Here is what happened: ten minutes ago, I sat down, placed a hunk of pate and some goat cheese on a plate just next to my laptop, and vowed that I wouldn't touch either until I'd written a post -- any post -- in this languishing space.
When you're bribing yourself with your own lunch to write something, you know things have become somewhat dire.
The list of things I could have blogged about and didn't keeps growing: the appearance of my book's advance reader copies, my thirtieth birthday, a drawn-out drama with a now ex-friend, an impulsive audition for a local production of "The Sound of Music" that netted me a place in the nun ensemble. I mean, really: I spent a month in a nun costume, every single weekend, and it didn't even once occur to me to use the opportunity to come back here, post a photo, and make a "back in the blogging habit" joke.
I think it's safe to say that my muse has left the building.
And even if the muse hasn't, my stat counter indicates that everyone else has. (No, it's fine. I don't blame you.)
Which is, I've come to believe, completely all right. Things change. Things have changed. When I started this site, it was like finding the release valve on a tank so full of pent-up energy that it was ready to explode. I realize now what a moment that was, an actual life-changer, the one I point to when someone says, "When did you know that you wanted to write?". Then. That was when I knew. And I still read over those early entries sometimes. I envy their exuberance, their easy flow. I even wish I could go back there, to the time when I had so much to say and only one place to say it, and recapture that feeling: of a vast reservoir of stories and scenes and little moments that spoke to a larger truth, hundreds of them, all writing their beginnings in an untapped corner of my mind.
But then I think of what I've gained: a novel in production, two others brewing, the chance to do for a living what I used to do for fun. There's only so much fuel in the tank, only so many words at the ready. I realize that I can't have them everywhere and every way -- or, worse, that I could, but that to do it would mean adding this blog to the list of tasks that sits in the righthand corner of the screen on which I type this. Another item with an un-checked box next to it, right there with the daily deadlines, the freelance assignments, the errands to run and chores to do. Another thing I force myself to accomplish before I'm allowed to eat my lunch.
And I really, really don't want that. I don't. I don't want to be a person who would rather strip all the joy out of something to keep it alive, instead of letting it go and being glad for the memories.
And of course, there's also the matter of privacy, and how much I've come to value it in my oh-so-advanced age. The woman who started this blog was unknown, unattached, even anonymous at the start. And as glad as I am to have given her such an unencumbered voice -- I don't regret a single thing I've written in this space -- now, as I inch ever-closer to the public eye, I just want to curl up around the life I've built and shield it from view. I have a lot more to lose than my 24 year-old self, and much less hope of recovering it.
Which brings me to what happens next.
And that, I think, is... nothing.
Pink India Ink will remain where it is, and what it is: an internet treehouse where, for awhile, I stopped by daily to sit and think and scribble on the walls. I won't paint it over. I won't tear it down. I won't even lock the door, so that if you want to, you can come back and visit awhile. I even hope that you will.
But when you do, in all likelihood, the house will be empty. And while I might come back from time to time, it'll be a pleasant surprise rather than a scheduled visit. For me, and hopefully for you. And while I won't be here, I'll still be here -- and if you want to reach me, at another internet address or by email, the sidebar links will always take you there. And yes, I hope you'll do that, too.
If you're still here, thank you for sticking with me. If you're not... well, you're not reading this, so whatever. Also, your mom is a whore.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
How to roast a chicken in 40 easy steps.
1. Email husband confirming his plans to roast a chicken for dinner.
2. Realize that chicken husband purchased is eight pounds, not three.
3. Realize that since chicken is eight pounds, not three, you yourself will have to prepare and put chicken in oven if you want to eat dinner at eight-thirty and not ten.
4. Put stuffing in olive oil to soak. Zest a lemon. Chop parsley. Feel confidently culinary.
5. Pat bird dry, rub with olive oil, salt and pepper. Continue feeling confidently culinary.
6. Peel back skin at the neck of the chicken and cut in with a small paring knife to remove the wishbone.
7. Fail to locate wishbone in anticipated location.
8. Start over.
9. Fail to locate wishbone in any location.
10. Hack randomly at chicken neck in vain attempt to accidentally dislodge wishbone.
11. Return to laptop; type "how to remove wishbone from chicken" into Google.
12. Scream.
13. Wash hands. Carefully clean chicken detritus off trackpad/keyboard. Re-Google.
14. Watch instructive video on wishbone removal.
15. Return to kitchen. Cut confidently into chicken.
16. Fail to locate wishbone.
17. Wash hands, return to laptop. Watch five more instructive videos on wishbone removal.
18. Develop a passionate, all-consuming hatred for the way that one guy blithely says, "Of course you'll be able to feel the wishbone," BECAUSE WHO THE HELL IS HE TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU FEEL.
19. Call husband. Leave voicemail message asking what will happen if chicken goes into oven with its wishbone still intact.
20. Call again; leave followup message expressing doubts as to existence of wishbone in general.
21. Return to kitchen. Insert stuffing into chicken cavity. Be rough.
22. Stab chicken for good measure.
23. Open wine.
24. Leave followup message to your followup message suggesting that considering all the genetic modifications to chickens these days, the least they could do is make one that doesn't have a wishbone.
25. Send text message threatening to throw chicken against the wall.
26. Answer phone. Say you are glad that it doesn't really matter. Assure husband as to un-hurled state of chicken.
27. Hang up, return to kitchen. Insert chicken into oven. Refill wine glass.
28. Answer phone. Assure husband as to in-the-oven status of chicken.
29. Assure husband that of course you know that you need a pan with high sides, because using a pan without high sides will cause the drippings to fall onto the heating element and catch fire.
30. Hang up.
31. GOD FUCKING DAMNIT OF COURSE YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT, HOW THE HELL WOULD ANYONE KNOW THAT, AND THE KITCHEN IS PROBABLY ALREADY ON FIRE.
32. Run to kitchen. Fling open oven door. Remove low-sided baking sheet holding chicken.
33. Fall to knees in gratitude for un-flaming state of the oven.
34. Ready chicken for transfer to a high-sided pan.
35. As you transfer the chicken, tell yourself that it's really fine.
36. Really, it's not like anyone will ever know that this happened. It's not like there will be evidence. It's not like, for instance, the inappropriately low-sided pan will betray your failure by retaining a crime-scene-style outline of the place where the chicken was ly--
37. Nevermind.
38. Also, what the hell.
38. Hide pan under sink. Refill wine glass. Curse the universe. Vow never to roast a chicken again. Mean it.
39. Eat chicken. Try to ignore the taste of guilt and incompetence.
40. Weeks later, when husband inquires as to whereabouts of pan, lie.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Cheezus saves.
Now that I'm living elsewhere after all that time in New York, I sometimes feel like I'm only just discovering things about adult life, in general, that everyone else has known forever. Things like the fact that people would rather drive five minutes than walk for ten. And that they do weird things in their cars during highway rush hour -- like, orifice-picking, nipple-scratching things -- even though they must be aware on some level that everyone see them. And that heating oil is apparently the most rare and expensive substance on the planet. And that outside of the cramped honeycomb of the city, household appliances are terrifyingly large and make conspiratorial noises in the night.
And then, of course, there's the part where, if you have a yard, one corner must at all times be designated as a shrine to the Gods of Junk Food and must always contain one or more highly processed, preservative-laden, brightly-packaged items in order to appease the angry and volatile deities of all things cheez-with-a-Z.
...Or at least, I assume there's a Cheez Shrine Rule written into our local ordinances? Because this is the state of things: at any given time, in the northwest corner of our little pocket yard, there is a half-eaten bag of Cheetos. Or a partially gnawed Slim Jim. Or -- once -- an un-drunk, unopened bottle of Arizona Raspberry Iced Tea with its safety seal still in place. (The nostalgic urge for a taste memory of middle school was overwhelming, but I mustered all my self-control and left it alone just in case it was a test of faith sent by the Cheez God.)
These items appear sometime during the night, or possibly the early morning, and stay for awhile -- untouched by anyone, I assume they are all also terrified of retribution at the hands of Cheezus -- and then ultimately vanish as mysteriously as they appeared. And since this is apparently just a Thing That Is Done out here in not-New-York, I've been rolling with it (albeit keeping an eye out, because if this isn't a gifts-for-the-oracle kind of situation, then some school-aged kid on our street must have one serious hole in his backpack.)
But today, it has all officially gone too far. Because when I walked out the door this morning, there it was.
Let me be clear: it's not that someone flouted the rules of the junk food shrine by leaving an empty Kit Kat wrapper in the yard.
It's that I am the God of Kit Kats, and SOMEONE HAS EATEN THAT WHICH IS RIGHTFULLY MINE.
And then, of course, there's the part where, if you have a yard, one corner must at all times be designated as a shrine to the Gods of Junk Food and must always contain one or more highly processed, preservative-laden, brightly-packaged items in order to appease the angry and volatile deities of all things cheez-with-a-Z.
...Or at least, I assume there's a Cheez Shrine Rule written into our local ordinances? Because this is the state of things: at any given time, in the northwest corner of our little pocket yard, there is a half-eaten bag of Cheetos. Or a partially gnawed Slim Jim. Or -- once -- an un-drunk, unopened bottle of Arizona Raspberry Iced Tea with its safety seal still in place. (The nostalgic urge for a taste memory of middle school was overwhelming, but I mustered all my self-control and left it alone just in case it was a test of faith sent by the Cheez God.)
These items appear sometime during the night, or possibly the early morning, and stay for awhile -- untouched by anyone, I assume they are all also terrified of retribution at the hands of Cheezus -- and then ultimately vanish as mysteriously as they appeared. And since this is apparently just a Thing That Is Done out here in not-New-York, I've been rolling with it (albeit keeping an eye out, because if this isn't a gifts-for-the-oracle kind of situation, then some school-aged kid on our street must have one serious hole in his backpack.)
But today, it has all officially gone too far. Because when I walked out the door this morning, there it was.
DUN.
DUN!
DUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!
Let me be clear: it's not that someone flouted the rules of the junk food shrine by leaving an empty Kit Kat wrapper in the yard.
It's that I am the God of Kit Kats, and SOMEONE HAS EATEN THAT WHICH IS RIGHTFULLY MINE.
Monday, January 09, 2012
Butterface
You know you're in trouble when you jolt awake, drenched in terror sweat, at 5:30am on the first day of 2012 -- not with exuberant joy at the arrival of the new year, not even with a hangover headache, but with the following thought rolling through your brain, marquee-style, in a high-volume wail:
OH MY GOD WHY DID I EAT SO MUCH BUTTER.
Let me be clear: I don't usually kick myself over butter. I adorn my popcorn with it; I smear my bread with it; I melt it into a golden pool in a cast-iron skillet and fry up my eggs with glee. I am not, in general, a guilty butter-eater. But on New Year's Day, I woke up with an acute, raging case of Butter Eater's Regret -- because on New Year's Eve, capping off a month of perhaps not the most controlled eating of my life, I had exceeded even my own, laissez-faire ethics in butter-related matters when I made a pot of pasta, and just before pouring it into a bowl, carelessly tossed a sizable pat of Land'o'Lakes in to melt beneath it.
A sizable pat which was now in my head, in snapshot form, dawdling in all its obscene enormity under the scrolling WHY WHY WHY WHY marquee like a creamy golden guilt bomb.
All of which is to say, I hope you'll all understand that when, unable to exorcise that image from my mind and swiftly succumbing to overwhelming feelings of failure and fatness, I went on the internet and allowed Gwyneth Paltrow to tell me what to do.
...Look, I was in a dark place, okay?! A DARK PLACE FULL OF BUTTER AND SADNESS.
And so, I:
a) googled juice cleanse recipes
b) clicked my way down a rabbit-hole to one of old Gwynnie's vanity-project GOOP newsletters from god-knows-when
c) lost my entire fucking mind, and then
d) went to Whole Foods, where I purchased protein powder and almond milk and wheatgrass supplements and a head of broccoli that cost seven dollars.
It's the seven-dollar broccoli that let me know I've really and truly lost it.
But even as I hauled vegetables, powders, mysterious substances and peculiar oils into the kitchen and stuffed them into the fridge, I really, honestly, thought that this was a good idea. After all, people do detoxes all the time! And they seem fine! And Gwyneth Paltrow is so thin!
So I went for it.
I mean, I am going for it.
And it's not that I've decided that it's not a good idea. It's not even that I'm not enjoying myself; the recipes are easy (albeit time-consuming), the food tastes good, and my lunch was so pretty that it deserved to have its picture taken. So while I'm still not sure I'll make it, and while I'll probably be back three days from now to confess a butter relapse, and while there are certain elements of this plan which I will under no circumstances put into action (castor oil, Gwyneth? CASTOR OIL?), I'd say that things are moving along quite nicely.
But, uh, speaking of things moving along nicely? I'm just gonna go ahead and answer the questions I know you're asking -- which is to say, yes, that's how it works. Yes, this cleanse is the equivalent of rinsing out your intestinal tract with an industrial-strength fire hose. And no, Gwyneth Paltrow probably hasn't taken a solid dump since sometime in 2006.
(But if this sounds like fun to you and you want to follow along, be my guest.)
OH MY GOD WHY DID I EAT SO MUCH BUTTER.
Let me be clear: I don't usually kick myself over butter. I adorn my popcorn with it; I smear my bread with it; I melt it into a golden pool in a cast-iron skillet and fry up my eggs with glee. I am not, in general, a guilty butter-eater. But on New Year's Day, I woke up with an acute, raging case of Butter Eater's Regret -- because on New Year's Eve, capping off a month of perhaps not the most controlled eating of my life, I had exceeded even my own, laissez-faire ethics in butter-related matters when I made a pot of pasta, and just before pouring it into a bowl, carelessly tossed a sizable pat of Land'o'Lakes in to melt beneath it.
A sizable pat which was now in my head, in snapshot form, dawdling in all its obscene enormity under the scrolling WHY WHY WHY WHY marquee like a creamy golden guilt bomb.
All of which is to say, I hope you'll all understand that when, unable to exorcise that image from my mind and swiftly succumbing to overwhelming feelings of failure and fatness, I went on the internet and allowed Gwyneth Paltrow to tell me what to do.
...Look, I was in a dark place, okay?! A DARK PLACE FULL OF BUTTER AND SADNESS.
And so, I:
a) googled juice cleanse recipes
b) clicked my way down a rabbit-hole to one of old Gwynnie's vanity-project GOOP newsletters from god-knows-when
c) lost my entire fucking mind, and then
d) went to Whole Foods, where I purchased protein powder and almond milk and wheatgrass supplements and a head of broccoli that cost seven dollars.
It's the seven-dollar broccoli that let me know I've really and truly lost it.
But even as I hauled vegetables, powders, mysterious substances and peculiar oils into the kitchen and stuffed them into the fridge, I really, honestly, thought that this was a good idea. After all, people do detoxes all the time! And they seem fine! And Gwyneth Paltrow is so thin!
So I went for it.
I mean, I am going for it.
And it's not that I've decided that it's not a good idea. It's not even that I'm not enjoying myself; the recipes are easy (albeit time-consuming), the food tastes good, and my lunch was so pretty that it deserved to have its picture taken. So while I'm still not sure I'll make it, and while I'll probably be back three days from now to confess a butter relapse, and while there are certain elements of this plan which I will under no circumstances put into action (castor oil, Gwyneth? CASTOR OIL?), I'd say that things are moving along quite nicely.
But, uh, speaking of things moving along nicely? I'm just gonna go ahead and answer the questions I know you're asking -- which is to say, yes, that's how it works. Yes, this cleanse is the equivalent of rinsing out your intestinal tract with an industrial-strength fire hose. And no, Gwyneth Paltrow probably hasn't taken a solid dump since sometime in 2006.
(But if this sounds like fun to you and you want to follow along, be my guest.)
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
And so, let's not-look back.
Because even when I've been absent for months, failing to perform the obligatory year-end wrap-up would be more abandonment than I feel comfy with.
And it goes without saying: 2011 has been significant. It brought the end of eight lovely years in New York. An answer, finally, to the question of what I want to be when I grow up. A book, with a title and a jacket and a life all its own. A new home, one step closer to the kind that I'd like to have permanently, where I can hang up my coat, and sit in a sunny corner, and look out on a sort-of backyard when my brain wants a pause. The humbling, terrifying realization of just what a tenuous, precious thing it is to be healthy.
All in all: changes, lessons, trying new things. I've even taken up yoga -- as in real, actual exercise, despite all previous evidence that any attempt at formal exertion would be punished with the humiliating exposure of private body parts! And y'know what? It's actually kind of fantastic.
...Although, okay, I'm still not quite there with the whole impenetrable zen thing; I cannot, for instance, keep myself from laughing when the instructor says, "And then, ease yourself back into downard-facing dog", and the meditative silence of the room is suddenly punctuated by a prolonged burst of flatulence.
But anyway. The point: this has also been a year of not-posting, and I'm sorry. I've tried and failed any number of times to write about my new home in Connecticut; the reason it's so hard, I think, is that I know we won't be staying. As settled-in as we are here, with our closets and our grill and our very first Christmas tree, it's only a layover on the way to who-knows-what, and so I'm not paying attention the way that I should. And sometime -- maybe even by this time next year -- we'll be picking up again, packing our lives into boxes for transport to the next thing. Whatever it is. And I don't know that, either; I'm not driving this train.
And y'know what? That's actually kind of fantastic, too.
And so, there will be no year-end summary. Right this minute, I'm too busy wondering about what's coming to look back on what already was, especially when what already was was mostly a lot of waiting. And if I want to dwell on the past, I think I'd rather be doing it on behalf of other people -- the ones who submitted the heartbreaking photos and stories to this NYT slideshow of 2011's lost loved ones. Which, more than anything I could offer, is a fitting note to end on.
Especially if, perhaps, you need some reminding about the things that matter after briefly losing your shit at your own loved ones after they totally incinerated a leg of lamb on Christmas Day.
Not that I have ever done that!
Happy New Year!
And it goes without saying: 2011 has been significant. It brought the end of eight lovely years in New York. An answer, finally, to the question of what I want to be when I grow up. A book, with a title and a jacket and a life all its own. A new home, one step closer to the kind that I'd like to have permanently, where I can hang up my coat, and sit in a sunny corner, and look out on a sort-of backyard when my brain wants a pause. The humbling, terrifying realization of just what a tenuous, precious thing it is to be healthy.
All in all: changes, lessons, trying new things. I've even taken up yoga -- as in real, actual exercise, despite all previous evidence that any attempt at formal exertion would be punished with the humiliating exposure of private body parts! And y'know what? It's actually kind of fantastic.
...Although, okay, I'm still not quite there with the whole impenetrable zen thing; I cannot, for instance, keep myself from laughing when the instructor says, "And then, ease yourself back into downard-facing dog", and the meditative silence of the room is suddenly punctuated by a prolonged burst of flatulence.
But anyway. The point: this has also been a year of not-posting, and I'm sorry. I've tried and failed any number of times to write about my new home in Connecticut; the reason it's so hard, I think, is that I know we won't be staying. As settled-in as we are here, with our closets and our grill and our very first Christmas tree, it's only a layover on the way to who-knows-what, and so I'm not paying attention the way that I should. And sometime -- maybe even by this time next year -- we'll be picking up again, packing our lives into boxes for transport to the next thing. Whatever it is. And I don't know that, either; I'm not driving this train.
And y'know what? That's actually kind of fantastic, too.
And so, there will be no year-end summary. Right this minute, I'm too busy wondering about what's coming to look back on what already was, especially when what already was was mostly a lot of waiting. And if I want to dwell on the past, I think I'd rather be doing it on behalf of other people -- the ones who submitted the heartbreaking photos and stories to this NYT slideshow of 2011's lost loved ones. Which, more than anything I could offer, is a fitting note to end on.
Especially if, perhaps, you need some reminding about the things that matter after briefly losing your shit at your own loved ones after they totally incinerated a leg of lamb on Christmas Day.
Not that I have ever done that!
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Gentlemen, start your engines
Publishing a book -- as I've found out repeatedly over the past year -- involves a lot of waiting. Waiting to make the deal; waiting for emailed revisions; waiting for a package of neatly-stacked pages that you nearly maul the mailman in your excitement to receive and which you leave scattered around your living room long after line edits are done, just to have real, tangible evidence that yes, this is actually happening.
But when it comes to bringing home the really-realness of it all, you can't beat this...
...Or this.
With apologies for redundancy, of course, since if you follow me anywhere else on the internet you've already seen this. (Or if you passed within a 20-yard radius of my person on the day when I got the go-ahead to debut the jacket, in which case I probably grabbed you by the throat and demanded that you view it. Because mind-blowing excitement.)
And there you have it: a real, actual book available for real, actual pre-order on Amazon, and proof-positive that I have not, in fact, just been fucking with you (or myself) about the whole "novelist' thing.
And now that I've said that, a note: sometime before May 2012, I'm going to begin streamlining my online presence and launch an official site dedicated to my YA work (and most likely including a blog that, among other things, includes somewhat fewer posts about indecent exposure. Because, y'know, teenagers have parents and parents get upset about f-bombs and wieners.) I don't know yet what that'll mean for Pink India Ink -- maybe it'll continue to just exist in its infrequently-updated form, or maybe I'll find a way to fold it in -- but any creative suggestions (or polite reminders about forgotten, embarrassing content that's lurking back in the archives and would humiliate me if discovered by a larger population) are welcome.
Above all, thanks for being here, for reading, and for sticking around despite the long silences.
But when it comes to bringing home the really-realness of it all, you can't beat this...
...Or this.
With apologies for redundancy, of course, since if you follow me anywhere else on the internet you've already seen this. (Or if you passed within a 20-yard radius of my person on the day when I got the go-ahead to debut the jacket, in which case I probably grabbed you by the throat and demanded that you view it. Because mind-blowing excitement.)
And there you have it: a real, actual book available for real, actual pre-order on Amazon, and proof-positive that I have not, in fact, just been fucking with you (or myself) about the whole "novelist' thing.
And now that I've said that, a note: sometime before May 2012, I'm going to begin streamlining my online presence and launch an official site dedicated to my YA work (and most likely including a blog that, among other things, includes somewhat fewer posts about indecent exposure. Because, y'know, teenagers have parents and parents get upset about f-bombs and wieners.) I don't know yet what that'll mean for Pink India Ink -- maybe it'll continue to just exist in its infrequently-updated form, or maybe I'll find a way to fold it in -- but any creative suggestions (or polite reminders about forgotten, embarrassing content that's lurking back in the archives and would humiliate me if discovered by a larger population) are welcome.
Above all, thanks for being here, for reading, and for sticking around despite the long silences.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The 8 Stages of Hiring a Housekeeper
GUILT
Stare at the Craigslist listings for cleaning services for hours before calling one. Wonder if using a cleaning service is inherently classist. Dial and hang up twice. Wonder what is the matter with you that you can't keep an apartment clean by yourself. Wonder if this constitutes failure as a wife. Wonder if wondering this makes you a bad feminist. Wonder what's worse: being a bad feminist or being a classist asshole. Dial again and speak to the cleaning lady. She is polite and all business. She also has a Spanish accent. Wonder if this makes you a racist as well. Make an appointment anyway.
WORRY
Worry that the cleaning lady will be appalled at the state of your apartment. Worry that she'll demand more money. Worry that she'll run screaming out the door and tell all her friends that, in all her years of cleaning, she had never seen a toilet that disgusting. Worry that your apartment is not filthy enough and that she will accuse you of wasting her time. Resist the urge to clean before she arrives.
DENIAL
At the last minute, throw a pile of dirty laundry in the closet.
EMBARRASSMENT
"I'm sorry, I didn't think you would open that closet."
PARANOIA
Shut yourself into another room with the dog. Worry every time the cleaning ladies speak to each other that they are saying mean things about you. Worry that they are laughing at you. Worry that worrying about this makes you a racist. Worry that they hate the dog. Worry that they think the dog is a racist. Listen to the sound of doors opening and closing. The cleaning ladies know all your secrets. Vow to learn Spanish.
AWE
The cleaning ladies are gone. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. Wander from room to room with your mouth open. Feel guilty that you didn't wash your feet first. Feel guilty that you ever doubted them. Email husband a series of delighted exclamation points. Cry openly at the beauty of the golden light as it gleams off the toilet seat. Vow never to use the toilet again. Admire the small, neat piles into which your personal items have been sorted. Note the presence of at least one highly embarrassing item in each pile. Remind yourself to explain next time that you don't usually leave airplane-travel-sized bottles of vodka under the bed. Wonder if they saw the soy sauce stains on the sheets. Drink bottle of airplane vodka. Cry some more.
CATASTROPHE
Much later, open the fridge to retrieve a beer. Something is strange. The beer is in alphabetical order. The cleaning ladies have organized the refrigerator. THE CLEANING LADIES HAVE ORGANIZED THE REFRIGERATOR. Scream out loud. Wonder if this is going to happen every week. Wonder why nobody warned you. Wonder how long that avocado has been in there. Wait, it was that Memorial Day cookout. Oh God, it's been there since May. It has been there since May and they saw it and they touched it. They touched your avocado of shame, and you must live with that.
ACCEPTANCE
Schedule biweekly appointments. Throw away the avocado. Drink alphabetized beer. Life is so lovely.
Stare at the Craigslist listings for cleaning services for hours before calling one. Wonder if using a cleaning service is inherently classist. Dial and hang up twice. Wonder what is the matter with you that you can't keep an apartment clean by yourself. Wonder if this constitutes failure as a wife. Wonder if wondering this makes you a bad feminist. Wonder what's worse: being a bad feminist or being a classist asshole. Dial again and speak to the cleaning lady. She is polite and all business. She also has a Spanish accent. Wonder if this makes you a racist as well. Make an appointment anyway.
WORRY
Worry that the cleaning lady will be appalled at the state of your apartment. Worry that she'll demand more money. Worry that she'll run screaming out the door and tell all her friends that, in all her years of cleaning, she had never seen a toilet that disgusting. Worry that your apartment is not filthy enough and that she will accuse you of wasting her time. Resist the urge to clean before she arrives.
DENIAL
At the last minute, throw a pile of dirty laundry in the closet.
EMBARRASSMENT
"I'm sorry, I didn't think you would open that closet."
PARANOIA
Shut yourself into another room with the dog. Worry every time the cleaning ladies speak to each other that they are saying mean things about you. Worry that they are laughing at you. Worry that worrying about this makes you a racist. Worry that they hate the dog. Worry that they think the dog is a racist. Listen to the sound of doors opening and closing. The cleaning ladies know all your secrets. Vow to learn Spanish.
AWE
The cleaning ladies are gone. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. Wander from room to room with your mouth open. Feel guilty that you didn't wash your feet first. Feel guilty that you ever doubted them. Email husband a series of delighted exclamation points. Cry openly at the beauty of the golden light as it gleams off the toilet seat. Vow never to use the toilet again. Admire the small, neat piles into which your personal items have been sorted. Note the presence of at least one highly embarrassing item in each pile. Remind yourself to explain next time that you don't usually leave airplane-travel-sized bottles of vodka under the bed. Wonder if they saw the soy sauce stains on the sheets. Drink bottle of airplane vodka. Cry some more.
CATASTROPHE
Much later, open the fridge to retrieve a beer. Something is strange. The beer is in alphabetical order. The cleaning ladies have organized the refrigerator. THE CLEANING LADIES HAVE ORGANIZED THE REFRIGERATOR. Scream out loud. Wonder if this is going to happen every week. Wonder why nobody warned you. Wonder how long that avocado has been in there. Wait, it was that Memorial Day cookout. Oh God, it's been there since May. It has been there since May and they saw it and they touched it. They touched your avocado of shame, and you must live with that.
ACCEPTANCE
Schedule biweekly appointments. Throw away the avocado. Drink alphabetized beer. Life is so lovely.
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