Since I am currently looking for work and no one wants to hire me to put my contacts in, I've had to find other things to keep me from pulling my hair out, rocking in a corner, etc. This is harder than it sounds. As much as I love to play Sudoku on my phone, more than an hour a day actually reverses the desired effect- instead of more logical and aware, I become less logical, and suddenly I'm living for those little boxes and the feeling of completion and total fullfillment that comes only with 9 little sets of 9 numbers, arranged so every row and column contains no repeated numbers. Even now, just typing that, I am tempted to stop typing... but I digress...
I've tried to watch the entire series of Ab Fab, but for anyone who doubts that excess can be excessive, I dare you to watch Ab Fab for more than 3 hours. I double dog dare you. By 2.5, you'll be so tired of hearing "sweety darling" and quite frankly, watching 2 drunk british women, your disgust will force you to turn it off. Perhaps it's hard for me to watch simply because I want to be working but don't have a job, and they have a job but desperately do not want to be working. In any case, I couldn't make it all the way through.
I've tried exercise, but lack of gym membership really puts a damper on my enthusiasm to work out. One can only do the plyometrics DVD from p90x so many times before one loses hope. And until today, it's been bloody hot out.
Of course, I'm still job hunting as well, but that hardly takes my mind off of not having a job.
No, I needed something else. Something like...
Housework.
At first, I was skeptical. I did a little bit of yard work because this yard needed a little bit of attention (actually, what it needed was a LOT of attention, a chainsaw and a weed whacker). I cleaned up a bit because we were having visitors over, and those visitors happened to be my parents, and my mom believes in maintaining a certain level of cleanliness (right beneath hospital sterile) for good living. (A note: this house hardly was/is dirty- but mothers being mothers, effort must be made)
And then suddenly, almost without warning, it was upon me.
Was that ME waking up and making the bed immediately? Only to be followed by loading the dishwasher and starting a load of laundry? What was happening?
Who knew keeping house could be so satisfying? I clean up the kitchen, keep the laundry some kind of caught up, make the bed, vacuum when the dog hair becomes a fine coat on the stairs. It's like the chores you had to do as a kid, only instead of them being chores you didn't want to do, now when you do them, it's like you have a job.
Let's be clear- it's not a job. It doesn't pay, there's no discount. But I don't have to go any where, I don't have to get dressed to do it, and I get immediate gratification for a) doing it and b) knowing that I'm the one who benefits from the fruits of my labor. So until there's something else to divert my attention, just call me Mr. Domestic.
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Must Protect this House
There's a saying that goes:
A man's home is his castle.
It makes sense.
(AND, by the by, *HISTORY NERD ALERT* it was first put forth by Edward Coke and then later by James Otis. Both men said it, Otis a whole hundred-and-thirty-plus-years later than Coke. Coke was an Elizabethan Englishman and Otis was a colonial American. Otis COULD have been indirectly quoting Coke, or men of that time could just have all had major delusions of grandeur.
MORE IMPORTANTLY, the ACTUAL quote is: "A man's house is his castle"- and there's more to it in both of their full quotations, but this is the important part- I digress...)
After a long hard day of opposing the monarchy/stoking the flames of rebellion or some modern equivalent, a man wants nothing more than to leave the office, get in his carriage/on a horse/in a car and come home to his own space. With his things arranged in it. The way he likes them.
The 1950's elevated this snappy little sound bite to a veritable commandment. The media of the time would have us believe that EVERY housewife in America was, every night, waiting with baited breath for the return of her husband- the breadwinner- smiling and in pearls, martini in hand (god bless them, they got one thing right), and a pot roast in the oven.
Times have changed, and pearls and pot roasts have come and gone (and come again), but the essential desire to have a place of one's own (more than a room, thank you- we're men, damnit) has not.
All this said, if a man's home is his castle, then my castle has an infestation. In the living room, seeping into the bathroom, and most hideously in the kitchen, this takeover of my space has finally begun to gnaw at my soul. To put it plainly, roommates are ruining my home.
The mess is nothing short of epic. More than a little grating, possibly record setting, and definitely bio-hazardous, the wasteland that my apartment is slowly becoming is spectacular. The verve with which my roommates are trashing the place is breathtaking.
Take, for instance, the living room. A smallish, if comfortable arrangement of two love seats, a coffee table and large flat screen tv. In a matter of couple days, what had been a tidy, neat room is strewn with dozens of paper cups and Styrofoam big gulps. Yogurt cups by the handful litter the coffee table and floor surrounding, spoons still poking out, having crusted to the inside of the container before tipping and plummeting to the floor. Even the furniture itself, once at smart 90 degree angles, now has been shoved askew, the result of wild, testostronous World Cup viewing (I'm not opposed to throwing tables with joy/rage, however, if the table is still in functioning order after said joy/rage, just put the damn thing back where it was).
The bathroom is a higher priority of cleanliness, and I have taken great pains to keep it maintained as such. However, even with my constant vigilance, the creeping tide of chaos threatens to engulf me. I share a long vanity with one roommate. We have our own sinks, and what amounts to about a yard each of counter space. I let it slide when there were the small black hairs from shaving that begin ever-so-discreetly marching across the invisible line that separated his space and mine. Then came the Wal-mart bags with his electric clippers and assorted other clutter (including but not limited to: flask, 2 toothpaste tubes, razor, open deodorant, and a giant 64 oz glass beer stein). I'm afraid to imagine what might be next when I hold it up for comparison with the most egregious breach of sanitation that's been suffered to date: the kitchen.
The kitchen. That hallowed ground of preparation for food and drink. The kitchen, where cleanliness is not only visually pleasing, it can mean the difference between healthy people and terribly sick people. Namely, me. I have a lot of sympathy/empathy/warm feelings for people everywhere, and usually at least attempt concern for others, but in this particular situation, I am worried about me and me only. So when I find open containers of rotting spinach in the fridge, it stresses me. When I come home and find the kitchen practically suffocating with potentially Every. Single. Dish. in the apartment, the twitch that happens under my left eye when my mind is under siege, well, it happens. And these dishes, on counter top and floor, atop fridge and protruding from cupboards, are not freshly washed and just arranged whimsically. No. They are covered in a Science Fair's worth of terrifying and curious substances- some sticky, some rock hard, some glowing in rainbow colors, some holding conversations about the McChrystal resignation (ok, so the last two might be embellishments, but only slightly). I would just throw them all in the sink and douse them in bleach and be done with it, but A) I'm afraid I would contract something and B) the sink itself smells like a catacombs for small animals. Needless to say, the kitchen, usually my favorite room in the house, has become something I hurry past as fast as possible without looking to hard for fear of making eye contact with anything living.
I've gone back and forth as to what to do about the whole situation. As I can see it, I have three options:
1) Negotiations.
Previously attempted. I've asked in civil tones. I've reminded. I've even tried to bargain. All to no avail. This tactic, I'm sorry to say, just does not work in the present situation. Which led me to...
2) Taking care of the business myself.
Also previously attempted. I put on my haz-mat suit and did a full apartment, top-to-bottom clean. It took about 12 hours, but in the end, it was worth it and everything was clean. I left for rehearsal, and when I came back, I opened the door and gasped. Something had Chernobyl-ed on the stove and all over the kitchen. There were papers and books all over the entry table. A pizza box lay askance on the floor with the crusts flung about it. So much for doing it myself. So, frankly, the only option I see left is
3) All out war.
I've tried to be nice. I'm done being nice now. There will be no prisoners. I plan to first throw out all dirty things I come across. When that doesn't work, or even if it does, I'm bringing in the blow-torch for a periodic burning, so nothing has a chance to evolve into something with a vertebrae. Finally, I've ordered a vat of about 600 gallons of bleach. I merely take my precedent from the bible- God clearly couldn't stand the mess of the world, so he just simplified things and sent a flood. I'm doing the same thing, only with Clorox.
If everything else fails, I suppose I could just change the locks. That would truly get to the root of the problem, the roommates, but then leasing offices get involved and the cops and it might not be worth the effort. Still, now that I think about it, the best and easiest way to keep invaders out of one's castle is to not let them in in the first place.
A man's home is his castle.
It makes sense.
(AND, by the by, *HISTORY NERD ALERT* it was first put forth by Edward Coke and then later by James Otis. Both men said it, Otis a whole hundred-and-thirty-plus-years later than Coke. Coke was an Elizabethan Englishman and Otis was a colonial American. Otis COULD have been indirectly quoting Coke, or men of that time could just have all had major delusions of grandeur.
MORE IMPORTANTLY, the ACTUAL quote is: "A man's house is his castle"- and there's more to it in both of their full quotations, but this is the important part- I digress...)
After a long hard day of opposing the monarchy/stoking the flames of rebellion or some modern equivalent, a man wants nothing more than to leave the office, get in his carriage/on a horse/in a car and come home to his own space. With his things arranged in it. The way he likes them.
The 1950's elevated this snappy little sound bite to a veritable commandment. The media of the time would have us believe that EVERY housewife in America was, every night, waiting with baited breath for the return of her husband- the breadwinner- smiling and in pearls, martini in hand (god bless them, they got one thing right), and a pot roast in the oven.
Times have changed, and pearls and pot roasts have come and gone (and come again), but the essential desire to have a place of one's own (more than a room, thank you- we're men, damnit) has not.
All this said, if a man's home is his castle, then my castle has an infestation. In the living room, seeping into the bathroom, and most hideously in the kitchen, this takeover of my space has finally begun to gnaw at my soul. To put it plainly, roommates are ruining my home.
The mess is nothing short of epic. More than a little grating, possibly record setting, and definitely bio-hazardous, the wasteland that my apartment is slowly becoming is spectacular. The verve with which my roommates are trashing the place is breathtaking.
Take, for instance, the living room. A smallish, if comfortable arrangement of two love seats, a coffee table and large flat screen tv. In a matter of couple days, what had been a tidy, neat room is strewn with dozens of paper cups and Styrofoam big gulps. Yogurt cups by the handful litter the coffee table and floor surrounding, spoons still poking out, having crusted to the inside of the container before tipping and plummeting to the floor. Even the furniture itself, once at smart 90 degree angles, now has been shoved askew, the result of wild, testostronous World Cup viewing (I'm not opposed to throwing tables with joy/rage, however, if the table is still in functioning order after said joy/rage, just put the damn thing back where it was).
The bathroom is a higher priority of cleanliness, and I have taken great pains to keep it maintained as such. However, even with my constant vigilance, the creeping tide of chaos threatens to engulf me. I share a long vanity with one roommate. We have our own sinks, and what amounts to about a yard each of counter space. I let it slide when there were the small black hairs from shaving that begin ever-so-discreetly marching across the invisible line that separated his space and mine. Then came the Wal-mart bags with his electric clippers and assorted other clutter (including but not limited to: flask, 2 toothpaste tubes, razor, open deodorant, and a giant 64 oz glass beer stein). I'm afraid to imagine what might be next when I hold it up for comparison with the most egregious breach of sanitation that's been suffered to date: the kitchen.
The kitchen. That hallowed ground of preparation for food and drink. The kitchen, where cleanliness is not only visually pleasing, it can mean the difference between healthy people and terribly sick people. Namely, me. I have a lot of sympathy/empathy/warm feelings for people everywhere, and usually at least attempt concern for others, but in this particular situation, I am worried about me and me only. So when I find open containers of rotting spinach in the fridge, it stresses me. When I come home and find the kitchen practically suffocating with potentially Every. Single. Dish. in the apartment, the twitch that happens under my left eye when my mind is under siege, well, it happens. And these dishes, on counter top and floor, atop fridge and protruding from cupboards, are not freshly washed and just arranged whimsically. No. They are covered in a Science Fair's worth of terrifying and curious substances- some sticky, some rock hard, some glowing in rainbow colors, some holding conversations about the McChrystal resignation (ok, so the last two might be embellishments, but only slightly). I would just throw them all in the sink and douse them in bleach and be done with it, but A) I'm afraid I would contract something and B) the sink itself smells like a catacombs for small animals. Needless to say, the kitchen, usually my favorite room in the house, has become something I hurry past as fast as possible without looking to hard for fear of making eye contact with anything living.
I've gone back and forth as to what to do about the whole situation. As I can see it, I have three options:
1) Negotiations.
Previously attempted. I've asked in civil tones. I've reminded. I've even tried to bargain. All to no avail. This tactic, I'm sorry to say, just does not work in the present situation. Which led me to...
2) Taking care of the business myself.
Also previously attempted. I put on my haz-mat suit and did a full apartment, top-to-bottom clean. It took about 12 hours, but in the end, it was worth it and everything was clean. I left for rehearsal, and when I came back, I opened the door and gasped. Something had Chernobyl-ed on the stove and all over the kitchen. There were papers and books all over the entry table. A pizza box lay askance on the floor with the crusts flung about it. So much for doing it myself. So, frankly, the only option I see left is
3) All out war.
I've tried to be nice. I'm done being nice now. There will be no prisoners. I plan to first throw out all dirty things I come across. When that doesn't work, or even if it does, I'm bringing in the blow-torch for a periodic burning, so nothing has a chance to evolve into something with a vertebrae. Finally, I've ordered a vat of about 600 gallons of bleach. I merely take my precedent from the bible- God clearly couldn't stand the mess of the world, so he just simplified things and sent a flood. I'm doing the same thing, only with Clorox.
If everything else fails, I suppose I could just change the locks. That would truly get to the root of the problem, the roommates, but then leasing offices get involved and the cops and it might not be worth the effort. Still, now that I think about it, the best and easiest way to keep invaders out of one's castle is to not let them in in the first place.
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