laying next to me, or a short, chubby, hairy one, just as long as they fight off the 3 a.m. bull creatures for me. Of course, it's not that simple because there's so much douche in the world. Loneliness and the fear of getting eaten by mythical creatures in the middle of the night is far better than the company of an assbag. Smart ladies know that. I'm pretty sure my last boyfriend caused me to develop panic attacks because he stressed me out so much, therefore I'm holding out for much more than a warm body to lay next to me at night despite the 3 a.m. wake up calls by frantic Jack Russells. One of my sisters' friends told me once that I was brave for having such an attitude...I didn't really agree until now. It looks like I'm investing in some wooden stakes and silver.
Speaking of men and meat, I wasn't aware there were so many men in KC willing to tuck it back for the sake of a Lady GaGa vs. Madonna show. Some ladies and I witnessed vagina envy at it's finest Friday night for this event. I'm not sure if a winner was ever crowned, but the four of us definitely did a number on our livers that night making for a hideous Saturday morning complete with my signature crackhead hair and smeary mascara. What is it about lipsyncing drag queens that makes you want to guzzle alcohol like a 21-year-old?
This was my favorite, yet scary Lady GaGa impersonator:
Of course, except for the one that flashed her fake boobies:
My favorite part of the night was when we all realized that one of the queens either had great taste in shoes or Lacey and I both dressed like drag queens:
Next month, there's a Britney Spears party...oh dear.