Cause shit happens.
I’m sitting here on my toilet while blogging you. Not on the toilet as in its intended use toilet, but in a I don’t have any funiture kind of way.
You see I got a call on Thursday offering me a job in Portland to start on Monday and I live in Dallas. I wouldn’t be able to fly back and forth every week like I’m use to. I would need to stay in Portland for six months.
It’s a really great job and is something I want on my resume. So I spent about two hours throwing stuff in my car and took off. I drove for thirty hours got a hotel and drove another twelve to get here on Saturday. Sunday I took the first apartment I looked at and here I am sitting on the toilet, using the counter as a desk.
Don’t worry the lid is down. I know that might have been a concern for some.
I order some furniture which should have arrived over the weekend, but didn’t. I got a message at 5:00 a.m. it will be arriving this morning. So I’m sitting here on my toilet, waiting for something to sit on.
So an office in the toilet. It’s really not so bad in here. The heat lamp is warming the place nicely. The porcelean’s bright and white. I have plenty to drink (from the faucet, not like a dog from the toilet). My shampoo and conditioner smells nice. It has pretty good accoustics thanks to the shower. Oh and did I mention one perfect towel.
Oh, thank God, the sofa’s here.
Do you ever have thoughts that you wish you didn’t have? Like maybe this one.
In my imagination, I’m hanging out with a couple of friends. We’ve been drinking wine, laughing, and listening to music.
When someone says, “I found this old porn in my Mom’s closet. It’s so bad, it’s hysterical.”
She puts it on. The hair is plastered with hair spray and way too tall. You all laugh.
A guys come on screen and someone says, “Hey he’s not bad looking.”
“Yeah,” you agree, “he actually pretty hot.”
Another friend with a fist full of popcorn says, “That looks like your Dad.”
“No,” you insist shocked and a bit disgusted, “that guy is hot. I’d go out with him. He doesn’t look anything like my Dad.”
One of your other friends chimes in, “He really does look like your Dad around the eyes and that nose.”
Then he does something so quintessentially “your” Dad and you know that IS your Dad. You’re watching a porn starring your Dad.
The screams of horror are echoing through my head as I type.
So you’re pissed because you have to live with that image for the rest of your life and you want to confront your Dad, but you’re not sure how that’s going to work.
You start the conversation with something like, “What the H-E- double toothpicks is wrong with you? A porn?”
“You’ve been watching porn,” your Dad counters.
“You were in it.”
Your Mom interrupts, “Do not yell at your Father.”
“Mom, did you know Dad was in a porn?”
And she replies, “Well yes, dear that’s how we met.”
And that’s why I try not to think too