Tag Archives: drunk cheryl

Any way you reich it

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Aw, you there, you look peaked. Have you tried Emergency Chocolate? Me Time? You might want to light some candles and take a soothing Aromatherapy Bath. I hate to say anything, but your delicate undereye skin is suffering, and, as a friend and good Christian woman, I must. Cortisol: it’s just hell on the complexion.

At least that’s what I’m going to say to Drunk Cheryl the next time I see her. Honestly, all the aromatherapy in the world isn’t going to help. Have you seen her Fame and Popularity corner? So tacky what she did with that. Can we say Hope-less!

Cheryl’s husband is a piano teacher, and he’s deep into Gilbert and Sullivan these days. When he’s not screaming at Cheryl’s child from a former relationship (i.e. the hours before 3PM), I get to hear little ditties like “Three Little Maids from School Are We” tinkling and plonking through the ceiling. And after 3 PM, this is augmented by the stomping of the spraddled hooves of the child (it may actually be a Clydesdale) and the aforementioned screaming.

So I went out to work at a cafe, and whaddya know, in walked Creepy Neighbor. Creepy Neighbor lives on the top floor. He always wears a beige baseball cap and black turtleneck and workout pants. He also bears a strong facial resemblance to this drunk copywriter I used to have the misfortune of seeing at work, except he smiles a lot. This all bothers me. I’m not saying he was following me, but he was following me. I should spray the deck with Gremlin-Proof and Serial Murderer B-Gone.

Clearly I need to get an office, maybe in another country. The thing is, I don’t DO anything anyway. I mean I do this, and I do that, and I get money, but I realize I’ve turned into one of those people where you have no idea what they do for a living. Sometimes I don’t even know. What was I saying? I need some more anti-oxidants. Then I have Yogilates.

God, me boring self. As you may have noticed, Lambchop jumped ship a few months ago, and she was the head of the Vomitola Mania Division. I usually handled Ennui and Existentialism, so I’m just all over the place these days. There’s no way I can fall down a flight of stairs like she could. I may call a temp agency. A floater, that’s what we need. How about this: I’m weaning off my Mother’s Little Helpers, and I predict a 93% increase in bile and desire to hurt others. Can you stand it?

Pope Destructicon XXX

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Well, there’s a lot of laundry on the bedroom floor. I can’t tell what’s clean and what isn’t, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sniff it all. I hope my laundering is not interrupted by drunk Cheryl from upstairs again. Cheryl is all “I have to do one load of laundry by 4 pm!” And I’m all “You should have planned ahead, fuck me for doing laundry on a random Thursday afternoon.” And she’s all “no, really,” and to end the conversation before she tells me why 4 pm is so important, I just take my laundry out. Then when hers is midway through the wash cycle, I go down and unplug the machine. I am kidding about that last part. I think.

There is an obese family that lives downstairs, and they do so much damn laundry. I had to take some of their stuff out of the dryer the other day, and I realized why they are constantly in the laundry room. Because each load only holds two pairs of supersized pants and a sweatshirt. Think of that wasted water. Sea otters could be cavorting in that. They also produce an amazing amount of trash, what with eating an entire box of Honey Smacks each at every meal. Or so it seems as I stare out my window with binoculars. OK, I sit out on the deck and openly stare.

I am Gladys Kravitz rolled into Dr. Phil rolled into a watery grave if I don’t watch my mouth. I can’t wait to purge the church of all the fornicators.