My roommate was off to the nether regions of Ontario (to visit her deadbeat boyfriend) so I had the apartment to myself for longer than usual and I relished in my newfound freedom to walk around semi-clothed, entertain scads of men, and come and go as I pleased without having to answer obvious questions for her every 5 minutes.
It was a glorious seven days, that all came down with a crashing halt on Sunday night when I got home from work only to find the apartment torn apart as she was on a cleaning tear rivaling that of a junkie who can’t sleep so they clean until their house looks like a showhome.
Somehow I was hustled into helping her move furniture around (of course she didn’t really have a plan so this produced rather mixed results).
I ordered legit Chinese food because I’ve recently discovered that I don’t really like pizza all that much considering how frequently I order it and caught up on my emails as I readied myself for another week at the office.
I also bought shoes this weekend (slips, natch) and pondered birthday gifts as I mentally calculated the likelihood of me being able to afford the $300 Lacoste bag I have my eye on as well as a new computer.
Finally, the delivery guy for my aforementioned food reminded me to call my dad and I lied telling him that I already had, quickly dialing the familiar digits with one hand as I closed the door with the other.
I conferred with my stepmom (my dad was out) and she had kindly included my name on the card from her kids because she remembered what a forgetful boor I was, and (correctly so) assumed that would forget.