The title of this blog post is to fuck with a good friend. I'm not writing about secrets (or lies) today.
My mom is due to arrive in three and a half hours. I've spent the past two days cleaning my apartment with a fervor that is unheard of. I literally sweat so much that it dripped into my eyes (I didn't have the air on so you know, I'm not just super gross or anything). Every room is sorted and vacuumed, the bathroom is scrubbed, and I even washed most of the windows (ran out of cleaner). I have, essentially, turned into my mother. I remember being a kid and hearing "we don't want people to think we live like pigs" when I had to clean up for company. Here I am, age 30, cleaning my apartment so that she doesn't go back to Arizona and email my brother and her friends to say that the stress of everything must be hitting me because I live like I need to be on one of those TLC or A&E programs. Bright side, I have a clean as fuck apartment, so you know, go me.
Tomorrow is my clinic appointment. I'm finally looking forward to it rather than dreading it. I called today to find out what I can expect and was told that we'll get to know each other and talk about treatment and a plan et al. That is what I needed to hear. I needed to be told that we'd finally start talking treatment. I finally drove to the clinic to make sure I can find it and hot damn is it in a nice part of town! And, of course, I was a piece of work. I had on these awful shorts and two tank tops and was sweaty and dirty from cleaning. There I was, in lovely Gahanna, looking like shit and probably smelling awful. So glad no one was videotaping that.
I have my outfit picked out for tomorrow and everything, that is how prepared I am. Fucked up jeans and yoga top and cover up that my mom got me for my birthday. I bet my friend $5 that my mom gives me shit about the jeans so we'll see. If I end up in a skirt, I win. If I get to wear my beloved, unflattering, ugly, messed up jeans, he does. Either way, I come out a winner.
My mom is due to arrive in three and a half hours. I've spent the past two days cleaning my apartment with a fervor that is unheard of. I literally sweat so much that it dripped into my eyes (I didn't have the air on so you know, I'm not just super gross or anything). Every room is sorted and vacuumed, the bathroom is scrubbed, and I even washed most of the windows (ran out of cleaner). I have, essentially, turned into my mother. I remember being a kid and hearing "we don't want people to think we live like pigs" when I had to clean up for company. Here I am, age 30, cleaning my apartment so that she doesn't go back to Arizona and email my brother and her friends to say that the stress of everything must be hitting me because I live like I need to be on one of those TLC or A&E programs. Bright side, I have a clean as fuck apartment, so you know, go me.
Tomorrow is my clinic appointment. I'm finally looking forward to it rather than dreading it. I called today to find out what I can expect and was told that we'll get to know each other and talk about treatment and a plan et al. That is what I needed to hear. I needed to be told that we'd finally start talking treatment. I finally drove to the clinic to make sure I can find it and hot damn is it in a nice part of town! And, of course, I was a piece of work. I had on these awful shorts and two tank tops and was sweaty and dirty from cleaning. There I was, in lovely Gahanna, looking like shit and probably smelling awful. So glad no one was videotaping that.
I have my outfit picked out for tomorrow and everything, that is how prepared I am. Fucked up jeans and yoga top and cover up that my mom got me for my birthday. I bet my friend $5 that my mom gives me shit about the jeans so we'll see. If I end up in a skirt, I win. If I get to wear my beloved, unflattering, ugly, messed up jeans, he does. Either way, I come out a winner.
No comments:
Post a Comment