For those of you following my life as if it were some ultra-important epic novel, you'll remember that Eric has been known to send me pictures of his dog.
On my fridge, I have a Christmas card from him featuring him and his wife in matching outfits*, standing with the aforementioned dog in front of their fireplace. The card says: "Merry Christmas. Love, Eric, Kristin and Bear." Apart from wondering how Eric managed top billing on the card, the thing that stands out to me is that Bear, the dog, wanted me to have a merry Christmas. How do they know that?
I have read that a dog can forget about you in as little as 10 hours. If I ever meant anything to that dog, she is soooo over me by now. In a way, it was very cruel for the Johnsons to send me a picture of a creature that never thinks about me. Why not just send me a picture of Sarah McDaniels, you heartless bastards!
I thought it was just Eric who did this sort of thing -- that some kind of domesticity overload had pushed him over the edge -- and that all my other friends were fine. I was wrong.
This is a picture of Paul's kitchen. As you can see, he and his wife live in a furniture showroom. Actually, that's probably not too far off. The lovely and talented Mrs. Kopesky is a medical doctor, and Paul is presently earning his PhD. This means of course, that no one ever has the time to actually use this kitchen. That's why it's so clean.
But I am still concerned that Paul would send me pictures of his remodelled kitchen, along with a description of how complicated it was to use glass tile for the kitchen backsplash. This sentence drew my attention particularly: "It was kind of a challenge to cut (you can't score and break like regular ceramic) and also to grout without scratching it, but we figured it out in the end."
That bit in the parentheses seems to assume I know what the hell he's talking about. Score and break? The who and the what now? I know nothing of home-improvement projects, seeing as how I've never owned a home. Thanks for twisting the knife, Paul. Why don't you just send me a picture of Sarah McDaniels in a house that isn't mine?
Paul sent a few other pictures of his place, and he appears to have done well for himself. There is not one bit of pity furniture. Pity furniture is the stuff that your friends give you because you are pathetic and they can't be arsed to throw it away. The couch, barbecue grill, and lamps that Paul gave me when we lived in San Diego were pity furniture. The television that the child bride and I spent the holidays staring at was a pity appliance from someone at her church (on a side note: I forgot to mention that the child bride and I were recipients of a Christmas hamper from her church. We didn't ask for it, it just showed up. Her church decided that we are so pathetic we need free food. As owners of a television, high-speed Internet access and a mobile phone, we felt a little guilty but we accepted it because, uhm, we don't have any actual money. The hamper was a strange hodgepodge of foodstuffs. There was a 9-pound turkey and apples and clementines, but there were also three packets of McVitie's Chocolate Digestives. The child bride decided that we should set some of it aside for food storage, so when the End Times come we'll be serving Kirk Cameron rice pudding and beans). The computer bits that Jenny gave me were pity computer bits. Without pity items, the child bride and I would own little more than a duvet, several CDs and six towels.
The picture that amuses me most is the one that Paul sent of his living room. As you can see, no one uses that either. And in some kind of taunt/challenge, they have furnished the room with lamps that I would almost certainly drunkenly stumble into and break if I were to visit. But the best part is the window. Look outside. Apparently Paul and his wife live in the opening credits of "Welcome Back Kotter."
Who'd have thought we'd need ya, Paul, back here where we need ya?
When did we get so old that it became OK to send each other pictures of our dogs and kitchens? And more importantly, what am I supposed to send them pictures of? In terms of things that I spend all my time and energy on, I have a choice between sending them pictures of essays written in Welsh, or my blog, or of me trying to convince the child bride to take off her clothes: "It was kind of a challenge to dupe her into shagging (you can't get her drunk and promise not to tell her friends like regular girls) and also to grout without scratching it, but we figured it out in the end."
*Matching outfits. That's almost as lame as this picture.