Bedroom Secrets

It all started with the Secret Wallpaper Inside the Bedroom Closet.

My building is over 100 years old, so when I bought my condo, there were many surprises, like the vintage fruit advertisement stuck behind the gas meter, the massive combination safe in the basement, and the fact that the boiler is a REAL fickle friend. But one of my favorite surprises was that someone, at some point (in the early part of the twentieth century, judging by appearances) wallpapered the inside of the bedroom closet.

I’m not quite sure why this delights me so much. Partly because it’s pretty, I suppose. But also partly because wallpapering the inside of a closet, most likely with homemade wallpaper paste and all that, has got to be a giant pain in the tuchus. But some unknown person, who once slept in my bedroom, felt that going to that amount of effort for a space no one else would see was totally worth it.

Now, I love decorating, but a bedroom is a complicated space for someone like me. As an adult with multiple other rooms under my control, it just seems sort of silly to spend a lot of time decorating a space that’s only for me. True, other people see it once in a while, but I’m the only person who spends any real amount of time in there. So it seems sort of self-aggrandizing to make a big deal out of it. Narcissistic. Egotistical. A poor use of time and money.

But that person who papered the closet? They didn’t care about that! And I don’t look at that wallpaper and think “What a self-centered spendthrift that paper-hanger was!” No! I think “How delightful!”

So I decided that I should be able to show myself the same amount of love that I can show a stranger who lived in my home decades ago. And thus began The Great Bedroom Project.

This is how I imagined it turning out: like the bedroom in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, minus the giant framed portrait of Laurence Olivier and the menacing housekeeper hoping to drive me to suicide. (Have you seen this movie? It’s terrific, you should see it. Run and see it right now; I’ll wait.)

Now you, as a Reasonable Human Being, are probably thinking “But Melanie! You can’t have that bedroom. You don’t have 30 foot windows overlooking the sea, or an infinite budget for flowers, or the charming countenance and personality of Joan Fontaine!” And that is all true. But would the Secret Paper-Hanger have let that stop them?

I think not, friends. I think not.

When I first moved in, the walls were a goldenrod color, which was perfectly pleasant, but had nothing to do with the closet-insides. So in the Great Bedroom Project of 2013, I painted the room the same gray that was in the wallpaper, hoping it would conjure “Serene Sanctuary” and not “Concrete Barracks.” Then I made a bedspread “to match.” I put that in quotes because the fabric I chose was meant to tie together the blonde wood furniture AND the lampshade AND the paint AND the floor AND the wallpaper, and as you can see, it succeeded at none of that.

In the Great Bedroom Project of 2015, I painted all the furniture as well, so the bedspread didn’t need to do quite as much heavy lifting. But again, why change it? I was the only one who minded, right?

Still, a month or so ago I channeled the Secret Paper-Hanger and got rid of the old bedspread. (And by “got rid of” I mean I put it in the closet. Even if it was never right for the bedroom, I still think the fabric is pretty, so I’ll almost certainly Von Trapp it into a sundress at some point. Stay tuned.)

My first attempt at a replacement was this: a embroidered chenille bedspread that had belonged to my great-grandma. Additionally, my mom had given me some pillowcases embroidered by my Great-Aunt Helen, so I threw those into the mix, and thought…MAYBE?

Fortunately I had the good sense to text my sister in Ireland and ask her if it looked good. Her response was “Yeah! It’s pretty! As long as you never want to have sex again.”

So on to Plan B.

I gave in and bought a bedspread at a store. Not even a thrift store! I purchased it new at Kohl’s, for Pete’s sake. Who have I become?? (It’s okay. I had a gift card.)

The bedspread was the kickoff to the Great Bedroom Project of 2018. Drum roll, please…

Ta da! Here it is!

“But wait!”, you say. “That’s the same picture that’s above!”

But aha, my friends, that’s where you’re wrong! My complete revamp involved a bunch of changes so tiny as to be barely visible to the naked eye. It’s like those quizzes in Highlights magazine where you have to spot the 6 differences between the pictures: In the picture on the left, Goofus’ shirt only has FOUR buttons. In the picture on the right, Gallant is only helping EIGHTEEN old ladies to cross the street.)

Here are my Bedroom Highlights:

• The bedspread has been ironed, and the “Lauren Conrad” tag removed (although I’m sure she’s very nice)

• The decorative pillows have been given slightly more stuffing

• The quarter round at the bottom of the moulding, left natural wood color by some monster who didn’t understand basic aesthetics, has been painted white, making the room 3/4 of an inch more stately

• The rug has been turned from portrait to landscape orientation, a tiny change necessitating moving the entire bed into the living room

• Some plants have been moved around, which I like to think is as exciting for them as it is for me

• My Grandma’s tiny side-table has been painted white and moved from the dining room to the bedroom so that both sides of the bed have a nightstand (but really just so I have more space for books)

• A new lamp has been purchased, and the white inside of the shade painted gold because when it was white it was BRIGHTER THAN A THOUSAND SUNS

• Approximately 1/32 of an inch has been sanded off the top of the closet door. (It needed to be about a quarter inch to make it close properly, but instead of a belt sander, I was using a worn piece of sandpaper wrapped around my German pocket dictionary, so after about an hour, with nothing to show for it but some sawdust-covered nightgowns, I gave up.)

• And my favorite secret? The thing I think would really please the Secret Paper-Hanger?

I papered the sides of my dresser drawers. When I painted all my furniture a few years back, I didn’t have enough paint to do the sides of the drawers. ‘But what the heck,” I thought. “No one will see it but me.”

But that’s the whole point, right? That I matter too? That of all the people in the world who see my house, I should be the one who matters most?

I think that’s what the Secret Paper-Hanger would say.

So I went to the gift wrap section of the dollar store, and there underneath the birthday cakes and glitter llamas I found this vaguely Rebecca-esque print to go with my vaguely Rebecca-esque room (little-known fact: Manderley was FULL of mini-blinds), and with a gallon of Mod Podge, under threat of rain, I did this.

Are they perfect? Of course not. The paper was very thin (because, dollar store) so I overcompensated with way too much Mod Podge, and in the morning the drawers were all stuck shut and I had to pry them open with a butter knife, and wax them with canning paraffin. But I don’t care. They make me happy every time I open a drawer, just like I assume the Secret Paper-Hanger was happy every time they opened the closet.

Someday soon I will repaint the dining room, or recover the sofa, or do any number of other things that guests will at some point be able to appreciate. But for now, I’m going to go lie in bed and read a book, or drink some tea, or watch Rebecca for the 9 millionth time, or maybe just look at the shadows cast on the walls by my chandelier, (which are another thing no one else will ever see) and hope that somewhere out in the great beyond, the Secret Paper-Hanger is proud.

The Purse-Snatcher

The Purse-Snatcher; Being an Account of Three Pocketbooks, and What Was Found Therein.

Those of you who are faithful readers (hi, Mom and Dad) will know that my grandparents on my father's side were "keepers."  There are those who would say "hoarders", but those people are just jealous.   Because they saved everything, I've been lucky enough to wind up with Grandpa's lederhosen, Grandma's kimono, a stack of ladies' magazines from the 1960s, matchbooks from now-defunct Chicago restaurants, and, inexplicably, a 8x10 glossy photograph of my grandfather holding an anteater.  So when, a while back, Grandma asked me the electrifying question, "Next time you're here, would you like to go through my old purses?" I said (or maybe screamed) "Yes!!!"

As it turned out, the next time I saw Grandma I was so distracted by her many other electrifying questions ("Are you interested in looking through my college yearbooks?"  "Have I told you about when my aunt played calliope in a traveling carnival?"  "Would you like a snack?") that I forgot all about the purses.  But because she's 96 and her memory is better than mine, she remembered.  As I was getting ready to leave, she told me to go to the top shelf of her closet and take any of the purses I wanted.  FOR KEEPS.

These are the three I chose.  I think you can see that they are sensational.  As I was packing them up to leave, Grandma jokingly said that if I found any thousand dollar bills inside, I could keep them. I laughed and took them away unopened because I needed to get to a wedding and was running late due to purse distractions.  But later that evening, I found that I had a purse JACKPOT.  Below is a record of the treasures I found.

Exhibit A:  The Red Clutch. 

This purse contained a little magnifying mirror, a pre-threaded needle (how handy can you get???), and this gorgeous handkerchief, which because Grandma and I are related, is conveniently monogrammed with my initial too.

It even has my first initial if you flip it over and blow your nose on the other end.

BOOM. M-Dubs, for the win.

Exhibit B: The navy purse .  This one was a real haul.  Contents include:

• 2 pencils
• 5 sheets of unused blue scratch paper
• A paper clip
• A rubber band
• A bobby pin
• A desiccated Chiclet
• A number of Band-aids (that aren't actually Band-aids because they're Curad, but you know what I mean)
• Winthrop nasal spray
• A 1965 quarter
• A 1964 penny
• Maybelline eyeliner, dark brown
• My Grandpa's Shell credit card, on which I've covered up part of the number. (HA!  FOILED, CROOKS!)
• An envelope addressed to "Occupant" at my grandparents' address promising "Valuable Coupons Inside For New Dove For Dishes And Active All" but actually containing a rather healthy collection of McDonald Plaid, King Korn, and S&H Green Stamps
• And the pièce de résistance, a program to The American College of Physicians Golden Anniversary Session Ladies' Entertainment, an event my grandmother presumably attended the very last time she used this purse, March 22-26, 1965.  Again, please note it was the Golden Anniversary Session, which means they were celebrating an institution that had been in existence 3 fewer years than this program has been in my Grandma's purse.

(As a total side note, I would have LOVED to have attended the 12:00 Noon event on Thursday the 25th.  I mean, a Smorgasbord Luncheon and Puppet Performance of Kismet in a miniature opera house?  That's, like, everything I've ever wanted out of life.  But I digress.)

EXHIBIT C: The unassuming blue wallet.  This one only contained two items, but they were mighty.

First were these two anonymous membership cards to the Bell's Apple Pickers Club.  (I was tempted to fill my name in, but we all know there's no way I can promise To Not Fill My Basket Beyond Reason.)

The second item was this little book, which looks like nothing, especially compared to an Apple Picker's Club Membership Card.  But it's actually my favorite item of all: my Grandma's book of check stubs from the summer of 1960.

It turns out Grandma was REALLY good at remembering to fill out her stubs, so I have this awesome living picture of her life one summer 58 years ago.  For example:

On August 20, she wrote a check for seven dollars and 17 cents to the Fuller Brush man.  Because that's a thing people did 58 years ago.

Another thing people did 58 years ago?  Have their TVs repaired.  I don't even have a TV, but if I did I'd sure shootin' take it to a place called Elrod's.

And I now know that in the summer of 1960 Aunt Karen was taking swim lessons at the YMCA. I also know that Dad was not, because he had to go to summer school.

Womp womp.  Tough luck, Dad.  And tough luck for Grandma, too.  Swimming lessons were WAY cheaper.

And I don't know what kind of a lemon my grandparents were driving in 1960, but the record shows they got the car repaired on May 20, July 2, August 19, August 19 later-in-the-day, and August 22.  Yikes. 

And in the meantime, she still had to go to Jewel, and Shoppers World, and get trumpet rosin, and repair Billy's watch, and pay for Jimmy and Karen's music lessons (Karen's were $9 and Jimmy's were $21; Karen continues to be the most cost-effective child), and she had to pay for the Farm Journal cookbooks, and go to the shoe store, and then God bless her, on August 26 she bought herself 2 dresses from Joe Smith and Co., and chances are good I have at least one of those dresses in my possession, because she kept everything and I'm the luckiest girl in the whole USA.

So, no.  I didn't find any money.  Well, except the 26 cents in the navy purse.  But I would way rather have this.  A snapshot of my grandma's life 50 years ago, with free gum.  Who could ask for anything more?

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The Library Party; or, An Assemblage of Like-Minded Friends

One afternoon a couple of months ago, I texted a girlfriend as follows. 

ME:  I have a sensational idea!  Let’s have a Library Party! 

HER:  HAHAHAHA Oh my god you are such a dork.

Now, I would like to point out that this is perhaps my dorkiest friend; the one I am never surprised to run into at lectures on Victorian superstitions, or nanotechnology-themed happy hours.  And SHE thought this was dorky. But I am the absolute Duchess of Dorkington, so I did it anyway. 

Now, I love libraries.  First off, there are giant piles of books, so that’s obviously great.  But add in things like moveable stacks, and book dumbwaiters, and rubber stamps, and slidey ladders, and THE SMELL!!! That old book smell, right?  It’s the BEST SMELL EVER.

My current branch is the St Paul Central Library right downtown; a one-hundred-year-old building constructed of Tennessee marble. One day, on a whim, I asked the research librarian if they ever gave history and architecture tours, and she said they could do a private tour for me, IF I could get together a group of, say, 12-15 like-minded friends.

Which is when the first domino fell into place. 

Now when I was a growing up, my hometown library wasn’t very big, so they couldn’t update their selection of books very often.  But I was a kid; I wasn’t checking the copyrights, I was just reading.  I firmly believe that this inventory shaped who I became.  When I was a tween in the 1980s, reading books about teenagers (as tween girls do,) the library didn’t have The Babysitters Club or Sweet Valley High.  No, I was reading books that left me firmly convinced that by the time I was seventeen, I’d A) stop in at the soda fountain with the gang every day after school, B) set my hair and make myself a new dress for The Big Game, and C) knit argyle socks for my steady fellow, a somewhat brainy but athletic and musical boy with a flat-top named “Jinx.”

Explains a lot, doesn’t it?

And obviously, I’d be the center of a huge and sparkling social network.  Fortunately I was prepared for that because the library also had several books on hosting parties (from the same era.) I read these books religiously, and they made it clear that I’d easily be voted Most Popular in my class by hosting events such as A Loony Lawn Party, Big Top Bazaar, and Old-Fashioned Box Social. 

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t Most Popular. 

Oh, I threw many of those parties when I was younger, and the attendees loved them, but the attendees were mostly my parents and some of my more open-minded stuffed animals.  But mostly, the other kids weren’t into my personal brand of fun.  I found out the hard way that most kids didn’t want to play Victorian schoolroom or World War I nurse.  They also didn’t want to watch Cary Grant movies, listen to The Platters, visit historic house museums, research edible bog-plants, or pretend to be any of the following: silent movie stars, apple sellers in the Great Depression, characters from Greek mythology, characters from the Arabian nights, or members of agricultural self-sufficiency communes.  So they SURE didn’t want to have a Loony Lawn Party. 

Maybe that’s another reason I loved the library so much.  At the library, you were supposed to be quiet and alone; and that was something I was TERRIFIC at.

But here I was, decades later, planning an entire social event around libraries! HAD I LEARNED NOTHING???

Plus, a library theme is Next Level.  This isn’t St Patrick’s Day where you can just go to Dollar Tree and buy some plastic gold coins and a felt leprechaun hat and call it a day.  I went through easily three dozen vintage party books at the library and didn’t see a single library-themed soiree.  Not even in Dame Curtsey’s Book of Party Pastimes for the Up-to-date Hostess [©1912], and Dame Curtsey has tried EVERYTHING. This is an advanced theme, people.

So first things first: snacks.  I find that people will tolerate just about anything if they’re eating.  But library-themed snacks?  That’s a tricky one.  I thought I’d maybe aim for the feeling of a 19th century gentleman’s club.  You know…the sort of place that men with names like Astor and Vanderbilt went after a long day of Titan-of-Businessing to take out their monocles and relax.  But may I say from experience that if you Google “Gentleman’s Club Snacks”, that is NOT what you will find.

I decided instead to go with an abstract theme I call “Foods having a flavor profile of quiet and dim, with undertones of paper, leather and smoke.”  What does that mean?  I don’t really know.  Earl Grey tea cookies, carrot jam, bacon jam, thyme crackers, spicy candied pecans, that sort of thing.  And then there were the “libRAtions”.  (See what I did there?)  You can see the full-ish menu on these tiny index cards I turned into menu cards.  THEME WIN!!!

I also made Smoky Caramels.  They were really just regular caramels except that the cream was infused with smoked lapsang souchong tea.  I got the idea from the internet, but the internet also wanted me to add liquid smoke AND smoked salt, which I didn’t do, because I was going for “reading an old book in a comfy chair in front of the fire” and not “gross candy that’s been spit out into an ashtray.” 

Next up: party favors! I always like to send people away with a little treat as a way of saying “thank you for indulging me in this ridiculous party.”  To that end, I made “Sensible Librarian” bookmarks, because that whole “sexy librarian” thing vexes me to no end. (Librarians don’t need to be all tarted up to be sexy. I mean, I once went out on a date with a fellow solely because he worked in the bindery, so you can imagine the irresistible magnetism an actual librarian has.)

I’d queried my guests on their favorite books ahead of time, so along with the bookmark, everyone got a list of “Recommended Readings from Reliable Friends”.  Titles ranged from Carl Jung to the classic choose-your-own-adventure, The Mystery at Chimney Rock.  Well played, friends!

And now for activities!  The centerpiece, of course, was the tour itself.  We all met in the lobby, and even though I’d told the library how many people to expect, everyone from the circulation desk to the tour guide seemed shocked that there were so many of us.  (I have the nagging suspicion they don’t get asked for private tours particularly often, and that perhaps the research librarian had doubted my ability to scare up that many friends.)

After the tour, we retired to my place for snacks, a book swap, and a library trivia contest.  (Do YOU know the first name of Mr. Dewey, of Decimal fame?  It’s Melvil!)  The grand prize: library index card socks! (The runner-up prize was knowledge.) 

But I think my favorite part was when all the games and amusements and everything were done, and we were all just sitting around my living room chatting and eating one last Chocolate Melt-Away.  My friend Laura said “Let’s go around the room and say one thing from the past that we wish would happen in modern times.”  And everyone had something right on the tip of their tongue: masquerade balls, dressing up for airplane travel, going calling on friends and family, parlor games and stunts, the wearing of hats, and dinosaurs (there has to be an outlier, right?)

And as I sat with this group of friends, some of whom had never met each other before that day but  who were now happily sharing their dorkiest fantasies, I suddenly thought:  Oh!!! I get it! Other kids who wanted to do all the dorky things I liked were out there, just not in my hometown.  Or maybe they were in my hometown and I didn’t know because they were also busy being quietly alone.  Or maybe they weren’t out there then, but the kids who didn’t like those things grew up into people who did.  In any case, it’s really, really nice to be such a dork and still have so many like-minded friends. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go plan a Loony Lawn Party. See you there!!!

Thanks specially to the Friends of the Saint Paul Public Library.

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The Gentle Art of the Scurryfunge

Last Saturday morning, I awoke to find a text from my cousin Roger that read "When you get a minute, can you please call me?"  Obviously I panicked.  WHO WAS DEAD???  Clearly something terrible had occurred to necessitate a cryptic text at 7:43 on a Saturday morning.  But I didn't have messages from any of my other family, and the chance that there had been a total annihilation of the Peters clan, only excepting me and Roger, seemed unlikely.  So I calmed myself down and called him back.  Here's a transcription:

ROGER:  Hello?

ME: Hey, Rog, it's Melanie.

ROGER:  Well, hey there, cousin!  Say, what city do you live in again?

ME: St. Paul.

ROGER:  I thought so.  That's where we are!  Any chance we could get to see you?

And that moment there, the microsecond after Roger said the word "you", is the exact moment when the scurryfunge began.

A few years back, a boyfriend of mine gave me one of those word-of-the-day calendars, entitled "Forgotten English."  There are a bunch of winners, but January 1 was a word that immediately entered my personal lexicon.  The word was "scurryfunge."

SCURRYFUNGE: A hasty tidying of the house between the time you see a neighbor and the time she knocks on the door.

I don't know how I existed before I learned this word, because I use it ALL OF THE TIME.  I've taken some liberties and now use it as both a noun ("I just did a quick scurryfunge") and a verb ("I didn't actually clean, I just scurryfunged a little.")  

Once I got off the phone with Rog, it was go-time.  The level of scurryfunging was affected by several factors.  There were the "HOLY CRAP GET GOING!!!" factors, which were:

1. Roger and his wife have never seen my house before so I wanted it to look nice.
2. The Peters are notoriously tidy and eagle-eyed.
3. The amount of time available was limited because I had a show opening that night so I couldn't lollygag, and additionally, they were at the Como Park Zoo, which is just a hop and a skip from my house.

These were balanced by the "Calm the heck down and make yourself a cup of tea first" factors, which were:

1. On the Peters continuum, Rog is pretty easy-going, and both he and his wife have teenagers, so presumably they're used to a little mess.
2. I'm genetically a Peters too, so my house lives in a pretty decent state of visitor-readiness most of the time.
3. I hadn't had time to go to the grocery store in a while, but while I was trying to make meals for myself out of half-cup of sauerkraut and a slice of colby cheese, I pretty much always have baking staples on hand.  And let's face it, you can distract people from almost anything with a freshly-baked coffee cake.

But nevertheless, I'm a human who lives in the world, and not a picture who lives in a magazine.  So for those of you who keep a folder of cleaning tips (no?  just me?), here are:

MELANIE'S STEPS TO A PERFECT SCURRYFUNGE

1. Take out the compost, the recycling, and the trash.  It takes two minutes, but if you're like me, you wait until everything is full to overflowing because you are A) environmentally conscious and saving bags, and B) lazy.  So take 'em outside now.  Especially important if your bags contain things like onion peels and lady business.  Get 'em gone.  And even if your garbage was scent-free, open a window for 15 minutes.  Fresh air smells better than anything.  Even if it's Minnesota and 15 below, it's worth it.
2. Sprinkle some baking soda in the toilet and give it a quick swish.  Your guests WILL need to use it, and that's something you REALLY don't want them to see dirty.
3. Grab a dishcloth (not the cutesy kind that doesn't actually absorb anything, but the real old-school flour sack kind) and wipe down all of your sink hardware: faucets, handles, anything chrome.  You don't even need soap.  It won't actually BE clean, but it'll sparkle like new, and you'd be shocked what a difference that makes.  While you're at it, make sure there's enough toilet paper, and put out a clean hand towel.  Use the old one to give the World's Quickest Dusting to whatever room you think your guests will be in the most.  
4. Deal with the floor.  There's no time to mop or vacuum, but just give it a quick runaround with a Swiffer, or a microfiber cloth, or an old sock, to pull up the dust and hair that always gathers by the baseboards.  You might not notice it now, but when the light changes and the sun comes out, it's like God is taking a spotlight to your dust-bunnies.
5. And now the big one:  DE-CLUTTER!  No matter who you are, you are going to have some piles of stuff laying around...grab all that crap and dump it in your laundry basket and shut the closet door.  Is it ideal?  Of course not.  But you got it temporarily out of the way, and that's what counts.  While Roger and Melisa were happily eating coffee cake in the living room, they had no idea that silently hiding in my laundry basket were a stack of library books, quilting squares from my grandma, piles of 1099s and W-2s, a folder labeled "Lists", another folder labeled "Things That Would Be Fun to Try", and a vegetable spiralizer.  
6. Give your whole place a once-over.  This is real big-picture stuff.  Now is not the time to realize you'd meant to repaint the kitchen.  Now is the time to notice there's a giant spiderweb in the dining room, or some guy's underwear next to your bed.  You know.  That kind of stuff.
7. Make sure you look moderately acceptable, or are at least wearing pants.
8. Come up with a snack.  THIS IS KEY.  Maybe you don't have the time, ingredients, or inclination to make a coffee cake at the drop of a hat, but if you scoop the dregs of your jam jar into a dish and set it on a tray with some crackers and cheese, suddenly it looks fancy and on-purpose  It doesn't take much to impress most people. I've always wanted to be like my Great-Aunt Frieda, who once managed to make homemade fried chicken AND apple pie between the time my family called her and the time we arrived on her doorstep, but that's next-level.  Store bought cookies and a glass of milk are perfectly respectable.  Or a bowl of celery and carrot sticks with some hummus. Or some leftover Halloween candy in a pretty dish.  Or just make a pot of coffee.  If all you have is water, put it in a pitcher with some ice, and it's still fancier than what most people have at home.  The point is to offer something.  Whatever you offer says "Hey!  I'm glad you stopped by!" and "Don't look in the closet!".  Folks will appreciate the sentiment, even if they pick all the pecans out of your freshly-baked coffee cake (Roger.) 

Because that's the point, right?  People aren't inviting themselves over to judge your housekeeping, (well, maybe sometimes just a little, if they're a Peters) but really, they just want to see you.  My mom always laments that people don't "just stop by" anymore, they way they did when she was a kid. Mind you, she also complains about having to scurryfunge when they do stop by, but she's still right.  She was a kid in the 1950s, in a tiny town in Iowa, with no TV and 8.6 million cousins within a two-mile radius.  Most of us don't live like that anymore.  We live in a magical world of technology, where we can contact almost anyone we've ever known, anywhere in the world, in a second, but we don't actually spend a ton of time together.  I'm guilty of it too.  I've been known to text back and forth with my closest friends for 2 months just trying to come up with a half-hour slot where we can meet at coffee shop and then rush back to our lives. 

Maybe that's why I like the word scurryfunge so much.  It indicates that people might, on a whim, decide they could go for a little human contact.  And those people aren't going to remember that there were smudges on the bathroom mirror and the lawn needed mowing; they'll remember that we actually got to see each other.  So come on over, friends; I'll make cake.  In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take the spiralizer out of my laundry basket.