Welcome to the world of Irongate

This is where we welcome each of you to the world of us.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Sun Also Riseth...eth.

Driving to work, I passed a
truck this morning that was carrying crane parts. This must have had 20 giant wheels in order to bear up under the weight of this crane arm I saw on the bed. I was wowed. Heavy machinery is cool.

I've started stretching in the mornings. This morning I ran out of time because the Bank of America website is a heinously designed trap that makes it impossible to do something as simple as make a payment. No, really. Why would I go to
Customer Service when the Pay A Bill, Credit Card Payment, Credit Card Access, e-Bill, etc etc etc options SHOULD PROBABLY cover such a desire? Well, no. You need to click on the Customer Service tab. This discovery only came after 40 minutes of searching - I was on a mission! But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yeah...There I am, trying to do stomach crunches and stretch and other bending-at-the-waist type items, but my joints sounded like Rice Krispies(r). It was amusing at first, but then I wondered if some body part would be left on the floor after I got up.

Ah, routine. Renee' and I do a little dance every morning. One day, we will hit the road with our act, a finely tuned routine of scraping past one another, and bouncing off edges of furniture, bumping butts, bonking heads, and pocking the whole thing with "Sorry" "Oops" "Can I get in there?" and "Oh, here, you dropped this." We will be famous. People will come from all around to witness the sight of
two women who cohabit the same household.

This morning, however, each of us needed to be in the exact same place at the exact same time. To wit:

Our bathroom is broken up into sections, to reduce the chances of bodily injury. The hair station is the hair dryer, mousse, spray, brush, et. al. The sink is where she puts on her makeup, where tooth care happens, and I put on lotion. The right side is for deodorant,
jewelry and watch. The the walk-in closet is off our bathroom, and it's long, not square. (only one exit)

This morning she was doing her hair, as I was going to do hair, so I decided to put on lotion. Then I'm putting on deodorant as she is trying to get by me, which she seems to need to do a dozen times in that short span of time. I think I followed her into the closet, but without real direction, so I was in her way almost immediately, running my hands over blouses I had no intention of wearing.

(Did I happen to mention our apt. is less than a 1000 sq ft? Yeah.)

Then I was putting on pants as she was needing around me to get her whatchamacallit thingy. She was blocking the bathroom door trying to remember something, (in this house, we don't actually pause in the routine or we'll be late. Ask Amanda sometime about how I go ballistic if I see her sitting on the couch without multi-tasking something else) and I wanted to get by to finish my hair. I said, "You're in my way this morning." She said, "No, you're really in MY way."
Each in a state of semi-dress, though I think she's a little farther along than I am since she leaves sooner than Amanda and I do, we continue our Dance, finally having moved away from the bathroom. But then...

I trudge out to the kitchen (by out, I mean 7.5 ft away) to gather the pasta salad I made for her work potluck, and I was turning to get the black spoon from the dishwasher - and she was standing there. Right there. Blocking the dishwasher door because she was fixing a cup of coffee to go. The coffee maker is above the dishwasher. But I swear, she was back in the bedroom the moment before. She's like that angel in
"The Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He popped up in all parts of the house randomly. I was convinced she had magical powers of POOF!

As she made her way out the door with salad, coffee, bag and phones, she's frazzled with a headache and not feeling well in general, we kiss goodbye and the door shuts behind her. 30 seconds later she's back in because she forgot her keys. Understandable, considering she had everything else. I believe working parents need a growth hormone for a second set of arms, be twice as strong, have perfect vision and hearing, and the patience of nuns.

Amanda, meanwhile, cruises around her side of the apartment in her own bathroom and bedroom, and comes out clean and ready every morning. If she happens to momentarily pause in the short hallway where the laundry is, her person is promptly run down by the individual(s) hustling back and forth.

That is, unless she needs OUR brush, a shirt out of OUR closet, a pair of jeans, a pair of shoes, lotion...

1 comment:

I ROCK!!!!! said...

Nice Blog Will you chek out mine It's called darkness It's not reely dark I just call it that cuz it sounds cool.