Bitchfoot and The Vacuum Cleaner Test

As promised, I’ve returned. Mainly because I’m bedridden for the next couple of days post the foot surgery I had this morning (ouch). And also, of course, to maintain the appearance of being One Who Blogs.

At least I have plenty of Percocet to keep me entertained and oh, right, to…you know, reduce the pain. Please forgive in advance all the brain fuzziness (think angora sweater fuzzy) my hardcore drugs are inducing. I have already re-named my left foot (the currently out-of-service one) Bitchfoot. Though, come to think of it, I guess it never had a name to begin with. Minor technicality. (I warned you about the fuzziness…)

So, the black leather sectional couch (aforementioned 280 pounds of furniture from my last post) did indeed arrive last Friday. A few pulled muscles (mostly in my arms…surprise, surprise) and a few more glasses of wine later, it was neatly assembled and our living room is one step closer to fulfilling Whitney’s and my vision of a true Big Girl apartment.

Let me tell you: being a domestic goddess is hard work. I mean, maybe looking through literally 5,697 decorative pillows is a little on the extreme side. But I want everything to be perfect. And you never know if that 5,697^th pillow is going to be The One. (It wasn’t.)

Really though, picking out decorative pillows is one of the most laborious tasks I’ve ever committed myself to doing. And our living room color scheme consists of red, white, and black. We already have like, the hardest part figured out. Ergo, it shouldn’t be this onerous. It shouldn’t, right? But IT IS.

And I don’t even want to talk about the vacuum cleaner search. Well, since I already am, I’ll tell you: it sucks. Primarily in that it doesn’t. Because, well, we haven’t found The One.

Do I want a Dyson? Yes. Not that I’m pretentious or anything. Okay, maybe a little. Because, OBVIOUSLY, every properly Emily Post-educated woman should have the Fabergé egg of vacuum cleaners in the highly unlikely event that someone might rudely and invasively decide to peek in her closet to ensure that she passes the Vacuum Cleaner Test. (You know, the completely arbitrary test I just made up. It doesn’t really exist. But you already knew that…) Anyway, to hell with paying for a Fabergé egg vacuum cleaner. $600? No. Just…no.

Especially since this whole decorating project has put me in the poorhouse. A very beautiful, very metropolitan, and very chic poor house, but a poorhouse nonetheless. I mean, really, you should see how sassy our dishtowels are (very sassy – not to mention how cute my pink, flowered dishwashing gloves are). There’s even an adorable little ceramic plaque hanging in the bathroom to remind me on those days when I’m feeling just a little down, to: “Put on a little lipstick. You’ll feel better.” It took ordering three different shower radios, but we finally found The One. We have adorable coasters that say things like, “What Chablis Shall Be!” and “Que Syrah, Syrah!” Not to mention a wine trivet. I kid you not. A wine trivet.

I simply can’t wait for my paycheck to come on Monday so that I can squander the majority of it on more fabulous décor. And alcohol.

I should really save up at least enough to order my groceries for next week. Like, if I want to eat anything. At all.

You don’t have to say it. I know, I know. White girl problems. Batshit crazy white girl problems.

xoxo,

Elizabeth Alida