This morning I was awoken by a cell phone call from my friend Krystal. She works near my apartment and because of the enormous snow storm last night didn’t want to drive all the way back to Milwaukee and asked if she could crash on my couch. I’ve never told her no, and with the promise of breakfast was up and out the door. There was just one little problem. I forgot my keys in my apartment and my door locks automatically. So there I was in a tank top, no coat, and slip on shoes with no socks.
I told this to Krystal and she wasn’t thrilled, however she offered to stay with me until I got the key situation resolved. I called my roommate and she texted me the landlord’s and the locksmith’s number, my only two options. Krystal said we could just drive back to Milwaukee and get my roommate’s key, but I wanted to try both numbers before I went anywhere. My landlord’s number went straight to voicemail. Shocker. Krystal left a message and needless to say he still hasn’t called me back. This man makes me miss DLK (the major leaser in Whitewater, Wi). For all of you that live here, you know that’s saying a lot. We even called the cops, but they couldn’t do anything. As a last ditch effort to avoid a trip to Milwaukee I called the locksmith, I was completely ready for the $50 - $75 bill. The man who answered told me he was sick and I would need to look somebody else up in the phone book. All I could think was, “The phone book? You mean that phone book that’s locked in my apartment with my keys?”
Well, we headed back to Milwaukee and I got Krystal’s boyfriend to take me to my roommate’s parent’s house. It’s been a ridiculous Saturday. Though it wouldn’t be my life if it wasn’t filled with stupid drama.
January 2012
2 posts
The following is a letter to my sports bra. I have several reasons why I wear them and several reasons I hate them, thus the love hate relationship that spawned this letter. Enjoy!
Dear Sports Bra,
Lately you have begun to rub me the wrong way. You give me the awful uni-boob and not even a well-supported uni-boob. So, not only do I have one tit, but it’s now an inch above my bellybutton. I’m always loosing food down you, leaving more stains inside my bra then on my clothes. And you don’t even keep my side boob under control, giving me pit fat. You can’t give me cleavage, you poke out of all my shirts, and you roll up when I’m trying to put you on after a shower.
Don’t get me wrong you have several good points. You’re made of cotton and are damn comfortable if I happen to fall asleep in you. And poking out of my shirts isn’t always bad, sometimes it makes a shirt more modest. Your straps always stay up, you don’ t have wires that poke me under the arms, and you don’t hurt my back.
In balancing these pros and cons it’s really a difficult decision to cut you from my wardrobe. And to be quite honest it may not happen. I rely on you far too often, but I am warning you. If I find one more con, you’re gone.
Sincerely,
Heather
P.S. I found another con. When drilling metal you collect the tiny flying metal shards and poke me in the chest. Goodbye!
