I’m quitting. Again.
My wee Hoboken apartment has been on the market for four frickin months – four long, long, vacuuming filled months. We’ve received a whopping ZERO offers over those four fabu months. So as of this morning, my apartment is off the market. Uncle. The end. Stick a fork in me. I’m singing and everything.
With my new found freedom, I’m going to re-inflate my exercise ball (you know, so my parents have something to do when they visit), reassemble my easel, use my oven for cooking rather than storage, remove all my sneakers from the freezer, carpet the bathroom floor with dirty underwear, and maybe even carve out a corner of the living room to build a miniature smurfscape filled with the tiny plastic figurines posed in various positions of worship where Herbert rules over them all. Maybe I’ll give them all little signs like, “Herbert, you’re smurftastic!” or, “Can you smurf us another one, Herbert?” Smurfette’s would read, ” You’re the smurfiest shade of blue, Herbie.”
Now that I can officially stop cleaning compulsively, at least until the parents plan a trip here to “re-christen” the exercise ball, I’ll have so much more time on my hands to find you gold mines like today’s Craftastrophe. (I’m thinking about getting one of these guys as a companion for Mildred and Lucy.) Maybe I’ll learn how to play Bohemian Rhapsody on the ukulele using only my toes and a pez dispenser. Or even better, I’ll try and master spelling “restaurant” correctly without the help of spell check! The sky is the limit now, Interwebz.
There’s just one little problem – one little issue that has me all in a tizzy. (Actually, I have a shit ton of issues with this whole situation but I’m trying to keep it positive.) Remember that undead angry piece of holy plastic I have buried in a pot outside the stoop of my building? Yes, this guy. What the fuck do I do about him? I mean, do they have little decommission kits for saints?
The only thing I know how to decommission is an oil tank. For those, you just empty them, fill them with gravel, cap ’em off, and leave their buried corpses to rot in the ground. I’ve never heard of a holy oil tank, though. Oh wait, not true! I almost bought a house once with such an oil tank. I forgot because legally they were required to use the term “leaking” rather than “holy.”
Meanwhile, back at a tiny St Joe in the mud, I turned to the internet for help. As per usual, everything I found was neither useful nor important. (Remind me why I spend so much time on here?) Everyone agrees that you dig up St. Joe, give him a little scrubbing, and then put him in a place of honor…in your new home….AFTER YOUR ORIGINAL HO– USE SELLS…which, in case you haven’t been paying attention, DIDN’T HAPPEN. Nowhere in any literature anywhere does anyone say any damn thing about what you do with the little bugger when he doesn’t work.
Maybe he’s broken. Faulty. Has anyone seen any blanket recalls issued by the Vatican for tiny plastic religious figurines manufactured between December 2009 and April 2010? How would I check that out? Maybe they have an account on Twitter I can follow?
Is anyone else getting a headache?
It just seems kind of cruel to leave him in there. Then again, it also seems kind of cruel to trick Rocco into removing all the broken liquor bottles from around the plant and then hand him a tiny shovel as his only defense against the brain-sucking, religion-fueled goblin laying in wait to chew off my husband’s face. It’s not cruel if I make sure Rocco has a weapon, right?
Let’s say for the sake of my avoidance issues that we leave him down in his tiny dirt crypt. What happens when we try to sell the house again next year? Do I buy another little Joe and bury him next to Zombie Joe? Will the Bizarro-Joe maim then eat our shiny new helpful Joe? If I filled the new shiny Joe with Listerine before I buried him, would it be enough to ward off Zombie Joe?
I suppose this is why non-Catholics shouldn’t play with plastic saints.