Sunday, September 20, 2009

To the victor.

I went to an auction today. I'd never been to one before, and I was lured to the scene by the loud chatter and the furniture strewn haphazardly around the property. Not to mention the dozens of people wandering around, looking predatory. Seemed like my kind of place. It was actually really interesting, although it probably would have been more fun if I'd had someone there with me that I knew, or had gotten more than 4 hours of sleep, or wasn't 7 and a half months pregnant, or wasn't loitering in the heat.

Actually, it wasn't hot. It was a nice morning. But I threw a hoodie on over my white tshirt in favor of finding an appropriate undergarment (because I'm classy like that) and the hoodie happened to be black. And we all know what happens when you wear black in direct sunlight. I know this particularly well, as most of my clothing for the majority of the last few years has been black.

You melt, is what I'm saying. You roast in the sun like a pig on a spit, and I was one very hot pregnant piggy.

There was only one thing I wanted at the auction. It was a beautiful big chest/dresser/antique pile of beautifulness, and I wanted it for the baby's room. And it was going to be perfect in a way that nothing else ever has been. It was going to complete my life. It was going to be in our family for generations. I kept my eye on it, and loved it, and pictured it in the nursery. I named it Fernando and whispered sweet nothings into its keyholes.

I was going to pay 200 bucks for it, and I would have gotten it, too, if some fucking burnout hippie pile of shit hadn't popped up next to me and decided to blow this week's drug money on MY FUCKING DRESSER.

Uh. Or... yaknow, whatever.

Seriously, though, it was like magic. That hippie jacked the price of the dresser up to $400 before I could blink, bidding back and forth with this tiny, angry looking woman. The auctioneer went back and forth, back and forth, chattering about four hundred, who's gonna give four hundred? And I almost bit! I almost paid 400 for it! But then I pictured myself trying to explain to The Boy why I felt like it was necessary to buy the baby a(nother) $400 piece of furniture, and I died a little bit inside when I realized that the look he would give me (The "You're a retard and it's obvious I need to keep you sedated and chained to a pipe in the basement from now on," look) would probably actually serve to lower my IQ, just by the pure force of it. And he's never given me a look like that. And I'd like to keep it that way. So I didn't out-bid the fucking burnout hippie pile of shit.


And now my life is doomed to suck, because that dresser was beautiful and perfect. It had doors on top that opened to an amazing cabinet I was going to use to store the baby's cloth diapers. The cloth diapers that also apparently make ME a hippie, YOU BUDDY-FUCKING, BACKSTABBING TRAITOR, HIPPIE GUY. We're on the same TEAM here.


I'm not a materialistic person. I don't really care about stuff. You should have seen The Boy and I when we were buying furniture. There was so much, "I don't care, what do you think?" being tossed back and forth between the two of us, I thought the lovely sales lady's skull cap was going to blow off and tear a hole in the ceiling. We aren't STUFF kind of people. We don't need a lot of STUFF. We don't want a lot of STUFF. Hell, the stuff we DID wind up buying is varying shades of brown and beige because you know why? Because we don't give enough of a crap to bother with anything else. Because it's stuff, and this way it'll all look nice together, so fuck it.

But I wanted that goddamned dresser. And we NEED a dresser for the baby's room. I wanted it and I needed it and FUCK THAT OLD HIPPIE RIGHT IN HIS WRINKLY FACE.

Blame it on nesting, I guess, or hormones, or the fact that I'd been waiting in the sun, roasting like a chunk of beast for like TOO LONG, or whatever, but I literally almost got into a knife fight with that old (probably pacifist) stoner over a piece of furniture. I wanted to pull a razor out my titties and cut a bitch.

But I didn't. And now I don't have the dresser. Or any dresser. And any dresser I do manage to find isn't going to be as good as that one. A stranger even said it was perfect, when I told her what I wanted it for. Word, Sympathetic Stranger Lady. YOU'RE TELLIN ME.

Moral of the story: When you get the opportunity to shank a drug addled senior citizen to get what you want, take that opportunity and work it like it's your bitch. Do a boot dance straight up that old hippie's ass and take what's rightfully (or not, actually, not at all) yours.

1 comment:

  1. when you said 'SON OF A BITCH' it was the funniest raddest thing i've read all day