What Do Real People Do?

Ann and I used to joke when we were in college that we couldn't wait to be real adults with full-time jobs because real adults must have so much extra time on their hands.  Think about it--you only have one (sometimes two) jobs, and some jobs don't even require taking work home!  When you're young, single and childless, what do you do when you come home from work and don't have four other jobs for which you need to read and write papers?  You're only responsibilities are those to yourself--feeding yourself, cleaning your space, seeing people only when you want to see them.  It must be glorious, we thought!

Deep down, I had a sneaking suspicion that we were and wrong and that, somehow, all those empty hours would get filled up.

Since I have become a real adult--in the last six months--I have found a case for both arguments.  Every once in a while, things will align in just the right way so that my non-working hours are a frenzy and the hours I spend at my desk begging my bosses for work become a peaceful oasis.  The last two weeks, for example, I have had freelance articles due, apartments to go see, out of town friends to dine with.  Last week I didn't get home before 11pm any night until Friday.  It was exhausting.

Other times, my nights stretch endlessly in back-to-back marathons of How I Met Your Mother.  This week I have no articles to write (well, I should, but I am boycotting until they post my already-submitted ones), I have no plans to view apartments and, while my dad is coming to visit this weekend, a cursory wipe-down of the apartment on Thursday should be enough.

Yesterday, I got back from Pennsylvania around noon and was immediately productive--I went to the grocery store for beef stew ingredients and Rite Aid for shampoo that I keep forgetting to buy.  I made said stew.  I did a whole load of laundry in the laundromat.  I paid my credit card bill.  I ironed a bunch of clothes.

And at around 3:30pm, I had run out of things to do.  Dinner for the next two nights was made.  The only laundry left was a couple of towels.  Cleaning the apartment on Sunday is useless, as it would just get dusty again by Friday.

I was faced with 5 hours of absolutely nothing to do.  Some would light a candle, take a bath and relish this.  I've always been more of a "I'd rather be too busy than too idle" kind of person and, besides, even though I've been living in my apartment for 4 months, I still can't handle the thought of taking a bath in a tub that was used by others, or even, truthfully, stepping on the area of the shower floor that is not covered by my shower mat.  I don't know where these neuroses come from, but they're there just the same.

So I didn't take a bath.  Instead, I finished watching all of the episodes of HIMYM that I hadn't seen, checked gmail about 900 times, baked sugar cookies (from a mix), explored some new music on YouTube and even watched Twilight.  I'd seen the Twilight Saga movies before and read the books.  I detest the movies.  You all know how I feel about angst (or you should, because I talk about it regularly) and I have yet to see an angstier film.  Plus all the vampires look super creepy, but not because they are vampires, but because you can tell they are wearing white make-up and Robert Pattinson/ Edward Cullen's eyes are way too far apart and his forehead-to-nose joining is the equivalent of a facial cankle--that is, there is no discernible difference between his hairline and his nasal appendage.  Check it out--it's unnatural.

Anyway, I watched Twilight, and that is when I knew something was wrong.  And I needed more of a life.  Or at least more motivation to do things that resemble a life.  Like jogging or writing a novel or at least having a friend with which to watch Twilight and critique schnozi (that's the plural of 'schnoz').

Thus, I have decided (in one of those cyclical periods during which I decide to "improve myself" and then ultimately fail by neither reading the paper nor writing anything for weeks at a time) to take up some semblance of a hobby.  It could be anything--knitting, jogging, making things out of macaroni.  As long as it's not jogging.  Just something to pass the time but which actually produces something, as opposed to watching television, which just produces cellulite.

Your suggestions/advisement/direction is appreciated.

Small Victories

You know what really gives you the confidence to face a sleepy Monday morning?  Picking on something smaller than you.

Sometimes pushing a snotty child around will do the trick when you're in a really bad mood.  And you're a sociopath.  That's not what I did this morning.

No, this morning I Raid-ed the crap out of another cockroach.  I know, I know, I've been writing a lot about my vermin problems--almost exclusively lately.  I know this must be gross for you.  But it has become a trend.  And I promise it will soon stop.  But the reason I write about it is because it is a big, disgusting deal for me, and writing often helps me process my emotions--including revulsion, disgust and gag-acity.

But, as I said, this will soon cease, as, I hope, my emotional turmoil at the sight of a mouse/roach/spider will soon abate.  I am making progress.

This morning, I walked into my bathroom to find, not the mutant-roach of two weeks ago, but a little baby roach crawling on my sink.  Roaches are always gross, keep in mind, no matter the size.

I did not shreik.  I did not gag.  I did not hysterically call Andrew and half-seriously ask him to come over and kill it for me.  I did none of these things.  Instead, I picked up the hairbrush near which is was crawling, walked out of my bathroom sighing "sonuvabitch" and headed to the kitchen to find my Raid.

Yes, that is right!  Just a sigh of resignation and the actual memory that I possessed roach spray.  Last time, I needed to be gently reminded that I had killer foam and did not need to tape a plastic cup (of which I have none) to the wall in order to suffocate the bastard.

Halfway through the living room, I recalled that I now keep my Raid on the shower ledge.  This may be a bit yucky, but my two roaches have both been in the bathroom and, as that is the closest room to the front door through which I am convinced these roaches scuttle, it seems to make sense.

Back into the bathroom I headed, and grabbed that Raid.  I may or may not have spun it around my finger, and crouched, one hand flat and blade-like by my ear, the other hand extended, lethal spray in hand.

Truth: I may not have done that.

Instead, I grabbed the can, directed the nozzle at the offensive little interloper and let loose a spray of foam forceful enough to knock the bugger off the sink and into my trash can.

How convenient!  I continued to spray until the toilet paper rolls and tissues in the can were a soggy mess, then reach downed and tied the back tight, gripped it in two finger tips and set the bag, and roach out in the hall from whence it came.  On my way to work, I flung that shizz in the garbage room outside.

And that is what happened.  In recap, here is what didn't happen: screaming, shrieking, crying, panicking, hyperventilating, hysterical-dialing, fainting, retching, shivering or rocking back and forth in the corner until someone else came to take care of it.

NBD.  I'm a New Yorker, y'all.  That's how we roll.

Plagues

Mice...

A Roach of Mutant Proportions...

I'm checking my toilet for snakes every single time between now and when I move.

New Recurring Segment

I think it's safe to say, I'm not good at keeping up with recurring topics.  The shout-out of the week died a slow painful death approximately one month after I introduced it, and the photo of the day--let's face it, we all knew that was never going to get very far.  But I've finally thought of an easy one that will be quick to do, and for which there is plenty of fodder.  I'm calling it "I Judge You (Harshly) Based on the Content of Your Facebook Status."  Ok, the name is a work in progress, but I only just thought of this topic a few minutes ago when I read the following post from a high school acquaintance who now has a young son:

"Just got my baby a potty. He is a big boy now!! #proudmom"

Ok, I don't think it's ever really appropriate to discuss bathroom-related issues on Facebook.  Call me old-fashioned.  I especially don't think it's appropriate to discuss bathroom issues as they relate to people who can't yet go to the bathroom like a real person--I mean, give the kid some privacy.  I also think too much discussion of your children on facebook is disturbing--what are your children doing while you update your Facebook status every two minutes?  Yeah, your kid is cute when they get mashed potatoes all over their face at dinner.  But instead of taking a picture of it and immediately uploading it to Facebook, why don't you take a washcloth and clean the kid up?  How much time does that baby spend in a playpen so you can fill the interwebs with the mundane details of your young parenthood?  Because, let's face it--if you have a potty-training age son and a frequently updated Facebook page, you might be too young to have kids.

At least, in my opinion.