If Ice Cream Married Cheesecake

“It’ll be done before you get home,” he said confidently on the phone.

Right.

So let me get this straight…

He will do everything. I will do nothing.

Got it.

Say no more.

Sign me up.

Gimme some of that.

Then, gimme some mo’.

I am pretty sure that “It will be done before you get home” is now the sexiest sentence ever uttered.

Not sexy in a knockin’-boots kind of way – my vajayjay has been on strike since I discovered how many batteries I could buy for $10 at Home Depot.

I mean sexy in an if-ice-cream-married-cheesecake-and-had-a-baby kind of way.

It was “that” good. [Pass the cigarette.]

I almost asked my new gardener to say it again…

Really slow.

It [used to] take me 6 to 8 weeks to clear all of my leaves from my yard- and then mulch the garden. Then, my chiropractor would give me the here-we-go-again look as he explained to me how lifting tons of leaves was killing my back. Now, add 2 months for realigning my herniated disc to this math quiz.

I would always reason “but it’s great exercise.”

It took me 6 years of botanical “bliss” to realize that “great exercise” does not mean injuring myself

And then ignoring it.

It took Scott the Gardener 4 hours to finish the whole gig. FOUR?!

And he did it better than me. Overachiever.

My yard has never looked that clean.

[Note to self: Cleaning is bad. Stop this lunacy immediately.]

From now on I will do cute dainty things in the garden. Like walk around in pretty dresses and drink tea and plant pink flowers and lay in the sun.

Scott can do everything else.

Just for the record, I did not notice all of the friggin’ trees or the backyard when I brought this house. I am from New York City. You know? The concrete jungle.

[Question: Exactly what is a backyard? And what the hell are leaves?]

I just needed a place to put my stuff.

I have grown to love the trees. And gardening is now my passion. I still feel the need for a PSA [Public Service Announcement].

This is URGENT…

When you buy a house, those magical people who clean up everything on your property are … um, you. You are the people. All of them.

[Question: Why don’t people tell you that owning a house is indentured servitude to your yard and the bank? And are they the same people that say “childbirth is beautiful”? Discuss.]

All you hear about home ownership are the mythical tales about a “great” investment. Or having something that is your “own.” I already have something that belongs to me that requires me to clean every millisecond of the day.

Cats.

Dakota – who hails from the land of Spoiled Rotten – has laser sharp accuracy when it comes to projectile vomit.

I have one area rug. One.

Question: How is it that Dakota can synchronize his kitty watch to have just enough time to run like a gazelle to my ONE area rug – from anywhere in the house – and puke on it?

a) he is evil, b) he is a mastermind, and/or c) he is an evil mastermind plotting to destroy the world one area rug at a time.

Discuss.

At the time, grad school combined with the prospect of dragging around tons of leaves was akin to walking in stilettos with bunions – torture.

It was just too much.

But here is the greatest thing about grad school and leaves and puke and work and the one million other things that were on the to-do list

I realized I just can’t do everything. I mean I guess I could.

I was.

But I was cranky and tired and I made all of these unreasonable expectations that I thought about ALL THE TIME.

Anyway, I don’t want to do it anymore.

So I am not.

That is my choice.

I make all of the choices.

Me.

And I surrender. I do.

I surrender.

I think I knew rationally that I didn’t have to do everything.

But I never knew

I can’t

Without going crazy.

“I surrender” is now the second sexiest sentence ever. Followed closely by – “Denzel is waiting in the jacuzzi.”

Here I come, hot sexy lump of delicious. Do me a favor? Let’s pretend it’s Naked Day [which is like every other day – but with jacuzzis]. Thanks.

My last grad school class was like being locked in a closet with a gorilla who farts all the time and my job was to write a thesis about every fart in APA style. Then, fart thesis judgers would assess my astute, long-winded pontification about flatulence – but my fart assessments were never good enough…

Then, it was back to the closet, hunching over my laptop trying to capture the essence of a fart and other such nonsense.

One day, I just started cutting my hair with dull scissors. Every now and then…

Cut. Snip. Cut.

Cut. Snip. Cut.

Oops. My hair looks like it-shay.

Cut again. Snip again. “Make it work,” like divo of all things stylish, Tim Gunn, from Project Runway would say.

But it didn’t work. In a big way.

I looked like WDIAR [Who did it and ran].

That is the tale of….

How I finished my Master’s degree in Interactive Design and Gaming from the Savannah College of Art and Design on March 13th completely bat it-shay crazy – and exhausted.

But with a 4.0 GPA, son! [Who’s your daddy?!]

I am still recuperating though…

It is weird to get back into a regular sleep schedule again. My brain won’t turn off. I am taking sleeping pills – which used to scare me because…

I don’t want to die. [That would be completely counterproductive.]

Who will take care of my spoiled cats? No one. That’s who. Between the projectile vomiting and their lengthy list of demands, they don’t stand a chance of being adopted by some completely gullible sucker. Like I adopted them.

[Note to self: Set up kitty trust fund pronto.]

So far I’ve taken two pills since I’ve finished school because I keep forgetting to take them.

Anyway, I didn’t come up with the idea of hiring people when I need help – my therapist did.

And I didn’t come up with the idea of “fixing” my thoroughly butchered hair – my friend, Chloe, did. She said, “Stop pretending you know how to cut your hair. You need professional help.” [No kidding.]

Just for the record, I do know how to cut it. I just suck at it. That is called – “misguided.”

“Pretending” is when you spend holidays with your family – feigning interest or enjoyment.

See the difference. [Happy Easter.]

There are certain ways people ask questions when what they really want to say is – “Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”

Here is one.

“So what were you trying to achieve?” my hairdresser said, as she inspected my “work” – different lengths of hair sticking out all over my head. [World peace. One hair follicle at a time. Is this is a trick question? Can’t you see I’m currently unstable? Hello.]

She proceeded to give me the best haircut of my entire life.

Nothing makes a girl feel fabulous like a little pampering.

Or people helping you when you need it.

Now, I just have to remember when to ask.

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