Tonight, my parents insisted upon me completely disrobing in the backyard before they would allow me to come into the house, whereupon I was instructed to immediately shower, because my father believed me to be “harboring” fly larvae in or on my person. ”They can burrow into your skin,” he’d said, “this is for your own good.” This is not the kind of thing that would just make sense if only I wasn’t leaving out certain foundational circumstances— if I’d provided the context, it would only seem more ludicrous.
For three years or so I was asked to perform many such confusing contamination rituals; it was an ordinary part of my life dating someone with OCD. It wasn’t until tonight, as I begrudgingly peeled off my underwear by the back porch light, that I realized I had been treading familiar ground.
11:15 pm • 3 September 2013 • 3 notes
Better Homes and Gardens | NEW DECORATING BOOK ©1981
12:36 am • 3 September 2013 • 11 notes
CONRAN’S CREATIVE HOME DESIGN ©1986
12:34 am • 3 September 2013 • 6 notes
“Sometimes I call my phone when I can’t find it. Then I leave myself a message, because I just love getting messages, even if they’re from me.”
— my mom
4:26 pm • 18 August 2013 • 4 notes
I love David Hockney, and I’m glad this showed up in my tumblr feed because it reminded me of R’s across-the-street neighbor, who spends the better part of every day watering his front lawn. Any time he isn’t out on the lawn, shirtless and tanned to shoe leather, with the hose, he’s running a sprinkler much like this one. Today he ran the sprinkler for 5 hours, then came outside and re-watered with the hose. I spend almost as much time debating about whether or not to complain to the city about his gross misuse of water as he spends watering. Yet this is clearly all he has- so why not let him have it-impending drought be damned? And maybe I would miss my own shocked disbelief as I watch him methodically oscillating that hose, and all my absurd speculations about what drives him to saturate his lawn so completely.
10:45 pm • 12 August 2013 • 314 notes
Each of my significant boyfriends has given me a walkman. If I was searching for symbolic meaning, I would conclude that each of them was trying to tell me that I wasn’t a good listener, or I am stuck in the past. Another possibility, less symbolic in nature, is that I am drawn to the kind of man who, for reasons I’ve yet to explore, keeps more than one technologically defunct personal cassette player on hand. Yet another possibility: I am the kind of woman, who, when asked if I have a walkman, forgets that she has one. I mainly use these walkmen(?) to listen to self-help and hypnosis tapes, so I’m fairly confident that I’ll figure out the answer to this personal riddle pretty soon.
5:18 pm • 11 August 2013 • 4 notes
THE BED AND BATH BOOK | Terence Conran ©1978
5:38 pm • 7 August 2013 • 47 notes