Fatal Knickknack Attraction

My knickknack collection could rival a small local museum, I’ve got interesting rocks, a cast iron nutcracker in the shape of a squirrel, little glass bottles that I have never been able to open, even the tooth of a whale.  All of these things serve absolutely no purpose in my daily life, other than the fact then when I’m tipsy I pull them all out like some sort of drunken,

Some of my Vital Belongings

late night show and tell.

“and this antique compass is made of solid brass! Fascinating, right?”

They provide no real purpose, but I very much enjoy their presence in my life, until today when one of them actually brought me to tears.

I was in a frenzy, the kind I get into once a month or so where I feel the strange urge to partially, not completely, organize my life.  I was arranging my books on the shelf when it happened, the stone Buddha head that resides there rolled out of place and hurled itself in the direction of my guitar stand.

Let me assure you that I screamed bloody murder.

First of all, why do I have a stone Buddha head? No idea.  All I know is that I purchased said object in an antique store where I was probably looking for, you guessed it, more knickknacks.

So, this useless piece of stone that barely holds up books smacked into my acoustic guitar, dubbed Bruce, leaving a nasty mark in the finish before it hit the floor. I immediately was all business and panic.  I shut of the blaring Velvet Underground and grabbed my old friend Bruce to assess the damage.

Now make nice, or else.

It didn’t look good, but it didn’t look too bad either, facing my uncertainty as to the condition of my dear guitar, I did what any irrational person would do in my situation, I cried.

Holding Bruce by the neck I sought help from the only person around, my roommate Mark.  I stood outside his door crying and didn’t even knock, just called his name.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I hurt my guitar.”

I went in and he was sitting on his bed.  Gripping the neck of my guitar I told my terrible tale and showed him the damage.

“Oh my God,” said Mark, “it’s fine.”

“Are you SURE?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” his face clearly showed how entertained he was by the situation, “Are you crying over that?”

I nodded.

“It’s not even that great of a guitar.”

I cried harder.

Long story short, Bruce and I both pulled through; and I set out to weed out my knickknack collection, which proved to be harder than I thought it would be.  I mean, I’m obviously going to keep the old tequila bottle housing the needle that gave me my first tattoo, but how could I be rid of my glass manatee? Or the rock my friend brought back for me from Bonnaroo?  Looks like I’m going to keep my dangerous, knickknack-loving lifestyle. At least until the next incident, then they all go.

Single Ladies Don’t Get Bedhead, But Bachelors Do

Sometimes, it’s really great to be of the female persuasion.  For instance, just last week I was moving a dresser with a good girl friend of mine, and as it turned out, all we had to do was smile big and pretty and it moved itself.  A cop and a construction worker took it upon themselves to tie the dresser to roof of my friends little car using every inch of a 50 foot rope and made a big show of checking all the knots so that we could safely drive the dresser 3 miles.  It was all we could do to not fall into the kind of giggle fit that really reminds men that women are, in fact, a completely different species.  I’m thinking that every girl has a story similar to this, and it is common knowledge among females that the right pair of jeans will get you a free mojito any night of the week.

Men don’t really get that as much, but what they do get is the bachelor lifestyle. A lifestyle

A little peek at my big mess.

I’m pretty sure I subscribe to even though I’m not a man.

Once upon a time, one of my best friends lived in a house with a ridiculously high amount of single ladies, and let me tell you I am not the same kind of creature as any of them.  Whenever I went to visit her, each bedroom door I passed revealed a made bed that was definitely not being used as an extra shelf.  Beds that these kind of girls vacated at early hours (before 9) to eat an actual breakfast wearing actual sets of pajamas and get things done that in no way had to be done yet, and then take mass trips to the gym in coordinated outfits.

I once walked into that house to attend what I thought would be a party and the amazing array of cocktail dresses and heels put my cotton/denim/sandal combination to such shame, that I took my 6 pack of beer and walked out for fear that it would offend one of their many bottles of chardonnay.

Being single, I tend to live life like most of the men I know, a lot messier than you think.  If I’m not sharing my bed with someone else, then chances are that I’m sharing it with any  number of books, clothing, my laptop, possibly a guitar, and most definitely some knick-knacks.  Aside from this fact, it is also true that my bed is never made and I sure as hell don’t sleep in pajamas. Truth be told, I may or may not have decided that it’s worth the effort to remove my skinny jeans before falling into bed, depending on my blood alcohol level.

Combine all that with the fact that you will almost never see me in the kitchen before 9 cutting up a grapefruit and sprinkling it with non-fat sugar while wearing lip gloss, and I’ve got the bachelor life down pat.

So yes, I drag my spinster self out of bed a lot later than necessary, but I rock the bedhead and I rock it hard.  It is here that I make the distinction between all those single ladies with their hands up and the true bachelorette who would put her hands up, but she’s come to the realization that she’s a slight mutation of the species.  Besides, she’s holding a free mojito.

The Five Minute Dash

Yeah, blueberry mud mask on your night in. Lookin' good....

I’d like to take a moment to examine the amazing dynamics that accompany pre-date jitters.

We’re not just talking about any kind of date here, we’re talking about the impromptu I’ll-be-there-in-five type date.  The kind that sneaks up on you when you haven’t showered yet and you’re ready for a night in, complete with the acts of stuffing your face with chocolate, lounging in an old tee shirt and picking out a movie you will watch while pretending to fold laundry.

If you’re like me, then there’s anywhere from one to four types of social media open on your desktop, including your trusty cell phone.  So halfway through your scrubby, half zoned in, personal pizza party, you get a notification that someone wants to get a hold of you.

But this isn’t just any notification, its the one you really want to get, but sure as hell  weren’t expecting while you are looking and acting like something less than your usual put together and dashingly cute self.  So, you casually shoot the breeze, share funny tidbits, pull out the clever self you put away earlier, and it seems to be going rather well.

On your mark.

So, let’s be honest, you may be reading into each exchange a little more than nessecary, but that’s ok.  It actually is going well. Then one of the two of you makes the leap.  In this case, it’s you.  Yeah, you went there.  Maybe you suggest sharing a favored substance, or a movie, or a drive, but you definitely put it out there.

Get set…

Then there it is, that phrase that is awesome and terrible: “I’ll be there in five.”

Go.

You haven’t even made it to the end of that short sentence and your pants are half off, you know exactly what shirt you want to find and have your toothbrush ready to go.  Then you’re running through your apartment shocking your roommates as you brush your teeth, buckle your belt and spritz yourself in the hopes of smelling better all at the same time.  The goal for the impromptu date is  to look good, but look like you sit home alone looking that good. Not like you just raised your heart rate twofold in the effort to look presentable.

So, here comes the  finish line, you’re at 4.5 minutes.  Sitting there, flicking your lighter impatiently and you know just how you look in the pants you’re wearing. “Oh what? yeah, I always smell this good.”

From what I hear, everyone has gone through some form of this impromtu date dash.  Not me though, I always look this good.