Last summer sometime, I was doing my best Tom Cruise “Risky Business” impression in front of the mirror. I was probably singing some Neil Diamond (badly), warbling like someone was kicking a bag of kittens, as I prepared to go about my day. I’d just showered, you see, and nothing gets me in the mood to live life like singing some “Cracklin’ Rose.”
I’d gotten about halfway through the second verse when I finally looked back at my mirrored reflection, holding a hairbrush like it was a microphone, hair wet, butt-ass naked. My second story window was open, normally no big deal, since it overlooks my roof and not much else, (I’ve probably traumatized my share of squirrels)(so what?) but on this particular morning, I saw something horrible. Something I’d not seen before my shower. Something, had I not been screaming Neil Diamond songs, I would have noticed:
My neighbors were getting a roof installed.
I had an audience. An audience of men watched me perform Neil Diamond’s greatest hits, butt-ass naked.
Good times never seemed so good.
I did the only thing I could think to do: I waved. Then I slapped some clothes on and went downstairs. Whoops! My bad!
Later on, hoping they’d gone on break, I sneaked out of my front door on my way to do whatever it was that I was doing that day. Nope. Of course not. I smiled, red-faced as they chatted about me; at least they’d called me the “hot chick” with the “nice rack.” Clearly, they didn’t know that I spoke Spanish. I resisted telling them they had “small balls,” just because it seemed mean. Especially since they thought I had nice boobs.
I hadn’t given the incident much thought beyond, “close the fucking blinds when you’re naked, moron,” because really, what’s there to say?
Last week, in the middle of The Migraine, I’d had a contractor come out to the house to talk color choices for the new siding we’re getting installed. I’ll pause here so you can laugh at the notion of a colorblind chick with a migraine picking out colors for a house.
So, you’re probably wondering what the hell I was doing picking out anything that’s colored and going to be seen by the world and that’s totally fair because I’d wondered that myself. Or I did for about five minutes.
See, now, let’s suppose I invite you over for a delicious BBQ. I give you my address. You plug it into your GPS. But, if you’re like most of the world, you probably want a description of some landmark or something that’ll tell you that you’re at The House Formerly Known As The Sausage Factory, and my house is one of three different models in the neighborhood. Got to love the 70’s for it’s unoriginality. And shrubbery. What the hell was up with all of those BUSHES they planted?
What I would have said is this, “It’s the ugly yellow Colonial-ish one.”
And it is.
You couldn’t miss it if you tried, and believe me, I’ve tried. It is the only house in the neighborhood that has this particularly hideous color and if a shade of yellow can be offensive, this color is. Brown would be better than this color, and I hate brown like I hate digital alarm clocks.
I can honestly say that there was nothing in the contractor’s color book that was as bad as the color my house currently is. (although, there was a green shingle option, which I have spent a great amount of time thinking about)(a green roof?)(seriously?)(this is what keeps me up at night, Pranksters)
So I picked out an inoffensive greyish color and a black roof and white gutters because while I love garish colors, I’m not sure that my house should qualify as a “painted lady.”
The work should begin when it’s no longer Ass Cold, which means anywhere from tomorrow to July. Chicago weather is a fickle bitch.
It hadn’t dawned on me until today that it was possible to get the same contractors who had seen me traipsing around the bathroom like a fool last summer.
Guess I’m going to spend the rest of the day wig shopping.