Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Adios, Mexico...

I can never go to Mexico ever again. Not that I've ever been to Mexico on vacation ever. But now, I won't be able to cross the border without the entire population of the country laughing their heads off the second they see me.

Yesterday, the carpet company finally came to tear away our three rooms' carpet with its 11 years of stains, use and general ickiness. By the way, I'm not a scientist, but I can tell you from having torn out myself our living room carpet with Sweetie Pie that carpet might be the nastiest thing on Earth. Cooties abound in carpet and it's really disgusting.

But enough about my preaching about the grossness of carpet.

The point is that because we're selling the house, we were having the carpet replaced. See, we've happily lived with nasty ass carpet for five years, but now that we're leaving, new people will get to enjoy a freshly painted house, with no cracks or stains, while we lived in a shithole. Really, it's quite unfair.

So anyway, yesterday, my doorbell rings and when I open it, half the male population of Mexico City invades my house and begins moving all of my furniture into our living room, so that it's now a multi-purpose room, a.k.a. office, master bedroom and baby room all at once. The ultimate lazy person's dream room in other words. Carpet gets ripped out, new one gets put in at dizzying speed. It's all good and dandy.

Since my Spanish is quite rusty, every time I'd hear laughter, I'd be convinced they were talking about the fat white woman in the kitchen (a.k.a. me). I know, it's stupid, but it's that leftover anxiety from high school that people must be making fun of me if they're laughing. And in high school, I was always right. So why would it still not occur as I approach my 30th birthday?

Anyway, after they had left and replaced our furniture mostly where it belonged, Sweetie Pie and I began the task of cleaning and making the house look good once again so the for sale sign could go up in the yard.

And that's when we uncovered a couple of horrifying things. It started with Sweetie Pie coming into the kitchen dangling my trashiest bra (and I mean that in a good way) saying "look what the workers found!" I must admit I haven't seen that bra in months, maybe even years. But let's just say in my defense that during the last six months, I sure as hell haven't cared where the hell that bra was.

And so begin the feelings of mortification. That a dozen men who don't speak English have discussed my bra that would make Frederick's of Hollywood blush. Well, probably not, but in my head it all gets blown out of proportion, due to the embarrassment of the situation.

Then a few minutes later, I'm cleaning off the bathroom counter where the workers dumped all the random stuff they found under furniture and in corners and buried in the pile is a tube of Good Head. Which is, ahem... An oral arousal cream. You know, you put on his private parts and it makes him all tingly and it's flavored, so that you don't have to taste penis when you're doing a certain deed.

Now I just want to fall off the face of the Earth, despite the fact that I will more than likely never see any of these men again. It doesn't matter! They know!

Sweetie Pie, of course, is laughing at me, telling me that this ought to teach me to be so messy. I tell him that they must have been saying "no wonder she's knocked up!" But Sweetie Pie's interpretation of their reaction to the Good Head tube is "Poor bastard, the tube's full!"

Typical man...

Love,

Catwoman.

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