AIR RAID.

I feel the hair on the back of my neck exploding in split ends as soon as I see my mother reach for the handle on the refrigerator door.

And as she cheerily announces through her teeny, slightly-clenched, WASP'y teeth "It looks like someone threw up in here," my vertebrae curl together, pulling me in towards myself like an armadillo in a loosing battle.

Why do I care? At this point in my life I know my apartments will never be clean enough, ever. They've seen them all (except that China Town place with the crumbling tile and glue traps THANK GOD), I know the drill. After every apartment inspection I always have code violations. During the last visit, I had postponed the meet-and-greet with Clinton Hill. I knew it had to happen this trip. Resistance was futile, I just wanted to be ready, you know? I wanted to be the Department of Domestic Preparedness Affairs, armed with one god-damned acceptable apartment!!

As I sat there waiting for the door buzzer to ring, impressed with my anticipatory cheese, hummus, and crudites plate, NPR a-blazin', feeling as ready and properly contained as a tin full of tea biscuits - I noticed the 4 inch bike grease smudge on the wall. That will get a shout out, of this you can be sure, Ms. NPR and Cracker Tray. Before I could get to the paper towels, of course the buzzer went "ZAAANNNG."

"What happened there?"

I don't' know mom. Perhaps a bacteria-ridden Mongoloid threw up on the wall before he made it to the fridge since clearly I was too busy smoking opium with Madame Tang or whatever you suppose I do which causes me to be imprudent about my wall scrubbing duties. I can see her little brain ticking away, evaluating, logging, reorganizing, assessing the condition of this place I work very hard to live in. She settles in, imperfections duly noted but "its not that bad."

Well thanks.

Why on earth do I care this much? I'm the 26 year old adult child of a clean freak! Big deal! Some people got hit or fed meth in their Cheerios! I have perspective! I understand "Theory of Mind"! MY thoughts are different from OTHER PEOPLE'S thoughts! So how could I really be so fragile? So easily rattled by every silly little thing, my silly little mother says? I should be able to knowingly chuckle "Oh mom" without hearing the air raid sirens go off in my ego, my mature intelligence necessitates it!

DUCK AND COVER.

I was already 2.5 glasses of wine in anyway (so much for containment), why not make it four shall we?

And the soft focus moroseness sets in. There I am.

Ready to face the rest of my evening with my parents. Dinner discussion ranges from why I "look so unhealthy" (Grazie, Don Lipitor) to how Dad keeps getting "blown off" by other family members, and of course the ever popular "why don't I teach?"

Because I do not like kids and it interests me not at all. That's why I don't teach. I don't like children. Not small children, not middle schoolers, not high school kids. The thought of being the sweater-dress wearing, chain-smoking drama teacher for a bunch of school children makes me feel like somehow kicking my own ass. Really, it makes me want to get into a fist fight with myself.

I DO NT WANT TO.

AT ALL. NOR HAVE I EVER EXPRESSED ANY INTEREST IN DOING IT EVER IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

PLEASE STOP SUGGESTING IT EVERY TIME I SEE YOU I CANT THINK OF ANYTHING I WOULD LIKE TO DO LESS.

I also have fond memories from years 85 to 95 of how much mother dear JUST LOVED teaching kindergartners and used to fairly frequently come home from work crying throughout my youth so YEA, TEACHING, SEEMS TO SUCK.

Oh man. I'm exhausted. I'm exhausting myself.

Upon returning home, I looked at the remnants of my attempt at hors d'oeuvres on what passes for a kitchen table, and right there, right in the eye line of the bowl of mini carrots, leaning jauntily on the windowsill:

"The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn"

ITS PAIGE'S, REALLY! NO, Really it really is Paige's, I'm like, I don't know, porn? Just not really that into it really. NO REALLY.

I mean...I'm reading it but it's my roommates!! REALLY.

At least nobody said anything.

House Guests

It's like herpes bedbugs in Brooklyn, everybody gets them.

Houseguests

I kid.

Everyone coming to stay with me in the next couple of weeks I luv. And I am looking forward to sleepovers, jumping around in our underwear, making blender drinks and then subsequently dancing circles around the kitchen table while singing joyful tunes that serve to celebrate our respective self-hoods. Especially with my friend Erin's "band" of people I've never met.

Ha I don't know why I quoted "band" - they really are a band, they are here for CMJ. And a good band at that. They are more then welcome to go all Motley Crue on my living room.

Also coming to stay we have the incomparable Jesse. My household kingdom (me and Paige) rejoices.

Thirdly....we have... my parents. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I'm not the, sleeping-in-the-same-bed-with-mom type, nor am I the allow-mom-and-dad-to-sleep-on-the-floor-in-my-"cozy"-two-bed-room-rail-road type. So mom and dad have had to find other sleeping arrangements. (I'm also not the give-up-your-bed-and-sleep-on-the-couch-type.) Hey, I have to work in the morning here people.

Autumnal, Clinton Hill.

Well,

I wish I could report a reason I have written nothing since June.

Let's make one up.

So I applied for this uhhh... grant.....which I got....and I went to Istanbul...no...Constantinople.

They love me there. I'm huge there.

So after a long summer in Persia - or some other evocative name which was once a place, such as the USSR or Gaul - I am facing another fall, in yet another borough of our fair, fair, city.

Let me introduce you to Clinton Hill.

I am making friends in my neighborhood. And doing more laundry. Well actually I am doing less laundry because now it involves carrying a cart down the stairs and wheeling a panda-sized bag of it, old lady style, down the block. But things are always hopping at the laundromat on Dekalb avenue. By things, I mean fights involving cars and dogs and everybody having a generally harmless, innocuous time screaming at each other in front of their friends and neighbors.

As my darks and whites were tumbling and I was outside further distancing myself from my resolve to quit smoking, a very high dude came up to me and asked to try on my sunglasses.

Hey, they are awesome, I agree - so of course I obliged. He kept yelling "who do I look like, I think I look like T - I" , at his cousin, who he told me was Israeli. I kind of doubt it but OK.

anyway...I didn't know it at the time
but in fact he did look like TI!!!

not this TI



Then he asked me to hold his dixie cup of orange juice and feel his hands, which were soft because "he'd never worked a day in his life." ( FYI - They weren't that soft. Furthermore, Scarlett O'Hara, the term "soft hands" is creepy, don't say that to girls.)

Then he kindly offered to marry me and told me I'd never work a day in my life.

How's that gonna work bro?

Neither of us working any days in this new life together, which we are starting right now, on the street outside the laudromat drinking OJ (or methadone) from a dixie cup? And I get the feeling, well, because you told me so, high guy, that you'd like to get me pregnant pretty fucking fast, so their would be another 3 or 4 mouths to feed. I mean, I'm down for the no-working thing, really...I REALLY REALLY am...but uh, I'm going to need to see some proof before we head down to city hall, a bank statement...a sack of gold doubloons. Something.


A lady can dream though can't she? Especially now, cause the lady is BROKE, and I like living off dreams, fairy dust, and magic beans that come from the sky.