Drinking shoes fail again!!!!!

Tis true, the drinking shoes once again let me down. And by down I mean a full on frontal face plant into something concrete. This is what I suspect, although I don’t really know.

Today as I write this, I sit in my little work pod all torn up. And by torn up I mean the following list of injuries:

Front tooth is chipped -you can't really tell, but I feel like this.
Nice cut on my neck (at first thought to be a hicky, but no such luck)
Elbow is bloody
Knuckles are scraped up
Bottom of foot appears to have a been burnt or severely injured
Nose is in pain and a little beat up


That’s all I can find right now. How could my drinking shoes let me down so badly? Last night was my birthday. You would think they would have gone an extra mile or so to make me happy, but no such luck. Did they need more polish? Was there something I didn’t give them? Do my puppies smell that bad? Why, oh why, did they do this to me?

In last night’s festivities I also managed to loose my key chain with all of my keys on it. Why do I keep loosing things? My cell phone, my key chain, my balance, what’s next? I had to do the walk of shame into my leasing office this morning for a new key to my apartment. How bad is the walk of shame when you didn’t even get any? At least I could have gotten a little play since I appeared to be a complete slut. I want to live up to my reputation. Again, I blame my shoes. If I hadn’t been falling all over the place, maybe someone would have taken me home. Damn them.

So if you see my keys, tell them I want them to come home. In case they can’t figure out where home is, I’ll be having a little ceremonial burning of the drinking shoes tonight. That should help light their way home.

Movement

Turning the key I hear the familiar sound of the lock sticking. The door opens and the hardwood floors smell like they’ve always smelled. It’s the combination of a million foot steps and paw prints and a couple of hand and knees that have graced those floors.

Boxes everywhere, I pass through them like a maze to the backdoor. Realizing this could be my last time standing here, I look out the windows to the old oaks swaying in the breeze. I hear the wooden wind chimes faintly through the glass and smile.

I remember the night we closed on the house. We ordered pizza and drank beer with our favorite couple. We laughed and plaid drinking games breaking in the old pine nook the former owners left behind. We made the first of many ring marks in that soft pine surface from slamming our hands down with the dice.

Funky D ran outside into the backyard at one point, looked down on the rock garden that use to lay under a swing, and flung himself down. Pretending he was swimming in the rocks we laughed and hugged one another. We drank more and sang songs.

When the couple left, the X and I broke in the house my streaking through it. It was a mad dash through all the rooms. A right of passage us since we had never owned a home before.

All the parties. All the cops. All the traffic and early morning breakfasts for twelve. It seems forever ago.

We close on the house on Thursday. We have a bottle of champagne that someone gave us as a wedding gift that we never open. It’s in the fridge for Thursday’s celebration. I’m sure the giver never thought we would use it to signify our final step together.

The flowers planted, the rooms painted, and we now live in separate worlds. Our favorite couple is just as divorced as we are, but we pretty much stay in touch. We move on because we have to. We move on because we need to. May the Buddha that has always lived in the house, and been handed down from owner to owner, continue to watch over the new lives that fill the space. May they be as lucky as we were to have spent time inside those walls.

Free falling

My day started of with an older man flipping me off. It’s not my fault that’s where my turn is, buddy. I can’t tell you how much it warmed my heart and put a huge smile on my face to see him throw his mid-life crisis car into 3rd gear and speed by me in a rage. I flipped him a finger back howling with laughter. It makes me smile to think I probably pissed him off the whole way to work. How do these people make it through the day?

On another front, I move into my apartment this weekend. I’m surprised I’m so happy about it. I’m leaving my bigger beautiful home for this little apartment with barely any storage. It’s amazing how simplifying your living space can change your perspective. I feel lighter and freer. I don’t have an entire yard to worry about and running faucets aren’t my problem to fix.

Last weekend my little block turned into an episode of Desperate Housewives. A hot young guy moved in a couple of houses down from me and since then the neighbors have been stirring. He’s popped over a couple of times and seems like a really nice guy. I have the feeling that if I don’t move this weekend I’ll end up washing my car in some pathetic display to get his attention. I can’t stoop to such measures. Yes, it’s time to move.

Of course, he is pretty hot.

I’ll let you know if I break down and ask him to do some heavy lifting.

Until then, sit tight – I’m slowly making a come back. And thanks to Mark Phillip, he really is the dopest black man in Texas. He saved my phone from the deep abyss and returned it safe and sound to me after I left it in a bar. Who says you guys aren’t the best?