Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Last night, around 1000pm, I made a joke about how the Moon Knight comics were so bad that I would rather mop the floor.
Last night at 10:30, I mopped the gaming room, the TV room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. Only the office (which is too cold to use right now), the spare room/library (which only I use, and not very often), and the bedroom (where Comrade was doing online D&D were not mopped. I planned on doing those rooms tonight when I got home from work, or tomorrow.
This morning, at 10:30, I went to work.
This morning at 11:00, Motherfucker Goose took a wet, sticky poop, none of which she left in the litterbox. Instead, she dragged it across every inch of the kitchen, straight through the gaming room, into the TV room, on to the still newish couch, back through the gaming room, into the bedroom where she dragged herself across various piles of laundry that needed to be folded before hopping up on the bed, and waking up Comrade.
Just poop, Everywhere.
Tonight, at 7:15ish, I arrive home.
Comrade: "So, I looked at a couple of apartments that don't allow pets today. I'm not leaving you, or moving out, because I love you. But I just wanted the thrill of imagining what it would be like to never live with cats again."
Tonight at 8:30, I remopped the gaming room, the TV room, and the bathroom. I bathed the very sad cat who had spent the day in jail (the kitchen). She screeched. Selina (who hasn't had to have a bath in a year because she takes care of herself) screeched in sympathy. I dried off the still yowling Motherfucker. I mopped the kitchen. Comrade put the couch cushion covers in the washing machine (he'd cleaned them with the products they gave us with the couch earlier, but hadn't realized the covers come off and can be machine washed (but not machine dried).
The cats are still in jail.
Shortly after we moved in 2020, Comrade and I decided to buy a couch. But the Pandemic was reigning hell on the supply chain even then, and we weren't able to order one that we liked until February. It took about two weeks to arrive, was exactly the style Comrade wanted but it was hella uncomfortable. We gave it nearly a month where neither of us ever really used it for more than a few minutes at a time, and then we returned it.
It wasn't too long after that that I became weary of Granny Entitlement, and didn't want to buy a couch and then immediately have to move.
So we haven't had a couch. We have a dozenish semi-comfy chairs from Comrade's parents, one comfy chair that we moved from JP, and some matchy furniture that we don't love, but no couch.
On Friday, we decided to go to Jordan's Furniture. We figured we'd find a cool couch, be told it was no longer available, and after three or four "What about this ones?", we'd finally settle on one that would arrive in March. That's just the way thing are right now.
So we grabbed a Lyft, and arrived at a store that Comrade informed me was the place he used to go to hang out when he was bored growing up.
If you ever want to feel popular and antagonized, just be a gay couple trying to buy a couch in a nearly empty warehouse-sized store. I think there were three other couples spread out amongst the building, and we were all outnumbered at least 5-1 by bored staff members.
Employee #1 greeted us at the door, asked what we needed and if they could help, and we politely told them we were looking for a couch, and possibly other furniture, but wouldn't need any help for quite a while.
The couches in the front room were terrible, so we started a counter-clockwise circuit which Comrade immediately suspected was wrong. "Should we ask where the couch room is?" he asked, as we walked into a room with thirty couches. "Nevermind."
My goal for a new couch is: comfortable and grey (because Selina and Goose are going to shed all over it). Comrade has style needs, and an idea of what else to get to create a room around the couch. So we satdown on the first couch in the room, just in time for Employee #2 to welcome us, and ask if we needed any help, and to let them know if we had any questions. We politely told them we were looking for a couch, and possibly other furniture, but wouldn't need any help for quite a while.
The couch was great. Firm on the back, soft on the butt, not too deep. Also, comfy and grey with the legs that Comrade approves of.
We hit every other couch in the room and none of them was quite as good.
"Should we ask if this is the only couch room?" Comrade asked.
""I thought you hung out here all the time. Surely there are other couches."
"That was forever ago. Also, it's much different now. This place used to be Mardi Gras themed, and had a musical interlude every hour. Plus there was a Kelly's Roast Beef with an aquarium globe in it. I wonder what happened to the fish?"
There were many more couches. There were many more "Can I help yous." Some were concise and to the point. One guy, though, saw us sitting on a couch that seemed to be made entirely out of springs and thumbtacks, and said "Great couch, right? It's made of Sunbrella." He said this, standing under a GIGANTIC Sunbrella sign. "Everything in this room is made of Sunbrella."
"Thanks." I said.
"You can get that couch in any of the Sunbrella colors available over there on the Sunbrella fabric wall." And I think he said Sunbrella fifty-leven more times before letting us know that he was happy to help us if we had any questions. We didn't give him our rote polite response, we just fake smiled and nodded.
"That guy is The Worst." Comrade said.
There was a leather couch room (no can do with they tiny grey terrors), a These Couches Were Designed By Contestants Eliminated During The First Episodes Of Various Project Runway Seasons room, an abstract art for people with broken spines room, a Millionaire's Lounge with sleek black couches and expensive looking art, a room of Tilt sofas that recline at the press of a button and have their own cupholders built in, and a couple of rooms of random sofa assortments. There was also a "sleep laboratory" but I knew if Comrade went in, I'd never see him again.
There was a terrible table designed to look like an early 20th century car, where the two square feet of table was supported by six or seven feet of car. There was also a weird little cubby chair that looked hideous and uncomfortable. While Comrade was demonstrating how the wooden back brace pushed directly into your spine if you tried to sit back, Employee #72 told us how cute it was, and how easy it was to maintain before realizing that the brace was supposed to be covered by a piece that had fallen underneath. We left her still struggling to figure out how to put the "easy to maintain" chair back together.
Eventually, we had completed the full circuit, and decided that the very first chair we'd tried out was the one we would first try to get.
Nearly every employee had mentioned the Supply Chain, and that they hardly had anything in stock, and we should pick out a bunch of alternates. We already knew this, and it was a little disheartening to realize we probably wouldn't get a couch until March or April.
"Yea, I'm sorry." said Employee #80-something, "I'll check and see if they have this in the warehouse, but we really don't have much right n---Oh. We have it. And in that color. That's a nice surprise. I never get to give people good news anymore. Unfortunately, because of Christmas and The Supply Chain, we don't really have many delivery appointments available. Unless you could do next Thursday."
"I have next Thursday off."
"And where do you live?"
I gave him the info.
"It says here we've made a delivery there before, so that's good. But I guess we had to take out a window because of the narrow stairs."
"We live on the first floor. This will definitely fit."
"Then, congratulations. You will have a new couch next week."
There has been construction going on upstairs pretty much since we moved in. It's not every day, but at least two or three times a week. Today, they are blasting pan flute music while sawing, drilling, dropping heavy objects on the floor, laughing at whoever dropped the heavy object last. All the while, the You Are Waiting To Get On A Line At Disney World pan flute music plays, and in the background, Motherfucker is Howling for it all to stop.
Comrade: "Why would you buy a piano, a flute, a clarinet, a recorder, and a saxophone if you Can't Play Any Of Them? It's like finding out you own all these books and you can't read but every week or so you just open them at random, and stare at them until your eyes cross."
Earlier today, I thought I could actually pluck a melody out of their recorder playing but it turned out that they were just trying to play scales and every time they messed up a note WHICH WAS OFTEN they started over.
The upstairs piano playing neighbor leaves his car in front of our window, instead of parking it in the lot like a considerate person. Tonight, after he parked in front of it window, an unfamiliar voice asked "Do you like living here? Is it quiet?"
At which point, Comrade began making loud sex noises.
Vde: "I can't help but notice you got Double Stuf Oreos instead of Mega Stuf Oreos. If we're having financial trouble, just tell me."
Comraude: I have good news and bad news.
Me: How good? And how bad?
Comrade: The upstairs neighbors have stopped playing the piano.
From upstairs, the asthmatic fart of a misunderstood saxophone honks.
Last night's featured performer did a poem about former roommates who left their sex toys in their shared shower.
After the poem was over, I leaned over to Comrade. "One of my terrible ex-roommates used to leave their dildos in the shower all the time. So I used to drown their dildos in shampoo."
Comrade looks appalled. "Adam. Don't you know how much that would hurt?"
Me: "Oh, I would then aim the shower head to rinse the shampoo off. I wanted them to notice the clean smell, so that they would realize that I had noticed their dildos were in the shower, and that I thought they were filthy. I would never want them to feel shampoo burn in their sensitive area."
Comrade: "Ok. Whew."
Me: "Not when I had that whole kitchen cabinet worth of ghost peppers to rub on them."
The downstairs screamer is visiting again. She's been just talking loudly tonight. But I have been getting some cleaning done and when I burned my hand (not seriously it's not even red anymore), I screamed out "FUCK YOU!" way too loudly, considering the water was unlikely to react to my the tone of my voice.
From downstairs, I heard her say "See, everyone in this house screams sometimes."
To which I shouted back "I am not a good role model!"
It's the first time I've heard laughter coming from down there.
My Gay Roommate: “I was surprised. Every place in Provincetown carried Moxie.”
Me: “How are you surprised that a town full of people who voluntarily put their tongues in men’s buttholes think Moxie tastes good?”
Roommate: What’s half of forever?
RM: Don’t you mean twomaybe?
Me: No. That’s a quarter of it. Two is half of four, and maybe is half of ever.