As of today, we are up to 45 items on my list of things to leave my life, and 35 items actually out of the house, and we are very, very happy about it. Granted, when we dropped off two bags of clothes to City Mission we didn't come back empty-handed, but we came back with ONE THING. One! (Okay, I'll go back to the singular pronouns now.)
Still no progress with the neighbours who are KILLING ME with their loud bass. (I know I haven't actually told you about them before, but as this post is called Update, let's just pretend I have.) Two months since I first texted our building manager to ask him to go to the two apartments I suspect to sort it out, one month since I made a paper plane to fly into the window of the apartment I was almost certain the bass was coming from but missed and got the apartment next door, and two weeks since I shoved notes in the letterboxes of my suspects, although the slots aren't accessible from the side we open the boxes from so I had to feed the notes into cracks and wasn't sure if they had gone into the ones they were meant for or the boxes above/below. This may seem excessive and more action than I take over anything, but there are few things more aggravating than the bass of shitty pop/house reverberating through one's house when the tasteless moron listening to it could do so at full volume with the bass off and still contribute to the demise of music. Why can Vincent just yell at people and they immediately (albeit shittily) close their windows, but my use of the written word does nothing? It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? I knew I should have done manly writing and not said please/thank you/sorry to be a pain/sorry if it's not you.
Progress in my quest to find ethically made undies and other things is much better. I started asking around, and was recommended Thunderpants by my boss. Thunderpants are made in NZ and are a bit like Bonds undies (which I don't often wear, but are one of the few brands that actually fit my bum in them). Even better, they make undies for men exactly like the ones Vincent wears. Excellent. Next on the list is somewhere that sells lacey undies.
Lastly, progress in my attempts to make my hairdresser haircut (yes I went there; my efforts just weren't cutting it) (teehee) more Marilyn and less QE11: very good! I took a photo to show you how today I fluked the loose ghd curl and not using too much hairspray so it will actually stay like that (also the nap I took this afternoon flattened the side a bit a made it a bit more Hepburn) but the photo came out too nice. That might seem stupid, but there's nothing artistic or cool about it; it's just a nice photo that makes me look like the kind of person who talks about being naked in front of boys hoping they will picture it, and I am not that kind of person. The only person I want picturing me naked is my husband. And now that I have gone completely off topic and grossed you out, I will go. Actually, if you really want to be grossed out, I read the other day that January Jones has had her placenta made into capsules, which she takes daily. She says we are among the only species to not eat our placentas, but I googled it and that's because animals usually eat them so predators won't know babies have been born. I thought it sounded natural and kind of nice at first, and then I remembered what a fresh placenta looked like (looked, not looks; I saw one straight from the oven), and imagined someone with a napkin on their lap, and a knife and fork in their hands... and kind of wanted to barf.
I can't leave you like that, so here is an awesome video of the one and only and totally brilliant Chuck Berry, wasting his talents on an audience of zombies.