One Woman's Trash
...is another woman's time portal to the 80s.
I want people to feel welcome in my home, to a point. My brother has apparently given his girlfriend, who shall be known only as Crispy Bangs, carte blanche. "Mi Casa est Su Casa. And all the stuff in it besides."
It's bad enough that she comandeers the kitchen as soon as she steps foot in my house. She uses every dish, ever pot and pan, every utensil to concoct her over-salted gastrinomocal productions. Yes, some of what she cooks is delicious. Yes, she is generous for buying the food, making the meal, and then cleaning up after herself. But it's my kitchen. It was, anyway.
Early in the 'relationship', I observed CB running my hairbrush through her crispy locks. I threw it away and bought a new one. Then she started bringing her stuff over, leaving a corn-rasper and foot brush by the bathroom sink. She runs her fingers through her hair frequently--in the kitchen--as she cooks. The linoleum in the bathroom and the kitchen is a mixture of her long black strands and my brother's curly chest-shoulder-back pubes. It's disgusting. Sickening. Animals don't tolerate this kind of filth.
Last night, she and my brother were talking in the kitchen, she, flinging food-bits and other decomposing matter from her teeth with floss. IN THE KITCHEN!!
And then, this morning, she's teasing her hair with my comb. MY COMB! Ratting that mall-banged, Aquanetted mess with my personal styling device--which, when wrapped in cellophane, doubles as a harmonica. Oh my god, how long has she been using it? I threw the comb away. Had to.
I just came from the bathroom, and noticed that the comb is back on the counter, stuck in an old hairbrush my mom bought in the 1980s. Yes, you just read that right. No, I won't hold your gagging and outbursts of disgust against you. Ms. Bangs fished the comb out of the bathroom garbage.
What did she ask herself as she looked in the mirror and decided her hair wasn't quite high enough? What was the train of thought that derailed before it could reach the station of good taste and hygenic acceptability?
Where's that comb?
Maybe it's in the garbage. Aha, there it is.
I don't know why someone threw this perfectly good comb in the garbage, 'cause I'm not finsihed using it.
I'll just dig through the wadded tissue and hair and pube trimmings and used floss and bloody tampons and whatever else is in here--so I can toss those locks up a couple more inches.
All done. Now I'll put the comb in these brush bristles, in case someone else needs to use it.
I want to take a shower, and wash the filth and the cooties away, but she's touched everything in this house. I'm going to have to keep my brush and comb, my bath towel and washcloth, in my room. I'm throwing the soap away too.
Crispy is as crispy does.
I want people to feel welcome in my home, to a point. My brother has apparently given his girlfriend, who shall be known only as Crispy Bangs, carte blanche. "Mi Casa est Su Casa. And all the stuff in it besides."
It's bad enough that she comandeers the kitchen as soon as she steps foot in my house. She uses every dish, ever pot and pan, every utensil to concoct her over-salted gastrinomocal productions. Yes, some of what she cooks is delicious. Yes, she is generous for buying the food, making the meal, and then cleaning up after herself. But it's my kitchen. It was, anyway.
Early in the 'relationship', I observed CB running my hairbrush through her crispy locks. I threw it away and bought a new one. Then she started bringing her stuff over, leaving a corn-rasper and foot brush by the bathroom sink. She runs her fingers through her hair frequently--in the kitchen--as she cooks. The linoleum in the bathroom and the kitchen is a mixture of her long black strands and my brother's curly chest-shoulder-back pubes. It's disgusting. Sickening. Animals don't tolerate this kind of filth.
Last night, she and my brother were talking in the kitchen, she, flinging food-bits and other decomposing matter from her teeth with floss. IN THE KITCHEN!!
And then, this morning, she's teasing her hair with my comb. MY COMB! Ratting that mall-banged, Aquanetted mess with my personal styling device--which, when wrapped in cellophane, doubles as a harmonica. Oh my god, how long has she been using it? I threw the comb away. Had to.
I just came from the bathroom, and noticed that the comb is back on the counter, stuck in an old hairbrush my mom bought in the 1980s. Yes, you just read that right. No, I won't hold your gagging and outbursts of disgust against you. Ms. Bangs fished the comb out of the bathroom garbage.
What did she ask herself as she looked in the mirror and decided her hair wasn't quite high enough? What was the train of thought that derailed before it could reach the station of good taste and hygenic acceptability?
Where's that comb?
Maybe it's in the garbage. Aha, there it is.
I don't know why someone threw this perfectly good comb in the garbage, 'cause I'm not finsihed using it.
I'll just dig through the wadded tissue and hair and pube trimmings and used floss and bloody tampons and whatever else is in here--so I can toss those locks up a couple more inches.
All done. Now I'll put the comb in these brush bristles, in case someone else needs to use it.
I want to take a shower, and wash the filth and the cooties away, but she's touched everything in this house. I'm going to have to keep my brush and comb, my bath towel and washcloth, in my room. I'm throwing the soap away too.
Crispy is as crispy does.
posted by Cindy St. Onge at 4:56 PM
2 Comments:
AH the goddess St. Onge,
My sides split from laughter, your words show no mercy, yet leave no mark. Mark your territory and show them cross thy threshold.
ah the blessed breeze that is ..
St. Onge
Hmm...almost mocking, and so very coy--yet I'm just arrogant and delusional enough to file this comment under adoration.
Sorry about the breeze. Had beans.
Hope your sides recover darling.
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