*without a turkey baster.

/

For my second day of staycationing in Brooklyn, I’ve chosen to eat a lot of Baba Ganoush and get re-acquainted with my old photos and scanner. As I was leafing through images featuring me and my naked, glittered body prancing along a desert plane, I received a most compelling text message from my beloved roommate:

Roommate: “Hey Iris, I put your ‘bag’ in my desk drawer so the kitts wouldn’t get it… They do love their plastic.”

Me: “I’m at a loss of what you mean by my bag… Were there tricks in it?”

Roommate: “Yah, had twine wrapped around it. Not yours?”

I saunter over to my roommate’s desk to see what purse or handbag or brown paper package that may or many not be tied up with string and addressed to me might appear in her drawer.

This is what I discover:

(I know, I’m a classy lady.)

Me: “Oh my god I’m so sorry I left that out. It was in my manicure bag. I must have forgotten to pack it back up after re-watching Reality Bites for the four hundredth time while painting my nails Dog Dick Red. It’s from last spring at Bonnaroo. Do you think it appreciates in value the longer I hold onto it? Sorry I left that out. Those poor kitties. I should never have children.”

Roommate: “You should re-sell it as ‘aged’.”

www.thesapphicstripper.com