26 April 2010

It's a Bed

The sister and I took a bed frame to Goodwill. A 'captain's bed' to be exact: essentially a nicely put together wooden box, with drawers underneath and a lip for a twin mattress. Quite popular for the kiddies for a while.

A small crew of Goodwill dudes met us at the furniture drop-off.

Furniture dude 1 looks it over: "What is it?"

Me: "A bed"

FD1: "Hold on". He goes inside.

While we wait in the rain, Furniture dude 2 wanders over.

FD2: "What is it?"

Me: "A bed"

FD2: "Did you load this yourselves?"

We said yes, we had.

FD2: "No way!". He is very smiley.

Yes, yes we really had.

FD2: "I don't believe you". He needs to stop smiling.

Furniture dude 1 returns with an old white dude with glasses. The glasses mean he is a supervisor. Also the whiteness and the oldness.

Old white dude: "What is it?"

Me: "A bed. A captain's bed. It has drawers, see?"

OWD peers at the bed from several angles. He steps up on the running board to get a real good look at it. "Is it a bed?", he asks.

Me: "It's a bed".

OWD: "Are these drawers?"

Me: "Yes. It's a bed with drawers underneath".

OWD beckons a furniture dude up for a look. "See, it's a bed", he tells him.

The sister and I look at each other. It's still raining.

OWD climbs down and goes inside. He returns with a young white guy, a supervisor's supervisor. Young white guy strides over and exclaims "It's a captain's bed!".

All the dudes nod. Ah, a bed.

Young white guy says "I had one of these when I was a kid! Let's get this out of the rain".

The sister and I untie the bed and they take it inside.

We get in the truck and drive home, marveling at our new superpower: the ability to talk at a pitch outside the range of the human male's hearing. Like a dog whistle, only for dudes. Lots of women have this gift, we're pretty sure.

11 March 2010


1. Naps come first.

2. If I like it I will eat it. All of it.

3. Sex is more important than work.

02 March 2010

Soul-Crushing Breakup #617

Wounds taste salty. So I'm working very hard to stop licking them.

The idea of dating makes me sick, physically sick. But I'll do it anyway because my sorrow, MY GREAT, GRAND, NEVER-ENDING, MOTHERFUCKING MELANCHOLIC SORROW is dull. Crying is dull. I would like love without pain please. And also a giant lion robot that shoots lasers out his eyes. And an elephant.

Until then I chain smoke, write charming emails, Google the living crap out of hapless internet boyfriends-to-be and watch the sky outside my bedroom window change from morning to noon to dusk to night.