Archive for totally domestic
January 29, 2008 at 8:34 pm | Filed under breaking up the girl, camwhorage, totally domestic
Lover going back home in a week. Would rather not talk about how much this devastates me. Maybe when the dreaded day comes.
Today, to keep my mind off of things, I put on some happy music (aka Hanson) and decided to make some carbonara. I whipped out the instructions my dad dictated to me while he drove me home from the grocery a couple of weeks ago and began the therapeutic process of cooking. Nevermind that everything I cook has this tendency to make my stomach stage a mutiny against the rest of my body (or maybe that was just that one time I put too much olive oil in my pesto).
Halfway through it, housemate #1 came home. So I give you: Helga and Allah, Cooking Ghetto Style. That’s what one gets with an ill-equipped kitchen.
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE PAN, PLZ. AWAY FROM THE TUMMY.
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June 28, 2007 at 2:28 am | Filed under camwhorage, totally domestic
Note to self: Helga. When you’ve just come home from a nine-hour shift at work (plus half an hour of unpaid overtime and a one-hour commute) and you didn’t get much sleep the previous day, the smart thing to do is take a quick shower and hit the sack. You don’t work out for half an hour. You don’t clean out your drawers. You don’t do the dishes. You don’t make a grocery list. You don’t sort your laundry. You don’t take your 6-kilos of sorted laundry to the washers. You don’t go to the supermarket to tick off items on your grocery list. You don’t spend twenty minutes cooking chicken and making a salad afterwards. You just DON’T. Because you’ll wake up with achy joints, a blasted headache, and a half-functioning brain that you’ll have to deal with until 4am the next day. Also, you’ll be sleepy.
Several things about the inhabitants of unit 2A. Or, several things about us as a household:
We are a house of juice-drinkers. We can only go for one day without fruit juice before one of us gives in and heads to the nearest sari-sari store to buy a litro pack of Tang. Well, not really, cos we’re not squatter like that. But don’t be surprised if we come knocking on your door with a glass in hand, asking for juice (and perhaps rum and tuition money). In exchange for sexual favors, if you play nice (like give us rum and tuition money).
We store our things on the floor. We don’t know what those nifty box-like things mounted on our kitchen walls are for (the ones with the little white knobs with rose imprints on the doors), but they’re pretty cool. Same goes for the rectangular things under the kitchen counters; the ones that appear when you pull them out, and then disappear when you push them back in? Awesome, right? Anyway, they make these nifty creaking and slamming sounds when we open and close them. Sometimes, when I need a good waking up, I do that for a few minutes until my ears hurt and I have successfully woken up another housemate.
We’re all really men, which should explain the abundance of condoms strewn randomly around the house. Okay, so that’s not true. It’s just that I emptied out one of my drawers and threw away A WHOLE LOTTA JUNK, including two empty bottles of lube, several condoms, and an ex-lover’s toothbrush. Said drawer now contains a Bible, a rosary, and an El Shaddai handkerchief. In blue.
It’s quite refreshing how seemingly content I am with how mundane my life currently is. I’m starting to fall into this comfortably boring routine of work, domesticity, and the standard weekend rum-a-thon with friends. And camwhoring.
(Yay, I finally figured out how to play with my camera settings. I hate that my stupid Cybershot doesn’t have manual mode.)
That’s all.
November 5, 2006 at 1:31 pm | Filed under camwhorage, joyful girl, totally domestic
What’s up, photos of my new room.
Wooden floors! <3
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June 11, 2006 at 7:56 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, joyful girl, technicolor lover, totally domestic
Several things:
ONE. My condo unit finally looks like a real living space now, not just some room with a bed on the floor. The parents came over Friday night, bringing with them the following:
- my fridge (which is decorated with white anti-rust spots. My fridge has pimples!)
- a bed frame
- my mirror (and it’s lovely lovely lovely)
- a foldable table
- a gas tank and a portable burner thing. It’s
weird ugly and scary. Must save up and buy an electric range.
They forgot to bring me chairs, so Daddy Dearest went to the fourth floor and swiped some patio chairs. “If they need it, let them go look for it.” My dad’s bad ass, yo.
TWO. After doing some groceries (I’d like my fridge to hold something that ISN’T water, yes) and getting take-out pizza, I shoo-ed my parents off, sponged the floor (my dad and his dirty boots, egh) and jumped into the shower. I send D a message that he could come over likerightnow.
He gets to my place 20 minutes later with McDonald’s take-out. Kenny’s was closed, so he had to settle for the next best chicken thing. I tell him his Diet Pepsi’s in the fridge (ooh, how I love having a fridge).
At 311am, I wake him up so he can ready himself for work. I give him my extra toothbrush.
Twelve hours later, D is back at my place, asking for a massage and pizza.
And he said he’ll be back sometime around noon today, after basketball practice with a bunch of our co-workers.
THREE. D’s girlfriend quit her job yesterday. She no longer works four floors above us.
FOUR. We have system issues, so no one’s getting much work done. I’ve only had two sales today, 16 this week. This is bad.
FIVE. I haven’t enrolled. NOTcompletelyMYFAULT, the cashier closed on me last Friday. I swear I’ll be a student by Tuesday!
SIX. Program beach trip this Sunday and I is excited. At the same time, D and I are silly-nervous. What if I get drunk and spill our little secret? I told him the only solution to this is to get me dead drunk so I’ll pass out, hence, no word vomit. But neither of us want that (it’s no fun, and he said I might end up spread-eagled on the sand with my panties peeking through for everyone to see). I. Must. Behave.
We’ve agreed that I’m gonna go yell out “D*****, you’re so hot!” in front of everyone, though. ;)
SEVEN. Why isn’t anyone asking for photos of my new place? :P
EIGHT. One week to lose ten pounds!
NINE. I fucking hate the word ‘churva’. With a burning passion. :mad:
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. 
