What's a girl to do?

Procrastination just failed me for the first time and, as a result, my life is in a tizzy. Okay, I just blew it way out of proportion. There are starving kids in Africa. And really, it's my common sense that failed me as much, if not more, than procrastination. Prepare to have your pants bored off.

My garbage disposal stopped working, oh, I'd say about three weeks ago. I never knew how much I loved garbage disposals until I moved into my first apartment alone in Eagan. In fact, I never knew what a garbage disposal was until I moved off campus my sophomore year of college into a big house with the two sweet girls, one mediocre girl, and two complete fucking nazi bitches. All these city girls griped on a regular basis about the lack of it. "Ugh! Who builds a house and doesn't put in a garbage disposal?" FYI, everybody in 1906, which is probably when that house was built.

Every place I've lived since the Walnut Trails apartment (where my existence very much resembled that of a conservative, naive, soon-to-be-racist white girl, living in a subdivision of hell where every other apartment is a hip hop club/daycare and drug dealers routinely have sex with coke-snorting hookers in the front seats of their Caddys while their blingy rims continue to spin and the bass shakes me to my sinner's soul) has had a garbage disposal. Imagine, all those years I thought I was destined to throw my old, smelly foods into the freezer, wrapped in layers of ziploc bags and Zup's grocery bags until I could make it to the dump or, more likely, get away for a chain smoking trip "down the Skala road to feed the bears."

So, back to Duluth, but my current apartment, not the big old house on 18th. I cannot bring myself to have Lloyd, the trusty, (dare I use the uber-exclusive term bomb-ass?) maintenance man come to my apartment to fix the garbage disposal unless my apartment is relatively clean. Unfortunately, if you've met me, you know that relatively clean doesn't happen all that often...really only if I'm having company over. I guess I consider Lloyd to be company.

This week, on Tuesday, I was going to do all my dishes and clean up the kitchen and get all my dishes done. I had the best of intentions, Travis Tritt style. I just had one little thing I wanted to do first. That morning, when I was packing my lunch of Triscuits and grapes, I noticed an interesting little recipe for artichoke dip on the side of the Triscuits box. Wouldn't it be phenomenal if I could make a decent artichoke dip at home, I asked myself. The answer: HELLS YES. I spent my lunchtime comparing recipes and stopped after work to get all the ingredients for cheesy spinach and artichoke dip. I chose the one with spinach because I hear dark green shit is good for me. It worked for Popeye, right? What a mistake.

As soon as I got home, I opened my bag of frozen spinach and tossed it in a strainer to let it drain and thaw (as per the Kraft.com recipe). As is usually the case with me, I got really impatient and just picked out a little bit of the spinach that was sort of thawed to put in my dip and threw the rest down the garbage disposal hole. OOPS. Big oops, yo. My sink is officially stopped up like an old lady who hasn't been eating her share of the bran muffins at snack time in the home. It's bad. I can't even do dishes, because plain old water won't go down. It floods the sink and there's little spinach chunks floating around. It's a lot like looking into the toilet after I shit post-Olive Garden. In fact, that's what I think of every time I look at the sink. And then I gag.

So, today, I rolled up my sleeves (after a nice long nap and a beer to dull my senses) and just did it. Not only did using one sink and trying to avert my eyes from the spinachy shit sink make the task more difficult than usual, but my dish scrubber also broke. Woe is me. But, it's done, and now I can fill out one of those sexy little love notes to Lloyd that management likes to call work requests. The end.