stages

We live in an apartment. Upstairs from a man named Spank. We can hear him yell and scream on Sunday and Monday nights when the Giants are playing. We eavesdrop on his son's fights with his girlfriend who we've started calling "the slut" for no other reason than we think she sleeps over at casa de Spank and she drives a white, trashy-looking car with a tangle of pink, sparkly stuff hanging from her rearview mirror. Yes, we realize that we are sometimes mean. I'm sure she is a very nice girl. 

We live in an apartment with the hallway trim painted a color probably meant to be cadet blue but instead looks Smurf-like. There are about four layers of paint underneath which we can see because of the copious amounts of chipped off paint.

We don't have a couch. Or a real bed. Our bed is a mattress on the floor. We live sans cable. And pilfer an internet connection. I have consistently forgotten to buy a lampshade for the lamp in our bedroom. For 3 months.

This is our reality right now. Part change, part situation, part just-can't-get-it-together. This is the stage we are in.

But the other day while proactively procrastinating by writing a to-do list - sitting in one chair while husband sat in the other (remember, no couch) -  I accidentally stabbed myself in the face with an uncapped pen. I forgot that I didn't put the cap on. Husband saw the whole thing. And we laughed and laughed and laughed. Over something really not that funny but ended up feeling hilarious to the two of us. Husband called me a dork and I had no choice but to agree.

A wonderful laugh. The best kind. Kinda makes up for living across the street from an old folks home. Upstairs from a man named Spank.