Maintaining Professionalism Through Appearance

This isn’t the first time I’ve caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and wondered, “God, how long have you been wearing that shirt?” Admittedly, disgusting yourself takes time, specifically, three days. I’m not sure what took me so long to notice that I’d been adorned in this super cute top for more than 72 hours, all the classic symptoms were there: body odor, chronic fatigue, empty bong, hair resembling a rat’s nest, pallet of empty soda cans piled on the floor, pillow marks on my face and the ever popular Dorito handprint skid across the front. Did I even eat Dorito’s today?

 By my calculations, which lean towards “generally inaccurate,” I would estimate that I pulled this shirt onto my person sometime Sunday afternoon. It is now Tuesday evening. And a real showpiece it is. It features a bird of sorts, which somewhat resembles the Atlanta Hawks NBA team logo with the words “Hillel Hawks” emblazoned on the front and fits awkwardly, if at all. Among other questions it begs, the most obvious and poignant remains, “At what point did I hang out with a size youth large Jewish athlete? And how did he manage to lose his shirt?”

 I think it goes without saying, that when you’ve forgotten how long you’ve been wearing a shirt, (or where it came from) you’ve also forgone showering for at least as long, and in the event that I’m involved, probably longer. I like to tell myself that I’m a better person for saving gallons upon wasted gallons of water by not showering or laundering clothes, but what I really am, is fairly smelly and a little bit sad.

 It’s difficult to determine if poor hygiene leads to unemployment or if unemployment leads to poor hygiene. I tend to believe the latter, because when I was gainfully employed my shirts were clean and pressed, my shoes shined and the crotches/knees of my jeans were still intact. My work wardrobe lacked putrid scent, cigarette burns and processed cheese powder stains, and usually smelled strongly of Gain detergent. My hair was trimmed and kempt, worn down and smooth and my shoes didn’t appear to have been involved in roughnecking in a muddy swamp. In short, I looked like I worked in an office, not like I sold tonics and cures with the other gypsies.

 Still, I worked in a “casual environement” or at least pretended to. I’ll put it this way, in the beginning I tried my best to keep up appearances, on days when I was too lazy to iron a shirt, I’d throw on T-shirt, on days when I forgot shoes, I’d slide into flip-flops, when my (what do you call pants that aren’t jeans? Pants?) pants were dirty, I’d rock a pair of jeans, when none of my superiors commented, I combined the three for an ultra sleek jeans/T-shirt/flip-flops kind of professionalism. Still, I was clean, and for all intents and purposes, I think that’s all that mattered.

 Moving forward—to my most recent year-long search for meaningful employment—I have frequently come across the phrase “professional appearance required” in job descriptions, which for me is synonymous with “not applying.” Here comes the part where I sound like a cross between a child with intolerance to itchy things and heat, and a total bull-dyke, but here goes.

 First of all, you expect me to wear a business suit? A women’s power-suit kind of business suit? What am I? Running for office now? No. And what kind of asshole purchases a business suit when they sleep till 2 p.m. and only leave the house to obtain cigarettes, soda and donuts (in that order)?

 Yea, I don’t actually HAVE a job, but I would like to buy this men’s suit with boob darts and a shorter fly. I like that it’s a top and a bottom that match exactly, oh and how it makes my arms unable to raise above a John McCain level and my whole body wish it was dead on account of the increased heat it provides. Oh it only comes in gray, navy and black? Perfect. And yes, by not wearing a necktie, it looks totally feminine and super professional. I mean, I lean towards lesbian-looking anyway, you throw a suit jacket/blazer  in the mix and I might as well tattoo a rainbow flag on my forehead and carry a Prop H8 poster on a stick everywhere I go.

 And heels? Seriously? I know I’m not the first individual to wonder who in the hell invented these artifacts of torture. And oh, I understand their appeal. They make you taller, elongate your legs and they look swell with a nifty pair of fitted dungarees, but all that is overshadowed by the fact that they render your feet and legs almost useless! Let’s see, how can I make my morning commute less tolerable? I know, I’ll stick a piece of equipment on my feet that is shaped so awkwardly that it will more than triple the amount of time it takes for me to walk anywhere I need to go. Essentially, I want to take the most basic of human gross motor skills and handicap it. Also, hopefully I can walk with as many people as possible who have not chosen this impediment to mobility, and complain of foot pain while I walk a block behind for the entire mile walk to the Metro. And at the end of the night, I’ll probably put these ridiculous shoes in my bag and risk hepatitis by walking the streets barefoot, because only after a dozen Red Headed Slut Shooters, am I willing to admit that these shoes are completely asinine.

 Oof, give me a gripped rubber soul and some flexible canvas. I fucking WALK with this appendage and/or run like hell when the mushroom cloud starts to swell. Looks like we’ll both die of radiation, but at least I can get out of the way fast enough to avoid facial deformations, while you hobble behind in those foot retard-ers you call stilettos. . .

 

Nutrition

In addition to a mild weight problem, my habits of self-nourishment also contribute to my ever-decreasing dignity. My diet provides a constant source of shame, but despite this, I am not really looking to make any changes in my eating habits, so until the government intervenes (Meals on Wheels, fingers crossed) they will continue to be a source of personal embarrassment and self loathing, creating yet another reason for me to remain in my home.  Additionally, because of my unwillingness to alter my own behavior, or seek variety in my diet, I must simply continue to lack vital nutrients and remain generally lethargic.

On the off chance that I actually patronize a local supermarket I am inevitably faced with the question, “Hmm, what do I like to eat?” Because the only answer I can come up with is “carryout” I am forced to roam the aisles searching for anything that a moped-driving immigrant would deliver to my door. Since fried crab rangoon isn’t readily unavailable, I fill my shopping basket with a combination of items that would suggest that my parents have gone out of town, and I have been left to complete the grocery shopping alone—Pop Tarts, six varieties of potato chips, sugar cereal, anything Totinos produces and so much soda that I have to carry it home in shifts. 

In the event that I go to the grocery store prepared, I usually like to try and purchase something that is not only cheap and delicious, but also requires the least amount of preparation before consumption. Generally this means that I buy one loaf of bread, one jar of peanut butter and one jar of pickles. This $9 purchase provides up to 12 meals, and because that’s so frugal, I usually also purchase a 12-pack of Busch light and a bucket of Samoa Girl Scout Cookie ice cream as a personal reward for my economically sound choices, as well as for leaving the house.

When I worked in an office, I usually had lunch in my car. A few cigarettes, a 20 oz. Diet Coke, and maybe a few buttered flatbreads from Quizblows, but on one particular day I was feeling saucy, so I wandered over to the local Gelson’s market for a real, three course lunch. I hit up the pre-made section and chose a size 2 of turkey chili, and then picked up my usual jar of peanut butter and jar of pickles. Up to this point, I had never eaten in the office kitchen—mostly because it smelled of feet and cottage cheese, but also because I’m not 11 and looking for cafeteria style dining. At any rate, on this day, I wanted to sit down at a big table, spread out my lunch things and eat. Whence I was caught stirring peanut butter into my chili, questioned about it (with a pickle follow-up) and then told, “You eat like you’re pregnant. All the time.” I quickly finished eating, vowing to never eat in the office kitchen again, as well as to buy a pregnancy test immediately after work.

Because of my shear hatred for going out in public I am relegated to eating at home and because my kitchen is ill equipped for cooking my own meals, in that it contains nothing more than a giant cigarette lighter with under storage and a jumbo soda/beer cooling box, I am forced to eat the kinds of food that people will bring to my door. To say my diet lacks variety is an under statement. When I find something that I like, I will eat it until I don’t. This usually means that I consume the same combination of food for every meal anywhere from a few months, to a couple years.

When I lived at the Berkshire Apartments in upper Northwest D.C. I discovered a real gem—Pane Bella, a Mediterranean establishment downtown that delivered anywhere in the city. Three to four times a week I dialed their number and 30 minutes later would be devouring a chicken/veggie/hummus  pita sandwich and six pitas coated in hummus on the side. One day I answered the door anxious to consume my delicious evening meal in the comfort of my bed/couch. When I opened the door, my whole world came shattering down around me. “Oh, you got glasses,” the deliveryman said cheerfully. “I like them.” Now, this may not seem like an insult, in fact, technically, it’s a compliment. However, when someone you know no further than from his frequent appearance at the threshold of your home notices a change in your appearance that none of your friends or colleagues did, it’s time to find a new menu.

When I lived in Los Angeles, my diet was simple. I drank gin and tonic all day, vodka and Red Bull all night and wore a nicotine patch. Food wasn’t really an issue.

When I moved back to D.C. I was quite excited to rekindle my romance with the Pane Bella delivery man. First week in my new apartment, I called to place my order. And wouldn’t you know it, the restaurant was no longer in business. I don’t think this is any coincidence, and I feel absolutely awful about how my move affected their profits. However, I’m mostly just mad because I had a real hankering for a meat mixture stuffed into a pita.

Fortunately, the Internet provides a massive list of every place within the District that will deliver foodstuffs to my home. I chose a Chinese establishment with an Irish name and made the call. O’Tasty wins! The food is here in 30 minutes, it’s hot, it’s delicious and the deliveryman keeps his eyes down when he hands me the food. Their spicy tofu, fried wontons and sesame chicken are cheap and the portions are large. Looks like I found my new dietary staple!

One Saturday night though, it all began to head downhill. A rare occasion, I had planned on going on this particular night. The plan was, shower, eat, nap, go out. In that order. Although O’Tasty is a mere four blocks away, it always takes at least 30 minutes for it to arrive at my door. I figure, 10 minutes to cook, five minutes to pack and load, and 15 to get it to my house. I placed my order and jumped in the shower. Usually, I like to sit in the shower, think about some stuff, sing a number or two and practice an award acceptance speech. Knowing that a young Asian man was to be at my door very shortly, I kept this one quick. In and out. I didn’t even condition.

As I stepped out of the shower, literally EIGHT minutes, EIGHT after I had placed the order someone was knocking at my door. Ill equipped to answer immediately I hurriedly threw on the clothes I was wearing pre-shower, while yelling “Just a second” in the general direction of the door. I was at the door a minute later, dripping wet and ready for some Chinese food. The young man, whose eyes averted eyes had been a constant in our month long, three times a week relationship, was staring, eyes up, slightly grinning. Oh how nice. I thought. He’s becoming less shy. Maybe small talk will soon be introduced to this friendship.

I carried the food into the kitchen and walked back into the bathroom to dry off more thoroughly. Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!!! I see. In my rush to get the bags of food into my home, I hadn’t noticed A) that the shirt I picked up off the floor was white, and B) that after a mere six seconds on my body, it was transparent.

The following week I needed some spicy tofu, like, NEEDED it. I briefly considered patronizing a different establishment, but this incident was as much my fault as anybody else’s. No reason to punish O’Tasty just because of my inability to properly clothe myself when presented with human interaction. I also briefly considered placing Home Alone into the DVD player, turning the volume up loud and forcing the deliveryman to do a dead drop at my doorstep. I would slide money under the door, look shiftily both ways out the door before snatching it inside with a one handed yank, and then rip the bag to shreds with my teeth, crouched down in front of the door with the lights off devouring every bite like a wolverine with a fresh kill.

Instead I opted for professionalism (my obvious strong suit) and ordered the usual from O’Tasty. Wearing a thick T-shirt and a wool sweater I opened the door and paid the man with pride for the bag of food he brought me. As I dug through its contents I discovered a spring roll and a rogue Diet Coke that I hadn’t ordered, or paid for.  Looks like his un-averted eyes were the beginning of a beautiful friendship afterall. . .

 

Handicap Accessible

A desk without a chair can only serve so many purposes. After five months the useful possibilities of my desk had been nearly exhausted and my “office” was used primarily as a “key rack” and occasionally as the hard surface in which to sign food delivery receipts. My computer, mail and notebooks all lived on the coffee table, where a viable seating option allowed me to sit down comfortably and complete necessary tasks. I soon realized that the desk too, could be functional, if only there were some way I could sit down to experience the potential that lied within its solid, flat surface. It was time to purchase an “office chair.”

Comfort is essentially my number one life priority, so obviously I was going to have to go to an upscale, office furniture supplier. I wanted the best functional chair that money could buy. When I arrived at the local Target, my options were fairly limited. Additionally, the chairs were chained to an eye-level shelf, making the comfort test difficult, if not nearly impossible. At least the color was right. I wrapped my arms around the box of chair, paid for it and brought it home.

Now, I’ve owned some elegant things before, but nothing says luxury quite like a tan micro-fiber manger’s chair, some assembly required. After 20 minutes I had myself a chair, and better yet, a new place to not do work.

This is not my first desk chair. This is not my first desk chair with wheels. This IS my first desk chair with wheels in an apartment with all wood floors. Fuck the “office.” I’ve got a new mode of transportation. Good news, I will no longer be required to just drag my legs behind me in preparation for a nuclear attack! Wheels were the simple solution all along. God, why didn’t anybody ever think of this? My first adventure in my new chair would be to acquire a cold soda from the fridge. I was parched from screwing such thick bolts into the chair with nothing more than that fucking standard issue golf pencil screwdriver they put in every boxed piece of furniture. (Fucking Swedes.) Because I sit Indian style (and because the purpose of this exercise is to NOT use your legs) I had only my arms, and the power of these wheels to propel me into the kitchen.

Now I’m no idiot. I know that getting into the kitchen is going to take some careful geometric planning. At what angle and at what force will I need to propel myself towards the kitchen, off the wall, in order to reach the refrigerator? I selected the most mathematically sound solution, and shoved myself backwards off the wall towards the target. Bound by the Laws of Motion, my chair and I came to halt in the dead center of the room, fully out of reach of anything that could aid in increasing my velocity.

Well this sucks. I’m pretty much as mobile as a paraplegic on a barstool in this situation. I need a new tool. I quickly affixed a sneaker (rubber grip) to the bottom of a broomstick, and I was back in motion. I scooched to the fridge. I scooched over to watch some television. I scooched into my bedroom for some pants. Soon, I was ready for a new challenge. I wonder if I could make it to the supermarket without using my legs. . .

On my way out the door I reconsidered. With this chair and stick, I look and feel more like a Viking sailor than any kind of handicapped individual. And clearly everyone at the market would know that I was more mentally than physically disabled. If I was going to take this ruse to the streets, I was going to need some more professional equipment.

Craiglist. For sale. “Wheelchair.” I am immediately drawn to a $150 motorized chair with basket. I can’t afford not to buy this! Then again, “motorized?” Really? Isn’t that just a red flag for forthcoming obesity?

I continue to scour the online classifieds for the perfect wheelchair, as I fantasize about my trip to the supermarket. It’s really going to require a total commitment. At no point during my shopping trip will I be allowed, out of frustration, to stand up to reach a high-shelf-item, or get out and push my empty wheelchair back home. My legs are counting on my arms to get us through this sad trial. And what if I can only physically do this occasionally? And it’s the same day and I want something else at the market. Won’t they notice that sometimes I run, like actually RUN, in and grab a soda, when on the same morning I spent three hours wheeling through the aisles searching for anything edible on shelves 1 – 3? Clearly I’ll just have to find another market in which to practice.

I persisted in my search for an acceptable wheelchair as I persisted to convince myself that my wheelchair scheme wasn’t that terrible. I wasn’t going to panhandle in my wheelchair. I hadn’t planned on eliciting any type of pity from those around me in my wheelchair. It just makes sense to me. Wheels on a chair. Who wouldn’t want to sit down all day and still be mobile if given the option?

Eventually I found just what I was looking for. A black and blue number with ample cushion and a sort of sporty look, all for $100. I wondered what lies I would have to tell the seller in order to procure such equipment. I decided that if when I arrived to pay for the chair, the handicapped person was present, I would simply explain that I needed a wheelchair because I was taking my grandmother to Branson, and this would just make traveling so much easier. Or maybe that my best friend was paralyzed and that we wanted to join a wheelchair basketball league together. Both make total sense. What? I could totally have a grandmother who enjoyed Branson AND a crippled BFF. Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t spend so much time pretending my own legs were gimp.

If the handicapped person was not there, I wouldn’t feel as guilty, and thus would probably not feel the need to lie. And then it dawned on me. If I’m purchasing a wheelchair, and NO ONE there NEEDS a wheelchair, then the person who WAS using the wheelchair, probably DIED in the wheelchair because nobody just stops needing a wheelchair .

And if there’s one thing that terrifies me more than nuclear annihilation, or the loss of my legs, it’s things that dead people have touched. I immediately closed out of craigslist. I quickly removed the shoe from the broomstick, attached it to my own foot and WALKED to the drugstore—an adjustable cane would be much wieldier than a sneaker on a broomstick.

 

Prudent Use of Time

In my current situation, time isn’t so much “of the essence” as it a series of numbers I can’t keep track of. My “alarm clock” is still set to California time, because I never bothered to change it when I moved. The clock in my bathroom never “fell back,” for Daylight Savings Time and thus represented the Newfoundland time zone until time changed again. I feel like I should get some sort of prize. I found a loophole in the bi-annual clock-changing requirement. Just subtract an hour from the displayed time for a few months and you’ll never have to worry about it again. (My grandmother owns two watches as a direct result of this dilemma, which forces me to blame genetics for my inability to ever change a clock.) However, the subtraction soon becomes an unbreakable habit and regardless of the clock’s accuracy, I will always subtract one hour. Fortunately I have no place to be, so it has yet to affect my punctuality.

In addition to measured time, days and dates have also become irrelevant and for that reason I’m rarely aware of “when” exactly it is right now. I argued with myself for 10 minutes this morning. This feels like a Tuesday. Yesterday was definitely a Monday. No, maybe that’s because Monday felt like Sunday. What did I do on Monday? It’s definitely Tuesday, or maybe it’s Wednesday. It’s for sure absolutely either Tuesday or Wednesday. Where the hell’s my phone?

Turns out it’s Wednesday. Goddammit! I was hoping for a Saturday, which I look forward to since Monday, when all my friends go back to their day jobs, shutting my fun down for another 120 hours, in which I, alone, as in by myself have to find something/anything to fill my day.

Yea, yea, you think that if you had “all the free time in the world,” which I guess technically, at 24 hours per day, seven days per week and as of recently, 365 days per year, then, yes. I do have all the free time in the world. At around month three of my employment hiatus, who am I kidding, DAY three, the “wisely” part was promptly eliminated from the phrase “use your time” and I was forced to learn to waste it.

I’m not great at much. My skills and talents are quite limited. I have however, turned time killing into a fine art, a skill I can be proud of, a talent worthy of international recognition and prizes, a worldwide public appearance tour, a book deal and a guest spot on Letterman! Or maybe I’ll just go ahead and nap on the couch. . .

Now, it’s easy to believe, that if you were given a solid amount of time, to do anything you pleased, you would use this time to accomplish all those great ideas on your “bucket list.” (And yes, I just threw up in my mouth a little for having to refer to a “things I’ll never do, but if I write them down it will make it look like I had tangible goals prior to my imminent death” list). This is a farce. Let’s pick an easy one. SKYDIVING! Who wouldn’t put that on their list? It’s awesome and dangerous and says to everyone that you, more than anything else, are a serious risk-taker. I’m never doing this, partially because I’m terrified of heights, but mostly because I don’t have time. What am I? Going to go alone on a weekday to the skydiving hangar and sign myself up for a thrill? No. I’m going to lie on my couch and enjoy reruns of Wings instead.

Other things you might think you’re going to accomplish but never will include “reading more” or finally viewing the AFI Top 100 movies of all time. What I like to read is the Facebook News Feed and Wikipedia and what I like to watch is copious amounts of suicidal-thoughts-inducing daytime television. 

There is only so much of that that I can handle though, and have thus, found new/improved ways to pass the time during my lengthy stretch of recession induced unemployment. In every day it is important to find a “mission.” Now this “mission” can be anything, like doing laundry; sending in a rent check; picking up a prescription; writing a letter to the CW network because they keep infiltrating an otherwise decent block of sitcom reruns with The fuckin Nanny; or finding a local public place to smoke pot. 

Essentially, it doesn’t matter what your daily goal is, so long as you have one, because you’re not going to accomplish it anyway. Let’s take yesterday for example. I had one task that needed accomplished. “Must buy toothpaste.” You want to know what I did instead? Everything but buy toothpaste. I watched a Lifetime movie. I spent 3 hours on the phone. I ate my weight in Chinese food. I pretended my kitchen was an olden timey café and chain smoked by the window. I washed my hair. The point is, you can’t enjoy your free time, unless you know you’re doing nothing in lieu of an unwanted task, such as purchasing toothpaste. 

It really is the most basic of logic at work here. Create goal, avoid goal to satisfy need for instant pleasure, experience pleasure. (NOTE: Last night I cut off the top of the toothpaste tube and rubbed the tip of my toothbrush around inside the tube until enough toothpaste adhered to the brush to clean my teeth. I’m not proud. Today I purchased toothpaste in lieu of doing laundry, and because they shut my power off and television was not an option. Again, I’m not proud.) Also, if you get really bored, you’ve always got something to fall back on. 

It is generally best to decide on your daily goal, the night before, partly to give yourself something to look forward to, but mostly because in the event that you cannot think of one single, solitary activity to partake in, you can always take a generous dose of sleep inducing medication. I like a chemical cocktail that guarantees at least a 12-hour slumber. I fall asleep just as The Golden Girls rerun-block ends at 2 a.m. and come to around 1:45 p.m., by that time of the afternoon it’s far too late to even consider completing a task or taking a shower. You blew it! It’s too late to do anything but binge drink now! What could I possibly accomplish at this hour? Day cancelled. Day. Cancelled. Start drinking. 

Other impractical uses of time I like to employ include obsessing about possible doomsday scenarios. Although my primary apocalyptic fear lies in the inevitability of nuclear annihilation, I’ve recently acquired an unhealthy fear of other cataclysmic events such comet and asteroid impacts and super-volcanoes. If it’s an extinction level event, I’m enthralled. However, reading about and imagining these events have given me much less time to prepare for them than I would like. Obviously, the best and most effective way to prepare for such catastrophe is to practice what life would be like in the event that the world was ending. To do this, I like to complete mundane/simple daily tasks without employing the use of my legs. Could I survive as a paraplegic? I don’t know, but I do know that I can get a soda from the fridge, take a bath, make a sandwich and get into bed all while dragging my legs across the floor behind my torso, athankyouverymuch. 

I also know that I’ve got enough medication, alcohol and pest control substances in my apartment, so that in the event of something nearly world ending, I could kill myself if I lose the use of my legs/the cable goes out.

 

 

 

Keeping the Community Clean

After three months of living at the Dumpchester House I finally ventured down to the “P” level and located the community laundry room. What a seedy place to do anything, let alone bring my dirty linens. I’m going to move past the “Laundry room is for Dorchester residents only” sign. . .Like what? Is there a risk of hobos using our $3 per load laundry facilities? I say if a street folk takes the initiative to clean himself up, well then by god let him. . .and right into the room itself, which requires a keycard for access anyway. At any rate, the room is pretty standard for a large apartment complex facility–rows of washing machines and dryers, shitty tile floor, no windows, a panic button. Wait, what the fuck is that for?

 I felt completely safe in here all alone until I saw that little panic-maker on the wall. And what kind of panic is this for? Is it like because of the increased risk of flood or fire that this has been placed here? Or am I about to get raped? The second time I entered the room (to switch from wash to dry) another resident, about my age, was folding her laundry. You would think that this might bring comfort, having a cohort in this shady-ass clothes cleaning zone, but actually she brought about the opposite emotion, in the form of a panic attack.

 Why the fuck are you FOLDING down here? You should be spending as little time as humanly necessary in this room. For Christ’s sake there is a panic button on the wall! Pour your shit into the basket and hurry the hell out. I don’t want to have to walk by you thirty times while I switch my wet delicates in small handfuls from the washing machine on one side of the room to the goddamn dryer on the other. What’s worse, is when I opened my second machine, which housed a set of sheets, some towels and a blanket, it REEKED of wet marijuana. Ahhh jeez, how could I have washed a pot nugget? There weren’t even pockets in that load. Are you telling me that the couch blanket could smell that potent just because it got wet?

 Now what I wanted to do, was get a second opinion. What I did do, was stick my whole head down into the washing machine and take a deep breath. The girl folding her clothes inched slightly closer to the panic button at this point, so I hustled to switch my clothes and got the hell out of dodge.

 I would venture to guess that I do laundry less than ten times per year, partly because I’m lazy and would prefer to buy a new set of sheets and several dozen pairs of underwear in lieu of carting a hundred pounds of dirty clothes and linens to a creepy room, but mostly I just wish to avoid an awkward social situation that every building I’ve lived in since college insists I experience.

 My last building wasn’t so terrible, or at least the room itself wasn’t. I could never get past the “residents who don’t work should do their laundry between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m.” because no one in my building seemed to work, and the lady that did had hired people to do her laundry and cleaning. What really got to me though, was carrying bag loads of clothes to the laundry room outside, past the homeless men digging for cans in my dumpster.

 “Yeaa, excuse me sir, me and my $200 jeans and my 300 T-shirts just need to slide right on by here. I had so much to drink that I threw up on this stuff and I want to get it nice and clean so I can wear it while I watch television all day on my comfy couch, in my warm shelter. I had a party last night if you want me to go ahead and bring those cans outside for you to take to the recycling center. No, really, you’d be doing ME a favor. Thanks.”

 Before that I lived in a building that provided one washer and one dryer for about 20 people. I don’t actually recall doing more than three or four loads of laundry during my tenure at that West L.A. location, but surely I would have had to. I’ll chalk up the lack of laundry doing to the fact that I spent most of that era on the beach and would have had little more than a swimsuit to wash at the end of each day. That, and I discovered a good friend with a live in housekeeper who never noticed how much or whose laundry she was actually doing.

 Prior to Los Angeles, was the Berkshire. Aaahhhh the Berkshire. An eclectic mix of ethnic families, retired octogenarians and American University students. The thought of that laundry room makes me want a shower. It was truly the worst of the worst. In appearance it was no different than my current one, but it’s ambience was somehow far more terrible. Perhaps it’s because of the tenants I witnessed doing laundry that I cannot think of that room with out gagging a little. Usually, if I would see said tenants, who were disgusting human beings (may they rest in peace) using a specific washer or dryer, that specific washer or dryer was immediately off limits to me.

 Maybe that sounds a little harsh, but one of these residents was a crotchety old man who smoked about four packs of unfiltered cigarettes per day and had a hacking/whooping/gagging cough to prove it. Fortunately, he hung out at the building entrance right below my window so I could hear him violently expelling lung butter all day, which not surprisingly inspired me to quit smoking (for two months). He also had only one eye, but wore glasses, so was obviously known as “Old Three Eye.” Needless to say, I didn’t want MY pillowcase swimming in the same washer as his smoking jacket, or anything else that had touched his person for that matter. Another resident I couldn’t wash after, was lovingly dubbed “Scalp,” due to her lack of hair and plethora of visible head skin. She wore Asian inspired silk nightgowns and spent day and night rummaging through the trash rooms digging through other people’s garbage. I’d just as soon sleep in a puddle of my own urine than use the same washer as her. Fortunately, she died my senior year, freeing up a lot of formerly tainted machines that I so desperately needed use of on busy Sundays in the laundry room.

 

Health and Fitness

Occasionally it will occur to me—usually after flipping down the tab of a chilled can of diet soda beverage—that I haven’t had a glass of water in upwards of two weeks. By my watch, my current personal drought has only lasted around 65 hours. I’m quite confident that the last time I intentionally consumed plain water was early Tuesday morning, after waking up from an evening frought with Miller Lite and Jell-O shots, and stumbled into the kitchen in search of a cold and hydrating concoction. Fortunately, sometime last October I had had the foresight to fill an old orange juice jug with water and store it in the fridge.

I know what you’re thinking, “What’d you do with the orange juice?” Well, after it went bad, I poured some of it into the cactus pots and the rest down the drain before de-oranging the container, filling it with water and loading it into the fridge somewhere amongst the mass of soda and beer cans. For a certain portion of this winter, I actually assumed the jug was empty, but could think of no better place to store it, particularly because the recycling bin was always full and I’m not about to carry that shit out on a more than monthly basis. At any rate, upon realizing that I’ve unintentionally parched myself, there is usually little else I can do besides guzzle my soda and move on with my day, which usually includes a few more sodas, at least one bag of chips, and most of a pack of cigarettes.

I am a creature of bad habit and healthy living is not my forte. Still, everyone goes through phases.

My one and only lifetime health kick occurred in the midst of my two-year stint in Los Angeles. I’m not sure if it was the weather or the incredibly strong “organic” pot from the northern portion of the state, but something kicked me into gear. Within two months I was as thin as I had been since freshman year of college—when a combination of unbearable homesickness/depression and laxative laced soda in the university cafeteria kept my density to a minimum. However, as it turns out, my new “healthy lifestyle” was more akin to life in a crackhouse, than anything that might appear in Shape magazine or on Oprah’s stupid, fucking “Being Your Best Self” series.

One time I was having dinner with two girlfriends. Neither ate anything substantial, ever, both were masochistic gym rats. “I hate when I get hit on at the gym,” Dumb Whore said to Emotionally Unstable. “I’ve never been hit on at the gym,” she woefully responded before they both looked at me for the tie-breaker. At that moment I had a choice. By agreeing that I too “hate getting hit on at the gym,” I would be knowingly, albeit indirectly, suggesting that Emotionally Unstable was perhaps not attractive enough to be hit on at the gym, and therefore ugly and fat. On the other hand, if I were to say I had never been hit on at the gym, I would not only be suggesting that I was less attractive than Dumb Whore, but also boosting her already inflated ego.

I decided to go with the truth. “I’ve never been to a gym.” During my stint in L.A. however, I hit the gym, hard. I went one time over the course of one week, and I never returned. The visit occurred early on during my six-week healthy living program, a regiment that I designed myself, without the help of a medical professional, In Touch Weekly or Kirstie fuckin Alley. I simply eliminated what I believed to be unhealthy. This laundry list of my favorite things included, but was not limited to: cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana, refined sugar, gluten and dairy.

In the beginning, things were going swimmingly. I was losing weight faster than I had predicted, and feeling more energetic than ever. Then I went to the gym. The treadmill was the only piece of machinery that I recognized offhand, so I hopped on, picked a pace and began running. Now although this is an activity that I hadn’t participated in since somewhere around 1999, I was still acutely aware of the intensity of its punishing properties. Heavy breathing, sore legs and heart palpitations I was expecting—blurred vision, numbness of extremities and teeth grinding were not. After a mile (it’s not that unbelievable, I blacked out for part of it) I shut down that fuckin spinning rubber and laid down outside. Perhaps these were endorphins, and maybe since I provide myself with copious amounts of them chemically, the natural ones just don’t cut it anymore. Or maayybee, I rocked my heart rate up to about 200 bpm with a goddamned nicotine patch adhered to my upper arm. Essentially I had consumed the amount of nicotine in 12 cigarettes in roughly three minutes longer than it takes a healthy adult to run a mile.

Still, I’m sure if I wouldn’t have hustled out of the Y that day to lie down, someone would have totally hit on me.

Fast-forward one month. It’s mid-August, I’ve stayed on my diet and I’m looking pretty thin (ya know, for an “athletic” build). All it took was a weekend trip to Kentucky though, to blow my health plan right out of the water. Upon arriving in the upper South I quickly noticed the lack of “No Smoking” signs and felt the need to take full advantage. By the end up my trip I was at ten cigarettes a day, and back to binge drinking, but at this weight, I was in no position to give up completely. I returned to Los Angeles, slapped on a patch and went about my business.

Three weeks later, I was still absorbing 14 mg of nicotine transdermally, while simultaneously inhaling in the neighborhood of 15 cigarettes per day. Needless to say, in conjunction with that level of nicotine, little more than a few cases of Diet Coke per week were necessary to sustain my life. And due to the astronomical amount of stimulants circulating throughout my nervous system, my health and behavior began to more closely resemble that of a crystal meth addict than a health nut. Also, beta-blockers became necessary to control the shaking. . .

Which brings me to the almost present. A bulletin board in my mother’s laundry room features upcoming event notes as well as semi-recent pictures. One photo is of my sister and me in Los Angeles, late August 2007. I’m sporting a lovely strapless summer dress (the pot MUST have been good, upper arms of that magnitude should never be prominently featured) and I think to myself how much smaller I looked. Before I could feel too good about it though, my mother interjected with a backhanded compliment, “You looked really good, then.” Now this comment begs the retort, “So what, I don’t look good now,” which I tried soo hard to abstain from uttering, but what other method did I have of admitting, “I know, right?”

 

Crime

I can count on three fingers the number of times that I’ve voluntarily entered a police station. In all three incidents, I was dealing with nothing more than a parking concern—once to pay a parking ticket, and twice to obtain a parking permit. Between my house and the precinct desk I made a special point to not break any laws, which is more difficult and nerve racking than a blind date (which I’ve never been on, nor will ever go on, but I imagine that it—like entering a police station on purpose—would require more than two beta blockers to accomplish).

It’s not that I’m an awful person. Many crimes I leave to others—murder, rape, racketeering (because I don’t know how), kidnapping, prostitution and crack dealing. The smaller “crimes”—speeding, pot smoking, bootlegging, piracy, vandalism—are obviously fine to commit. Essentially, I still act under what my friend Lorraine calls “the assumption that criminals are cool,” because they are.

However, in the case of myself, criminality is only “cool” when I don’t get “caught.” Hence my hesitation to voluntarily place myself in an environment where each and every person around me is uniformed, armed and looking for a perp. What if I forgot to take the one hitter out of my belt buckle? What if they saw me drive up AND smelled the booze on my breath? What if when I pull out my driver’s license, a joint falls out of my wallet? What if the K-9 is on duty and I’m wearing/carrying ANYTHING that’s been inside my apartment? What if I go in for a parking permit and I end up at Rikers?

Fortunately, parking permits are hardly official so I can avoid frequenting the cop shop. Oh wait, this expires on 2-7-2009? I thiiiink you meant 12-17-2009. Mr. Sharpie will just take care of that reeall quick like, athankyou.

And in other good fortune, despite my emphasis of the term “voluntarily” before “entering a police station,” the truth is, I’ve never actually “involuntarily” entered a police station. I’m not sure what it takes to get arrested, but I can tell you with confidence, that the following things will not land you in jail, even when witnessed by an officer of the law:

 1. Drinking Franzia box-of-wine while driving a car

2. Urinating at a bus stop

3. Sleeping on a public L.A. sidewalk

4. Lighting a pillowcase full of human feces on fire on a stranger’s stoop

5. 90 in a 65/65 in a 30

6. Smoking bowls and eating Randy’s donuts in a car

7. “Borrowing” a police Segway, ramming it into a curb

 The most major of the “somehow avoided jail” schemes shall not be mentioned. Just imagine the most white trash event that you can and then remember that I’m dressed as Garth Algar when the Illinois State Police (fuckin Nazis) roll up.

 Let’s pretend for a second, that I was actually charged for any of the above events. Peeing/sleeping on a sidewalk is probably just a simple fine. A DUI, might be like one night in jail, but if it was followed immediately by a drug conviction, I might be looking at a few weeks to a couple years, depending on the level of communication between states. Jail is something that I’d like to believe I’d be pretty good at.

 Now I can’t bake a visually attractive cake, artfully arrange throw pillows on a bed or fold clothes with any degree of neatness, but I know, that prison is the one thing I could out-Martha Stewart, Martha Stewart on. Seriously, if that bitch made it a day, I could surely do a decade. Terrible food? Fine. Shitty bunks? Fine. Public bathrooms? Fine. I mean, I went to college, I know how bad it can get. Besides, never having to attend class, write a paper or try and understand biology would more than make up for that extra degree of filth and increased lack of privacy. Plus, I think they divvy out jobs in prison, so technically, it’d be a step up for me as far as societal contributions go.

Admittedly, the roommate situation might be a little hard to handle. Sure, I would again like to compare it to college, living with a complete stranger in a confined space, but it’s not the same. It’s like, yeeeaa that random girl from Jersey that slept above you in college, miiight have stolen your hairbrush, but at least she’d never rape you with it.

 

Larceny

After four months in Washington D.C. I finally became an actual resident our rat-infested nation’s capital. Three days later I received my official welcome to the city: a fucking brick through my car’s window. Thanks a pantload, asshole. And what, you might wonder, did this local derelict take after vandalizing my vehicle? Nothing but a goddamned five-year-old North Face jacket. What a shitty thief.

What? The Robert Goulet Greatest Hits LP was not to your liking? What about the Hannah Montana novelty plastic toy that sings “The Best of Both Worlds” when activated by motion? I hope to Christ that you had to listen to that god-forsaken diddy the ENTIRE time you rifled through my possessions—that were apparently not good enough for you to steal.

Even I’m not above pilfering a Ziploc bag full of quarters or a case full of mix tapes.

I also love that you took the underwear OUT of the duffel bag, and moved them onto the floor. Couldn’t you have just taken those? At least let me think you’re a creepy,  ladies’ underwear stealing thug and not a white girl from New England. Seriously, who else would break into a car for a North Face jacket?  I understand that times are tough, but I’m sure you could dig through the lost and found of ANY FUCKING ESTABLISHMENT ON THE EASTERN SEABOARD in order to procure a free one!

Man up. Rip out the stereo. Find my personal information in the glove box and attempt to steal my identity. Hot wire the car, take it for a joyride and dump it in the Potomac. I mean, if you’re going to do something, do it right, you stupid jacket thieving pussy!

Now, I am aware that my neighborhood is not the “best” in the city—we had a couple of shootings, a murder or two, a little mugging here and there—but it’s by no means the worst location. In fact I always feel quite safe where I parked my car. . .right next to the entrance of the Swiss Embassy. Now, I know that you’re quite busy protecting fanciful chocolates, Heidi, the wealth of shady foreigners and the integrity of your private schools, but maybe for one second, your security guard could glance to his right and at least give a dirty look to the hoodlums ransacking my vehicle. I mean, I guess whatever, you are just the Swiss Embassy. It’s not like my car was robbed in front of like, the Department of Homeland Security. . .

Oooohhhhh, wait, that’s right! IT WAS.

Now, although most people I know have been, at one point, auto-burgled in D.C., I’ve never actually witnessed such an event. Therefore, I have no idea what kind of attention these bandits garner when shattering the windows of these street parked treasure chests and mining through their cargo. What I CAN tell you is that if you park your car, eight inches from the guarded/gated entrance to Homeland Security a couple of goons can, without interruption, pry your window out of its seal, unlock your car door, rip your stereo out of the dash, destroy your vehicle’s temperature control dials and empty the contents of your trunk without anyone noticing. Whatever though, this happened during the Bush years. Those guys were clearly too busy tapping wires and disassembling WMD’s to possibly have time to defend MY homeland (Honda Civic).

Again though, I’m thankful that the crooks in this robbery were nothing, if not mildly retarded. Although they did manage to get the “custom” stereo out of the dash, and the “factory” stereo from the trunk, they missed entirely the spare set of car keys in the glove box. Great job! Maybe in a couple years you could break a window for a woman’s coat. Or maybe I should learn my lesson and start parking my car by liquor or check cashing stores instead of international and domestic government fortresses.

 

Occupational Hazards

If I had my druthers, those tedious conversations about someone else’s workday would be eliminated entirely, but until I can find the appropriate words to end such relationships (ya know, with employed people), their inane daily musings will continue to be met with feigned interest and the attempt to mute the severe annoyance in my tone. 

 

I will admit, that somewhere deep down, this sheer hatred of job talk is probably a direct result of that twinge of jealousy I might feel towards the gainfully employed, knowing that they like, “contribute” and “enjoy more than one hour of daylight.” Still, enough is enough.

 

I don’t regale you with elaborately uninteresting anecdotes about dryer sheets, the television remote or the amount of static cling my couch has, so I’m not really sure why you would even consider sharing with me, that painfully banal story about the copy machine and fax machine going haywire on the same day! Annnnnddd as far as your “co-workers” go, unless they’re a combination of straight crazy and unmedicated, selling quality narcotics or sexually active with YOU, then I don’t think I really care about Todd’s dog dying or Sheila’s miscarriage. 

 

God, can’t you just leave work at work? 

 

Obviously, there are always exceptions to the rule. There are many careers I find to be of utmost interest and think that I could gain great pleasure from their daily details. These occupations include only the following: psychiatric hospital security tape watcher; hallucinogenic drug tester; diet soda flavor creator; serial killer; and Oprah Winfrey. 

 

Fortunately, between TLC, A&E and the Food Network, I can get my sick fix of almost all of the above, in my own office–that brown plush couch that my remote is always getting lost in, that has so much static cling not even a dryer sheet could remedy the situation! Even Harriet (my coworker who is a blatant racist and in the middle of trying to sell her dead uncle’s entire estate on craigslist) and Lupita (who barely speaks English but is a real wiz with a vaccuum) tried to de-static the couch and when they couldn’t, we toooottally chilled in the break room until Cornelius (that guy that used to be homeless but through this great work program is able to perform custodial work at my office for well under a living wage) came and took care of it. It was like, the craziest work day, ever!

 

Uuunnnnfortunately, Oprah’s “Oh!” channel is less about Oprah’s daily routine, and more about maintaining a saucier, less campy version of Lifetime for me to hate myself for watching. 

 

 

The Climate Crisis

For the past two years, during my vacation in Los Angeles, I survived without the luxury of air conditioning. In fact, I took great pride in my lack of interior temperature control. “Oooohhhh, I live so close to the beach that the fresh ocean breeze in my air conditioning.” In reality, my building was too old to have considered installing such equipment, the “ocean breeze” stopped three miles short of my front door and the air in Los Angeles can never really be described “fresh.”

Still, I survived–even during those record setting heat waves, in which the Valley would experience rolling blackouts caused by overuse of air conditioning,  fell asleep comfortably in the 100+ degree heat under a cozy down comforter and the influence of narcotic cough syrup, without any trouble.

During the winter, I kept comfortable in the frigid 50’s by lighting fires in my somewhat operative fireplace and turning on the “central heat” (to which I never found any proof–such as vents or ducts–that might suggest that the system was actually functional). EIther way, at least I never donned a goose-down parka to the supermarket, a trend that, despite year-round mild to warm outdoor temperatures, was all the rage at the Ralph’s on Wilshire from late November to mid-February. Once, I legitimately witnessed a woman, whose hood featured a faux-fur lining, secure mittens on her hands before exiting the store, on a brisk 56 degree day. What a bitch.

I digress. The point is, one of my top priorities (aside from obtaining bulk quantities of diet soda and menthol cigarettes in preparation for nuclear winter) is to maintain a tolerable interior temperature.

Here at the Dorchester House though, that feat is insurmountable. I’m not sure whether to blame the senior denizens of teh building who haven’t moved more than five yards from their Craftmatic in the past decade, but have been given unrestricted use of free utilities in a rent controlled dwelling or the throes of Spanish speaking immigrants who must be trying to recreate the climate zone of the equatorial homelands–All i know, is that when the mercury drops below 40, I shouldn’t have to open a window.

I believe the primary overheat offender to be Ruth, a Southern Baptist Church going, cane wielding octogenarian who lives below me and beleaguers me about my chronic “middle of the night door slamming” routine. “Listen bitch, turn your fuckin heat down, and maaaaybe we can discuss the sounds and smells emitting from my residence. And until then, if you could refrain from stealing elevator security tapes in order to “prove” waht time I came home, I’d be rather grateful.”

Now the Climate Crisis (Dorchester campus) could easily be resolved by the installation of central heating and air conditioning. Good news! My “tier” of the building is scheduled for such an installation this coming Spring! As the leasing office described it, it should be no problem: HVAC construction will only take place in the tenants home between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm and shall take between four and eight weeks to complete.

Now, for tenants whose careers take them outside their home at reasonable daytime hours, this might be a bit of an inconvenience, but for those of us that work from home, this is simply unacceptable. How can I get work done–and avoid wearing pants–if I’ve got a construction crew–that I didn’t invite–tearing shit up in my home all day? Okay, okay, maybe what I do isn’t as important as like, helping children, feeding the homeless, writing return correspondence to constituents or being a barista, but you can’t deny that what I do takes hard work. I work to ignore the sun through shear curtains past noon. I work to get that cold soda can from the fridge to my mouth. I work to find a comfortable seated position for smoking cigarettes out the kitchen window, despite my complete lack of legitimate counter space. And most of all, I work hard to find new ways to enjoy the benefits of medical grade THC.

That’s right. I am now a proud member (do we call ourselves member? are we like a team? am I supposed to know any of the other “member’s” names? should I have written down the name of the law firm in charge of this litigious matter?) of a class action lawsuit. Seriously though, I don’t think we’re being dicks by suggesting that the management not begin construction in my apartment that “involves extensive drilling into my walls, ceiling and floors, for an ongoing 60 to 80 days in which I will be unable to enjoy the comforts of my home and most of my possessions due to possible harmful particulates such as ASBESTOS, noise from drilling/banging, and constant traffic from workers.”

But, after signing up for complimentary legal representation I feel like I’ve gotten myself into an old fashioned Catch-22 (that’s that think that’s like, you’re ironically screwed either way, right?). In scenario one, I must live with intolerable heat, making my “work” much harder to accomplish, and my precious private free time much harder to enjoy. Yet if I seek to maximize my comfort via increased core temperature control, I lose a majority of my “private” free time, by allowing groups of strangers into my home during office hours. (Cancer is a given either way. Whether it’s mesothelioma, or standard lung, only time will tell.)

Or, maybe Ruth will die soon and this entire conundrum will be irrelevant. I hope she remembers my kindness (in not backhanding her upon accusations of unacceptable nocturnal behavior) and leaves me that damn China cabinet she’s always raving about, in her will. Cause once she’s gone, I’m going to need something to keep me warm during this harsh East Coast winter–and nothing burns quite like Depression era Oak!