Also, the place kind of smells like dog pee. Thus, I have named this maternal presence Grandma Dog Pee.
Exhibit A: the dried floral arrangement.
Oh, what a lovely bouquet we have here. And oh! what a lovely hand-knit doily-like decoration for it to rest upon. I love what you've done with the place... Grandma Dog Pee. I think I'm going to turn to the left now.
Exhibit B: the piano.
Oh, Grandma Dog Pee. I see you've draped a lovely sash over your piano. You know what would complete this nook? Some framed photos of your grandchildren on top. And black-and-white pictures of dead people. Oh, you'd like to tell me about your dead ancestors? Okay. I'll just lapse into a coma. No, please. Keep talking.
(Seriously, though, I like the piano. Just today I confirmed that i can play "Funky Town" on it.)
Exhibit C: the chair.
Oh, Grandma Dog Pee! Is this where you knit? And take you tea? Wait. You're not Grandma Dog Pee at all. You're a ghost! Grandma Dog Pee? Is this where you... died?
So yes. This is where I live now. The house has a few other interesting things. Like Quincy Jones, the dog who doesn't acknowledge my authority.
His facial expression, as near as I can understand, translates to "Fuck you for waking me up with a goddamn camera flash? Don't you know who I am?"
I also inherited another fish when I moved in here. Twyla took in the Nexus fish a year ago. She's doing UCDC. Apparently, I was the alternative to letting the fish die. The fish's name is Garcon — though technically "Garcon" should have a little tail on the 'c,' there's no way I want to find out how to make that happen. Now, this is weird because the other fish I inherited is named Jean Pascal. And I got him from Brie. And both Brie and Twyla were on the floor freshman year. So that's an unexpected repetition: getting French-named fish from departed former floormates.
But that's still not as weird as how motherfucking big Garcon got in the meantime. I have no idea what kind of growth serum Twyla's been feeding this goldfish, but it's a monster — easily bigger than a dollar bill.
I put a Sharpie next to the tank to give some idea as to the size of this monster fish, which never stops moving and I feel uncomfortable undressing in front of. (I may think this because his eyes are the size of a three-year-old's.)
But the most interesting thing in this new house easily has to be this:
[ The Door That Must Not Be Opened ]
The other subleaser very politely forbid the rest of the house to go into her room. I can understand this. "Privacy is important to me," Drew typed on his public online journal. But by asking us not to go into her room and by keeping the door closed, the subleaser has made me want to go in her room so very badly. More than anything else. It's this whole Blueblood thing. Now all I think about it what that door could conceal.
But if my curiosity gets the better of me and I find shelves full of shriveled, severed heads and the subleaser kills me, please understand if I stop updating the blog.