The Dishes Are Done, Man

Oh, increased frequency of blog posts, lovely thought. And then there was billing 12 hours a day and then there were none. Blog posts that is. Or times I got to see my dad when he was in town. Or laundry being done.

I am rereading The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman right now, which is truly the most magical book I have read since The History of Love and even though this is probably one of the least profound of the many things she has to say, I have to totally agree with her that doing dishes is the antidote to confusion.

I am not even a dishes person, by nature. I go one of two ways: a) cook a huge production meal for a group of people and really wish I hadn’t the next morning when looking at the pile of dishes I have to do; or b) never, ever cook and never, ever do a dish because everything I eat comes with its own receptacle (SAD).

But E. cooks, so I do the dishes when I’m over there. Dish duty is my way to contribute. And I was worried, in the beginning, the same way you worry that maybe you won’t think someone will be as funny three months later, that my dish aversion would rear its ugly head and I’d get lazy and I’d be outed as a mooch, like, I’ll eat your lovely crab cakes, and then I will sloppily rub a sponge over the plates but that’s all she wrote.

Somehow, though, I have grown to love doing the dishes. Things get clean, they get put away, the stove top is shiny again. And not to quote Clueless in every third blog entry, but I can’t help myself, it gives me a feeling of control in a world full of chaos.
There is clarity, there is completion, there is calm. There is no confusion.

The dishes are done, man.

My Laundry Is Still Going; Thus, So Am I

I always thought the level of cleanliness of my apartment was a apt indicator of my mental health, and I sort of still do. But it’s been a pigsty for the last month until this weekend when my mom came and then this week I’ve had more time at home because the man I’ve been seeing was sick — let’s go ahead and give him an initial now, probably will jinx us but I’m tired and willing to take the chance, E. — means my apartment is spotless but I am GRUMPY.

Anyway.

Things I’ve been thinking about:

1. This dude (I assume) in my parking garage with the license plate MAKSTER. Unless it is his last name, that is so 1993 and can’t you relinquish your vanity license plate? Or is it an extra charge to do so? Also, I saw a bumper sticker that Laurie would have loved and probably also been speedy enough to take a photo of that read, “I Hate Vanity Plates” which is hilarious is a ironic/meta sort of way that I can’t put my finger on.

2. E. said to me the other night that people take always the easiest course. Which I’ve been trying to figure out whether I agree with. At first I called bullshit (hello? Gandhi? was that the easiest course?), but you know, whether the easiest course is actually “easy” depends on your value system. Something might be the “easiest” course even though incredibly difficult because you’re committed to an ideal and diverging from that would disturb your world view; it’s “easier” to plow headfirst toward saving the world. So while this might be useful in describing why people make bad decisions, it’s generally not a useful tool for understanding why people do what they do.

3. Ursula commented on maybe my next to last post asking me how I knew the undergarment preferences of my lovers, do I survey them? Which totally boggled my mind until I realized that she is married to someone whom, while he totally made an awesome choice in a wife, OBVIOUSLY, is probably not all that particular. About things. Maybe I am wrong, but her husband Mike is pretty laid back and I really can’t see him developing a detailed list of his preferences in panties. He’d probably just like them OFF, and sooner rather than later (so would you, if you had Urs to come home to). But I have never really dated anyone who wasn’t. Particular. Particular in terms of food, design aesthetic, music, anything, everything, you name it, down to undergarments. I’m not quite sure what it is I find irresistible about idiosyncratic demands — OK, I know exactly what it is, it’s my Capricorn overachiever/general people pleaser nature, like, I WILL FIGURE THIS OUT AND MASTER YOUR PREFERENCES AND THEN YOU WILL LOVE ME FOREVER BECAUSE NO ONE BUT ME CAN MEET YOUR BIZARRE DEMANDS BECAUSE I AM THAT! AWESOME!, but it hasn’t worked out that way to date. As in, I have mastered preferences but still we have not lasted. But you know, I get bored without the challenge, so I’ll just hope one of these times fate/timing will provide so that I meet the test, and they will, too.

Good Morning

I appear to be buying Starbucks in the morning again, despite my vow to save money by making my coffee and breakfast. I in fact have some nice Jamaican coffee and perfectly edible homemade scones at home but am I consuming those? NO. Oh, you reduced fat cinnamon swirl coffee cake of gooey goodness, I cannot resist your wiles.

Seriously, until I come up with something equally as delicious I can make at home that is not 900 million calories, I’m afraid I will not be able to stop myself. At least I’m still bringing my lunch?

Bah.

Anyway, Starbucks has the added benefit of alternatively cheering and saddening me about the fate of mankind. To wit, this morning, I observed:

1. A man stealing about 50 napkins. Why, man, why?
2. This woman and her teenage daughter who I encounter semi-regularly, and who joke around with one another and the baristas. It made me remember when, I guess maybe around 16, I seemed to subconsciously realize my parents were not my wardens, I would be going to college, and that maybe I should stop being an asshole to my mom. After that, we only got in one more fight, maybe the last fight we’ve ever been in, when I was 17 and my mom wouldn’t let me wear combat boots to The Holiday Party even though I was totally pairing them with a long velvet dress and that look was totally in right then. No impassioned argument could convince her that being fashion-forward trumped propriety and I ended up not going because I refused to ruin a perfectly good look by wearing heels. Anyway, I was thinking about that watching this mom and her daughter and felt happy for them that they’d reached the point where their primary form of interaction wasn’t World War III.

My mom is coming to visit me this weekend in fact, and I can’t wait. Maybe we will go get coffee together one morning, that might be nice.

So Fresh and So Clean, Clean

[UPDATE: It was NOT my detergent, blah. On the other hand, I showered over there, using his shampoo, soap, no hair product and was fine so at least it is not my innate personal scent, so there’s THAT to be thankful for (ha, sigh). I’ve ruled out my lotion already so it looks like another trip to Kiehls’ for fragrance free hair product and soap. Seriously, dude, I feel like I’ve been running a science experiment, eliminating variables and going back to the drawing board for like, weeks now. But I will prevail!]

I’m spending the day at home today, washing every item of clothing I own with new, fragrance-free detergent. The man I’m seeing is allergic to some scent on me, and given that I’ve already tried a new face wash, shampoo, soap, moisturizer and eliminated all perfumes, I hope to goodness this does it. I thought for sure it wasn’t my detergent since it’s all natural, but apparently even lavender can offend.

It’s been difficult, dealing with this allergic reaction I produce in him. You don’t want the person you spend the lion’s share of your time with to have to take an anti-histamine before they can hug you. I feel bad when he gets sneezy, he feels bad that he’s sneezy and BLEGH, everyone feels bad.

I think we’re all used to making minor, sometimes major adjustments when someone new enters our life. I certainly end up acquiring a new underwear collection every time I acquire a new boyfriend. Seriously, their tastes have been so divergent that truly I wonder how they managed to have liking ME in common. All thongs, all boy shorts, or, the most ridiculous I have ever dealt with, “anti-thong modern” which basically amounted to an intense dislike for thongs AND anything frilly and especially bows. HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO PURCHASE A NON-THONG PAIR OF WOMEN’S UNDERWEAR WITHOUT BOWS ON IT??? It is the most fruitless quest you can ever set out on, like searching for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie (I know I have used that line before and that Pauly Shore doesn’t even make movies any more, but man, it still conveys my meaning so perfectly).

I guess as far as issues go, the scent allergy is a small one and I have faith it’s something we can resolve, unlike, you know, general assholery or inability to commit or constant picking at me until I’m not quite sure the confident person he fell in love with even went. And at least his underwear taste and mine coincide so I’m free to frill it up to my heart’s content.

Still, I really, really, really hope a new detergent works.

Sunday Morning Creeping In

Fred & Ethel’s bottomless bellies have made it impossible to stay in bed past 6:30, even on the weekends. They wake me up at 5:45 every morning, my wake-up time for my earliest pilates class, no matter what class I’m taking or whether I’m even taking one and no matter what time I went to bed. Which is why this morning I was downstairs making coffee at 6:45 on a Sunday and wondering what the hell I was going to do for the next few hours until, you know, THE GROCERY STORE OPENS.

Some days I don’t mind — yesterday I’d done three loads of laundry, gone to Target and ran before 10:30 a.m. Which let me enjoy the rest of my day without stress for the chores waiting for me at home. But today, when I don’t have any definite plans and my apartment is already clean, I was at a loss.

And then I remembered! Holy crap, I’m BLOGGING AGAIN! So here goes.

This has been one of those magical L.A. weekends where even though it’s (cannot believe it’s here already!) March I managed to get a sunburn, wear open-toed shoes all weekend long and watch some lovely children (the man I’m seeing has an eight-year-old and I experienced my first play date with her little friends this weekend) work the SLIP-N-SLIDE! I’m so happy they still make those.

It made me forget, albeit temporarily, the stress I think we’re all feeling about the economy, the will my job still be there tomorrow I guess I’ll forego buying those new spring flats just in case it isn’t stress, the nagging doubt that eats away at you slowly at makes your heart skip a beat any time the managing partner walks by your office.

Other things helping me forget:

1. Some of my coworkers and I signed on for another Mud Run. And, inspired by someone else’s Facebook Note, I coerced my teammates into going to Wikipedia’s Random Article generator to find our team name, may the best Random Article name win. So far we’ve got Chad Dukes (BORING. Also, mine. Bummer.), Rasovice (badass in its obscurity), and the Order of the Resplendent Banner (badass in its resplendentness; has my vote (so far)). One more teammate has to do it tomorrow and for some reason I just have This Feeling she is going to get Martin Landau. Really, I’m not joking and will probably even be a little sad tomorrow when it turns out she got Georgina Willis or the Lincoln-Sunset Historical District. Probably I am crazy.

2. The Beatles, the inspiration for the title of this post, actually (the song: Lady Madonna). I hadn’t listened to them much since high school, but after a recent encounter with Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants and the realization I still know every single line 15 years since the last time I sang it out loud, I wondered how my knowledge of other old favorites might be and now they have been my morning drive music for the last week.

3. And that’s all I got. Sunday sun is calling.