If you were a little birdie, perched on a mirror in my apartment right now, or a little mousie peeking out of a crack in my wall, if the CIA were bugging my apartment right now, all of you would understand why this particular Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award is at the same time hilarious and horrifying:
I am SO not the Good Housekeeper. But...I'm grateful, nonetheless. For the award. Not for being a Bad Housekeeper. I want to be like the Good Housekeeper lady that owns the parrot across the street. Every day, her balcony changes. Some days it's stacked neatly with crates of oranges and onions. They don't last long. I imagine she uses them all to make a huge couscous for her many Middle Eastern hip-hop sons. The next day her balcony is draped with sheets, jeans and horrible cheap blankets with huge tigers on them and rainbows and shit. The next day: oranges and onions.
I've seen this woman. She wears a little scarf on her head as she cleans and cleans and cleans. I've been tempted to call out to her, but never have.
YOOHOO! Say there! Voulez-vous do that over here some time?