Maid In Memories

Jump to Comments

I was wearing a bikini, a headband, a 99Cent Store facemask and picking up dog poop with a rusty shovel when the cute boy I have been playing daily ping pong with walked into the compound known as my house. I always assumed that my enclosure was a Hot Man Repellent as so few seem willing to venture in on their own accord. I guess I was wrong.
“What are you doing tonight?” He asked after throwing up in his mouth, debating whether to run out the gate and pretend that This never happened all in the matter of three point nine seconds.
“Cleaning my bedroom,” I said flippantly as I tried to fling a piece of stubborn shit off the rust.
He observed the scene again, regretted not taking option number two and running for the hills, and silently admitted to making a mistake. “I hope that works out for you.”
The poo finally relented, flew off and landed on the fence.
“Yeah, it is going to be great,” I sighed.

When I was younger I was scared of spending my Friday nights alone. But then I discovered do-it-yourself hair dye kits and a whole new world of terror was opened up to me. Loneliness paled in comparison.
Onceuponaletssayatleast2006, I would fret if I didn’t have anything (or one) to do on the ultimate night of the week. But then I discovered how much I enjoy my own company and a whole new world of beauty was opened up to me. The conversation has been brilliant ever since and boredom subsided around the same time midgets started uploading data onto YouTube.

When I had my own car, I stored my entire life in it. It was my mobile bedroom in more ways than one.
“There are rednecks with trailers who would be appalled at your lifestyle,” RG scoffed.
“I wish I had a tennis racquet with me,” someone random would say somewhere random.
“Oh, I think I have one in my car!” I would almost instantaneously pull the desired item out from my boot/glove box/under the accelerator.
“I didn’t know you played tennis,” the random someone would say.
“I don’t.”
Appearing to be Mary Poppins with a magic car was how I once made friends outside of creating them.
I don’t know why I stored hiking boots, red lipstick or a tie-die T-shirt in the Batmobile either. But I like to be prepared for any array of crap I may find myself involved in (Aside: See Hard Hat under the seat circa last relationship).
The excess junk in my trunk meant that I was lucky if I could fit my own trunk into the drivers seat. The key-to-ignition process usually involved the misplacing of several perfectly comfortable Marlboro Lights boxes and, sometimes, a puppy.
Onceaponalisteningtocountrymusic, I threw my phone somewhere between the Just-In-Case bottle of scotch and Who Knows When roller blades. As science is always against me (see aforementioned hair dye hate), my phone bumped the scotch bottle, called my then-crush and left a rendition of me singing The Dixie Chicks followed by a conversation involving only one voice on His voicemail.
My secret was out: I talk to myself. He never called back. He possibly tried to forgot It ever happened.

If Dorothy had just bothered to clean out her closet, she would never have had to go down the yellow brick road because the process is a perfectly enclosed trip down memory lane in itself.
“What the Hell is going on here?” AM screamed when she stepped into my bedroom carrying a bottle of wine and a glass that could easily be mistaken for a bucket.
I was wearing a bikini, a headband and had a 99Cent Store feather sticking out of my head while laying sprawled on the carpet. I was flicking through photographs I had intelligently hidden behind a box of discarded shoes the last time I cleaned (Aside: Otherwise known as 2004).
“I have never acknowledged this before, but I was an incredibly unattractive teenager.”
AM bit her tongue as she tried to accept the feather and unwashed hair all in the space of four point six seconds.
“I am cleaning out my life and realizing how embarrassing it has been actually going out in public to live it.”

Every now and then it is fun to stop making new memories and remember to treasure the old ones. Aside from cleaning being an exercise in shopping without spending any money (“There you are Hooker Heels. I have been looking for you!”), an abundance of crap is found that has been stored away after the applicable situation is over.
There is the My Little Pony dolls you were given for your twenty-fourth birthday by your dad;
There is the ‘I’m With Stupid’ shirt you once wore with pride instead of irony;
And then there are the photographs of your evolution from Idiot to Idiot With A Sexual History.

I sat back with a scotch surrounded by a past I was bored with putting away and thought of the mess and the memories I had spent my evening rummaging through. I decided that, no matter how ugly, every moment has been worth it, as it has forced me to arrive at where I am now.
Which is great, I sighed.

1 Comment

Filed under Johnny Walker, onceuponatime, sall life