“That bottle of lube on your nightstand is my-en (mine),” I said to Daryl the other day as I was cleaning off my nightstand in our bedroom. He looked at me with a smirky smirk and asked “Who makes the word mine into a two-syllable word anyway?” as he flipped the slippery bottle in my direction. I missed. “It’s like your family was from the south,” he muttered under his breath. “I HEARD that, Mr. Grammar,” I snorted, ” and my family IS from the south of West Chester, beee-och.” I have a peeve of not liking to be corrected.
Surprisingly, there are other peeves.
We drink lots of bottled water. At any given moment there are approximately fifteen to twenty plastic bottles strewn around the condo in various stages of fullness or emptiness depending upon your outlook on life I suppose. It drives me crazy! They’re on the cocktail table, in the kitchen, by the bathroom sink and on our nightstands with the lube (see above). We apparently lose track of whose water bottle is whose (or is it whoms?). Anyway, why would that even BE a problem considering the fact that we’ve shared every body part and every bodily fluid that two homosexuals could. We’ll open one bottle, then forget about it, and open another one and before you know it the condo looks like the reject room of the factory at Poland Springs.
We USED to put the partially filled bottles back in the fridge to use in the cat’s water dish, until I got pissed one day when I looked in the fridge and saw approximately 26 bottles with about an inch of water in each. Not to mention, I started feeling a little guilty that the cat was living on the backwash of two homos. So now, my list of growing day off chores actually INCLUDES a task called “dump water from water bottles before recycling them.” It takes nearly a half hour as I dump enough water equivalent to a small tsunami (is it politically correct to use the word tsunami yet?).
More suprisingly, my peeves continue.
I work odd hours. I’m in retail. Enough said. I have an assigned parking space for my condo. I protect it like that space that you dig out of the snow after a blizzard and throw a kitchen chair into so no one reaps the benefits of your labor.
Last Memorial weekend after working three million hours on my feet, I came home to some pretentious gas-guzzling white Escalade with a McCain-Palin bumper sticker in my numbered spot. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to park three whole spaces away and began walking the extra distance on throbbing stumps for feet.
Daryl came to my rescue running from the condo with a piece of high quality onion skin paper that he had typed up on the computer and printed. It read: We hope you had a pleasant visit. We just wanted you to know that you are parked in a numbered space which has been assigned to a resident of G____ V____ Condominiums. If you use this space again and cannot locate your vehicle at the end of your visit, contact ______ Towing and Storage. Have a nice day! I’m thinking he typed it as opposed to handwriting it so it could not be traced back to the two guys who have the patio that looks like Longwood Gardens and fight like girls, as if the paper quality and scripty font wouldn’t give it away. He placed the note gently under the windshield wiper of the offending and offensive automobile.
Daryl is my knight in shining armor. Well… almost.
I’m not sure this qualifies as a peeve really but last night I came home to Daryl cleaning up the remaining shards of glass from one of my favorite Pyrex dishes. I had emptied the dishwasher before I went to work yesterday and I put the few pans, lids and a Pyrex dish on top of the stove instead of putting them away because I was running late. While I was at work last night, Daryl wanted to cook himself a little fish for dinner so he turned on what he THOUGHT was a back burner. Lo and behold while he was in the living room he heard a crack and crash louder than an old episode of Bobby Brown and Whitney. The Pyrex dish had exploded all over the kitchen. It went on the stove, the floor and even in the cat’s bowl of stagnant homosexual backwash. It was a disaster.
In my constant insensitivity to NOT be able to filter my words, I told Daryl that he was stupid for leaving ANYthing on the stove while turning it on. He told me that he hopes the missed shard of glass waiting for MY bare foot doesn’t send me to the ER.
My final peeve for today is the iphone4.
Don’t get me wrong, we LOVE our iphones. They’re great for internet access, music, texting, games and the occasional phone call. As a matter of fact we have them in our hands more often than our own d*cks, but WHY must Daryl insist on trying to beat my score in Bejeweled Blitz on his iphone immediately after sex?