Have a week off, so have come home, and in so doing have realized that, despite the college education and the semi-real job and lifeplan, I have completely failed to grow up. On Friday night, I heaped a few items of clean clothing and a few books on top of my dirty laundry and called that packing. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was trying to get dressed in my house, that I realized I failed to bring anything that matched. Or any pants. Three skirts, no pants. I decided to muddle my way through the weekend by staying in my bathrobe as long as decent. That plan backfired when the paperboy freaked out the dog, so I went out to calm her down, and spent a good fifteen seconds shouting in the driveway before I remembered the dog is deaf. Between the maniacal barkings of a wolf-like dog and the shouts of a bedheaded, bathrobed-at-noon woman, I’d say we’ve seen the last of that paperboy.
The next course of action was to wear whatever, but avoid leaving the house. Worked sort of well until today, when agreed to meet up with Andy for coffee (Andy, by the way, was incredulous at my lack-of-pants tale. “What did I tell you? ‘Always remember: pants.'” That is, actually, the only piece of advice he’s given me.). So I decided on black sandals, a pink skirt, and a stretched-out green tank top. If I’m going to look ridiculous, I’m not gonna half-ass it. Which is a funny choice of words, considering we walked to the coffee shop, and the wind caught my skirt and…you know. The usual. I mean, it’s not like the highway hasn’t seen it before…”What color underwear are you wearing today, Rachel?”
Still, desperate to draw attention away from my wayward skirt and non-cute underwear, I directed Andy’s attention at the house. We’re repainting, but we’ve only got so far as the scraping step, so it looks about as rough as possible. The driveway has never been pretty, and the dog, who I would rank as less dangerous than my 16-year-old cat but nevertheless looks like a deadly junkyard-guarding type of animal, has destroyed the majority of the yard and stares after us, proud of her domain. My tank top is essentially a wifebeater dyed green, making me fit in tragically well to the whole scene. I laughed about it, and Andy said, “when we get back, you should put your car up on blocks in the middle of the yard.” When we got back, the cops hauled a destroyed car into a nearby lot. Our tableau of trashiness is nearly complete. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some pink flamingos and Christmas lights to string in the front yard. After I change into my bathrobe.