I’m calling her Lagertha. My home. That’s her name. Lagertha.
It’s been an adjustment. This new relationship. Me and Lagertha.
Lagertha has rules. Which she has posted.
And it’s not like…I mean, they’re not unreasonable rules.
But it’s just the principle. You know?
I pay the mortgage. I make the rules.
So I just leave the lid up sometimes. Just so she knows that I’m the boss.
I’m also still adjusting to Lagertha’s layout.
And the fact that I’m not living in a tiny apartment. On the second floor. With only one window.
And since Lagertha doesn’t seem to have a rule about closing doors. Or curtains.
I generally don’t close doors. Or curtains.
I now realize why she doesn’t have these rules posted.
Because she believes in natural consequences.
My natural consequence was showering. And glancing up. Mid-shower. To this view.
That’s just a straight shot right there.
I mean, no one should be on my porch. Or at the edge of my lawn. Looking in my windows.
But if they did…
Well, it wouldn’t be very rewarding for either of us.
Because I don’t do that unrealistic sexy showering like you see in the movies.
But if I saw someone watching me. I mean, we all know, right? I’m gonna try to sexy shower.
But we all also know that would just end up being incredibly awkward and disappointing for everyone involved.
I think Lagertha is just trying to set me up for that one.
Because she knows.
She watched my interaction. With the Lowe’s delivery guys. When they brought my washer and dryer.
And they just stood there. On the front porch. Holding a clipboard.
And I just stared at them. Expectantly. Holding the door open.
And they just kept looking at their clipboard.
And I just kept holding the door open.
And finally I realized. Why they kept looking at their clipboard.
So, I said, Sunshine?
Yes. That’s me.
“Oh! Ok! We weren’t sure…”
You thought you were heading to a strip club?
“Um. No. We were talking on the way over and we wasn’t sure if you was a man or a woman.”
I’m a woman. (Stop by around shower time and you’ll see…) (I didn’t say that.) (Mostly because the shower situation happened after the washer/dryer situation) (Otherwise I would have absolutely said that.) (And then would have been shocked if they’d shown up and resentful if they didn’t.) (I’m a complex creature.)
But anyway. The name. And gender issue. Led to a very long conversation about the responsibility of giving a child a name. And bullying. And childhood trauma.
I should’ve gotten their names for Rogue. She likes developing treatment plans.
At one point, Trauma Boys asked if I had an extension chord. For my washer…
And I’m not an electrician. But I really don’t think any kind of extension chord that a lady such as myself might have lying around is gonna be prepared to power a washing machine.
But it was fine. Because they figured out geometry. And managed to fit the washer in where it belongs.
And I don’t know why this was a challenge.
But they did it. And I was proud of them.
And they could plug it into the regular outlet.
Which then…didn’t work.
No power to the regular outlet.
And also an entire room upstairs.
No power to those outlets, either.
And I was close. To calling an electrician. And spending my couch money on fixing my electric.
When my son came over. And fixed the situation.
(I did check the breaker, dammit. It was fine when I checked it. I swear.)
She was just screwing with me.
Also, you know how houses settle? Like, they make these creepy little noises at night? Just settling all in for a nice little sleep?
Yeah, Lagertha doesn’t do that.
I swear that bitch holds her breath all damn night just to avoid making any kind of noise at all.
Just the silence of death in that house at night.
Which. I mean, I know I complained about Upstairs Roommate. And his break up nights.
My brain wasn’t prepared for polar opposite.
Do you know how many Viking death invasion scenarios play through your head when you’re lying in death silence?
It’s too much.
Especially because homegirl got these keys.
Just sitting on her kitchen counter.
But she won’t tell me what they open.
Just tells me to mind my business. And not touch them.
So I have to assume they open the gates of hell.
That’s the kind of shit keys like those open.
And that those gates are housed in my basement somewhere.
But it’s fine.
I came into work today to a gluttonous amount of chocolate.
And this really cool mug made by my Scholastic Bowl kids.
Who aren’t actually mine. But if they’re making me gifts, I get to claim them. (And I was legit way to excited about the giant binder clip and Expo marker inside the mug. Because of who I am as a person.)
And then. Tina Fey brought me the world’s biggest sugar cookie made by a class of students who just wanted to see if they could…
So I’m gonna take my sugar rush home and see if I can talk Lagertha out of her silent treatment before bed tonight.
If I don’t show up to work tomorrow, you know I went searching for the lock those keys fit into.
Home ownership is hard.