I was trying to throw the devil-recliner away, not relocate it to the dining room. A place in which, if I'm not mistaken, one dines, not reclines next to a naked bulb. Yes, I'm a bit Type-A here, but this is my home. For all intensive purposes, outside of rent and utilities, I live alone with randomly-appearing but familiar visitors. So I find it a tinge difficult to smile graciously as they keep things from leaving as I want them to do! The recliner is eeeevil. Evil, I tell you. It beckons me to sit down, settle in, and sluggishly watch five hours of tv while wrapped in my blankie.

::Shut up. It's my bankie. Move on::

But it's also the perpetrator of such vicious back pain that tears spring to my eyes just remembering it. So, adios hellbeast!

Right. That's what I planned on, and the gods don't seem to agree with my decorating scheme...and neither did my roomie. I guess I can slide Mr. Barca up alongside the table and eat while pretending to be an indolent patrician.

~~~~~

What's the limit before somebody (ahem, landlord) has to patch and repaint the pockmarked walls because they're smoke- and soot-stained? It's the classic paradox: I'll stay longer if my walls are fresh and repainted, but I'll only repaint if I'm staying for a while. (We can paint at will.) No, Wayne hasn't been asked if he'll do it; I'm still collecting myself enough to ask him (nicely) to sand the mold off my bathroom ceiling, and while he's at it, he should repaint everything. Perhaps he'll use a more appropriate paint this time.

~~~~~

Have you been watching Joe Millionaire? There are few things funnier than watching girly-girls go on a 'date' and find themselves mucking out stalls and slinging coal. Priceless.