- Assess your laundry basket: Is it overflowing onto the floor? Is it almost too heavy to carry (i.e., does it weigh eleventybillion pounds)? No – it’s not laundry time yet. Yes – it’s laundry time.
- Carry laundry basket to the washer and dryer. Set it down on top of one of these machines (unless you’re fancy and have special cool machines, in which case, go to hell, I mean, set it on the ground) and walk away for several hours and/or days.
- Are you on your second or more day of wearing dirty underwear? No – meh, another day won’t kill you. Yes – proceed to step #4.
- Return to abandoned basket in laundry area. Open the lid of the washer and find clothes already in there from a load you started a couple weeks ago. Decide you’ll just go commando.
- After a day of realizing how uncomfortable it is to go commando – open washer lid and remove the old, formerly wet but now hard, moldy clothes.
- Discover that the dryer is also still full from another previous load. At this point you should let out a scream of anguish and frustration about how unfair life is. Then pile the wet laundry from the washer on top of closest open area (e.g., top of the dryer).
- Start grabbing items out of the dirty laundry basket and put them in the washer. Put as much as you possibly can in the washer – you should need to sit on the lid in order to make it close. (Do not bother separating items by color as this will take more time away from your precious non-laundry time.)
- Wash on whatever setting matches your mood. (I like the notch somewhere between Regular and Permanent Press, but I fluctuate between Warm/Cold and Cold/Cold.)
- Move on to something else and immediately forget that you started about laundry.
- Wake up the next morning to find that you still don’t have underwear. Retrieve a wet pair from the washer and throw them in the dryer. Wait 10 to 20 minutes.
- Realize that said underwear is now lost in an overstuffed dryer. Pull everything out of the dryer and onto the floor, preferably next to the pile of dried dog barf and mud. Find underwear stuck inside a pair of pants. Leave other dry clothes on the floor because you do not have time to deal with laundry right now.
- Return after a stressful workday and decide tonight will be the night you finish your laundry. For real.
- Gather dry laundry from floor. Spend several seconds analyzing proximity of dog barf and mud; smell the clothes. Do they smell clean? Yes – they are clean. No – dude, they are clean enough.
- Toss dry clothes into laundry basket. Take basket full of dry, clean-ish clothes and put it on top of your bed, which will surely force you to fold them before going to sleep.
- Remove newly washed clothes and throw them in the dryer. Again, pick a setting that corresponds with you present mood. (I tend to prefer Mostly Dry/Medium Heat/Fluff.)
- Decide the old, wet clothes piled on top of the dryer now need to be rewashed because Febreeze won’t cover up that mold smell (trust me). See step #7.
- Now you’re tired, and despite the buzzer alerting you every 15 minutes that a load of laundry has completed its cycle, you’ve already decided that tomorrow will be the day you finish your laundry. For real. (This also means you can skip folding the basket of clean-ish clothes on the bed and just put it on the ground next to your closet.)
- Wake up the following morning and retrieve clothing as necessary from the dryer. Repeat for 3 to 4 days.
- When roommate/spouse tells you they need to do their laundry and they start asking you annoying, inconsiderate questions like, “Do you know when you’ll be done with the washer and dryer?” tell them you’re “Right on top of that, Rose!” even if you’re not really on top of it.
- At some point during the next couple of days, acknowledge your laundry situation. Set the dryer to 30 minutes/Tumble Press. Walk away. This will give you enough time to completely forget about doing laundry for another week.
- Do not return to laundry area again until you have acquired another loads-worth of dirty laundry. Realize that you’ve been putting your dirty clothes in the basket of unfolded clean-ish clothes, which you never folded after removing from dryer two-plus weeks ago.
- Start over at #1 and repeat steps as necessary. (Alternative: wait for your roommate/spouse to remove your clothes, fold them for you and place them in your room.)
Sunday, November 22, 2009
How To NOT Do Laundry
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Words of Wisdom, or Lies Our Parents Told Us
1. “Your face will stick that way.”
Uh, no it won’t. I’ve made plenty of awesome faces before and I have not found a way to make my face stick in any of those positions. This was one of those parentisms that I heard at least once a day as a child. I was the kid who spent hours contorting her face and crossing her eyes in various unnatural ways to impress my friends and serve as entertainment during my parents’ dinner parties. Although it took me many years, I have finally perfected the one eye crossed look, so maybe “your face will stick that way” isn’t entirely untrue.
2. “The Boogieman isn’t real.”
Yes, he is. He lives in the dark corners of all my fears and anxieties, and one of these days he is going to pop out of the slightly ajar closet in my room and eat my toes.
3. “Only boring people are bored.”
I’m bored right now. Am I boring? Don’t answer that. When we were growing up, my sister and I had a babysitter named Faye who used to say this to us. Whenever I approached her with those fateful three words, “I am bored,” her answer was always the same, “Well get un-bored! Only boring people are bored!” Boring people might be bored a lot, but you know what? Super interesting and awesome people are bored a lot too because super interesting and awesome shit just doesn’t happen regularly enough to keep their attention. Ha, so there! Your move, babysitter, your move.
4. “Someday, you could be President!”
It’s 1992, an election year, and I am eight years old. One day, instead of going outside for recess, I stayed inside to make friendship bracelets (for my friends who were outside playing during recess, I guess?) and I started asking my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Englebright, about the presidents. I wanted to know specifics—what kind of toys do presidents like, do they watch TV, what are their favorite colors, do they carry guns or ninja swords? As my
teacher patiently answered all of my questions, she proceeded to tell me that just about anyone could be President, “You could even be the first female President,” she said. I remember thinking I must be infinitely special for her to tell me this until the next day when she decided to incorporate a lesson plan about Presidents (undoubtedly spurred by my questioning) and told the entire class, “Someday, one of you, any of you, could be President!” Seriously? Anyone? I was dejected. As I grew older I realized that my teacher was partially right, just about any asshat could end up as the President.
This is an old wives’ tale that I will forever blame for my perpetually dry hair. But guess what? Scientists discovered that, like most wives’ tales, this one was totally made up. These days, if I leave the house with dry hair, it’s abnormal. I see wet hair almost as a courtesy, like, “Hey, just wanted to share with you the evidence of my shower this morning. I realize my cleanliness, or lack there of, might be an issue some days, but not today!”
6. “_____ are just jealous of you!”
That group of 7th grade girls who spent a week putting fake love notes from the cutest, most popular boy in school in my locker did not do it because they were jealous of me. And I didn’t fail to get invited to the party of the year because the hosts were jealous of me. And I didn’t get laid off and spend six months searching for a job because someone was jealous of me. Seriously, thank god I was born with low self-esteem because otherwise I might be walking around acting like another Kardashian.
7. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”
I don’t know about you, but a mansion on the beach with a live-in gourmet cook and masseuse, a collector’s library of first edition books, and a little person with an Italian accent who brings me a frozen cocktail with one of those tiny umbrellas whenever I blow into a conch shell would make me pretty damn happy. Don’t get deep with me about this; complicating happiness with silly things like morals is so unnecessary. So, let’s be real: Mansion + beach + cook + masseuse + books + little person + tiny umbrellas = Happiness. You might call that shallow and materialistic, but I call it blissfully content — toe-may-toe, to-my-toe.
8. Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy
A part of my childhood ended when I suddenly I realized that all of these gift-bearing creatures looked a lot like my dad. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to have kids so that I can endlessly threaten them with, “If you don’t go to bed, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents,” even if it’s May. The Easter Bunny was always confusing to me because, why would a human-sized rabbit come to your house and hide eggs? As long as candy was involved, I didn’t question anything – but for the record, I always knew the Easter Bunny was a sham. (And, okay, so what if I still sort of believe in the Tooth Fairy?)
9. “Boys only want one thing.”
My dad used to say this to me during my teen years. “Now, remember, boys only want one thing, and I know this because I was once a boy too, even though that’s hard to believe now, I was, so I know. [Awkward pause.] Just don’t be stupid, okay?” While it didn’t take me long to figure out what that one thing was for sure, I think this statement is only half true. Now that I live with a boy, I mean, man, I’m pretty sure that there could be more than one thing that they want…I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
10. “Going to college will make you a better decision maker.”
Bullshit. Going to college did not make me a better decision maker. The only thing I learned in college was how to make really bad decisions, barely avoid the repercussions and then do exactly the same thing again the next weekend. Of course, in a really roundabout way, perhaps by learning to make bad decisions well, I did become a better overall decision maker. However, I doubt this is what my high school counselor meant while he was convincing us all to spend four years drunk, I mean, go to college.
12. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”
Whenever someone says, “I promise it won’t hurt,” just know that whatever it is will hurt like shit.
13. “You’ll grow out of this phase.”
Oh really? Well I am about to enter my 13th year of what a school nurse once referred to as my “awkward phase,” so this is obviously a lie. I’m guessing there are some things we may never grow out of, or, in my case, awkwardness is more of an unfortunate characteristic as opposed to a phase.
14. Almost anything said, seen or practiced in Sex Education classes.
No, a bird doesn’t bring me my period, and yes, I am pissed about it. Also, forcing us to practice putting condoms on bananas did nothing but provide us with unrealistic expectations, which would be met with massive disappointment later in life. Am I right? Of course I am.
15. “These are the best years of your life.”
This phrase was uttered by almost every adult I knew at one point during the course of my high school experience. I know they were telling me to cherish my youth, but the only thing I ever thought was, “Really? These are the best years of my life? Really? Great, I guess I’ll just quit now, while I’m apparently ahead, because if life doesn’t get any better than field parties and 6 a.m. detention for chewing gum in the halls, then I don’t care to go on.” I can safely say that my high school years were not the best years of my life and I doubt I will ever look back and feel differently.
What lies did you hear growing up? Tell me about them in the comments. Please. I'm not ashamed to admit that I live for comments - so don't hold back.
Uh, no it won’t. I’ve made plenty of awesome faces before and I have not found a way to make my face stick in any of those positions. This was one of those parentisms that I heard at least once a day as a child. I was the kid who spent hours contorting her face and crossing her eyes in various unnatural ways to impress my friends and serve as entertainment during my parents’ dinner parties. Although it took me many years, I have finally perfected the one eye crossed look, so maybe “your face will stick that way” isn’t entirely untrue.
2. “The Boogieman isn’t real.”
Yes, he is. He lives in the dark corners of all my fears and anxieties, and one of these days he is going to pop out of the slightly ajar closet in my room and eat my toes.
3. “Only boring people are bored.”
I’m bored right now. Am I boring? Don’t answer that. When we were growing up, my sister and I had a babysitter named Faye who used to say this to us. Whenever I approached her with those fateful three words, “I am bored,” her answer was always the same, “Well get un-bored! Only boring people are bored!” Boring people might be bored a lot, but you know what? Super interesting and awesome people are bored a lot too because super interesting and awesome shit just doesn’t happen regularly enough to keep their attention. Ha, so there! Your move, babysitter, your move.
4. “Someday, you could be President!”
It’s 1992, an election year, and I am eight years old. One day, instead of going outside for recess, I stayed inside to make friendship bracelets (for my friends who were outside playing during recess, I guess?) and I started asking my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Englebright, about the presidents. I wanted to know specifics—what kind of toys do presidents like, do they watch TV, what are their favorite colors, do they carry guns or ninja swords? As my
teacher patiently answered all of my questions, she proceeded to tell me that just about anyone could be President, “You could even be the first female President,” she said. I remember thinking I must be infinitely special for her to tell me this until the next day when she decided to incorporate a lesson plan about Presidents (undoubtedly spurred by my questioning) and told the entire class, “Someday, one of you, any of you, could be President!” Seriously? Anyone? I was dejected. As I grew older I realized that my teacher was partially right, just about any asshat could end up as the President.4a. “You can be anything you want to be.”5. “Don’t go outside with wet hair.”
I made it pretty far believing that this was true, and I’m sure this belief is directly related to why I still believe I'll one day be a ("real") writer, but that’s not the point here. Before I wanted to be a writer I wanted to be a veterinarian, before that I wanted to be a singer, before that I wanted to an actress, before that it was a Ninja Turtle, and before that it was a pony. I truly believed I could be all or any of those things. I wonder what my parents would have said if I came home and told them I wanted to be a pterodactyl, or a bulldozer, or…a “shovel”?
This is an old wives’ tale that I will forever blame for my perpetually dry hair. But guess what? Scientists discovered that, like most wives’ tales, this one was totally made up. These days, if I leave the house with dry hair, it’s abnormal. I see wet hair almost as a courtesy, like, “Hey, just wanted to share with you the evidence of my shower this morning. I realize my cleanliness, or lack there of, might be an issue some days, but not today!”
6. “_____ are just jealous of you!”
That group of 7th grade girls who spent a week putting fake love notes from the cutest, most popular boy in school in my locker did not do it because they were jealous of me. And I didn’t fail to get invited to the party of the year because the hosts were jealous of me. And I didn’t get laid off and spend six months searching for a job because someone was jealous of me. Seriously, thank god I was born with low self-esteem because otherwise I might be walking around acting like another Kardashian.
7. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”
I don’t know about you, but a mansion on the beach with a live-in gourmet cook and masseuse, a collector’s library of first edition books, and a little person with an Italian accent who brings me a frozen cocktail with one of those tiny umbrellas whenever I blow into a conch shell would make me pretty damn happy. Don’t get deep with me about this; complicating happiness with silly things like morals is so unnecessary. So, let’s be real: Mansion + beach + cook + masseuse + books + little person + tiny umbrellas = Happiness. You might call that shallow and materialistic, but I call it blissfully content — toe-may-toe, to-my-toe.
8. Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy
A part of my childhood ended when I suddenly I realized that all of these gift-bearing creatures looked a lot like my dad. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to have kids so that I can endlessly threaten them with, “If you don’t go to bed, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents,” even if it’s May. The Easter Bunny was always confusing to me because, why would a human-sized rabbit come to your house and hide eggs? As long as candy was involved, I didn’t question anything – but for the record, I always knew the Easter Bunny was a sham. (And, okay, so what if I still sort of believe in the Tooth Fairy?)
9. “Boys only want one thing.”
My dad used to say this to me during my teen years. “Now, remember, boys only want one thing, and I know this because I was once a boy too, even though that’s hard to believe now, I was, so I know. [Awkward pause.] Just don’t be stupid, okay?” While it didn’t take me long to figure out what that one thing was for sure, I think this statement is only half true. Now that I live with a boy, I mean, man, I’m pretty sure that there could be more than one thing that they want…I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
10. “Going to college will make you a better decision maker.”
Bullshit. Going to college did not make me a better decision maker. The only thing I learned in college was how to make really bad decisions, barely avoid the repercussions and then do exactly the same thing again the next weekend. Of course, in a really roundabout way, perhaps by learning to make bad decisions well, I did become a better overall decision maker. However, I doubt this is what my high school counselor meant while he was convincing us all to spend four years drunk, I mean, go to college.
12. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”
13. “You’ll grow out of this phase.”
Oh really? Well I am about to enter my 13th year of what a school nurse once referred to as my “awkward phase,” so this is obviously a lie. I’m guessing there are some things we may never grow out of, or, in my case, awkwardness is more of an unfortunate characteristic as opposed to a phase.
15. “These are the best years of your life.”
This phrase was uttered by almost every adult I knew at one point during the course of my high school experience. I know they were telling me to cherish my youth, but the only thing I ever thought was, “Really? These are the best years of my life? Really? Great, I guess I’ll just quit now, while I’m apparently ahead, because if life doesn’t get any better than field parties and 6 a.m. detention for chewing gum in the halls, then I don’t care to go on.” I can safely say that my high school years were not the best years of my life and I doubt I will ever look back and feel differently.
What lies did you hear growing up? Tell me about them in the comments. Please. I'm not ashamed to admit that I live for comments - so don't hold back.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Afterlife Insurance (Short Story/Fiction)
Woman Causes Fatal Accident – Sweaty Feet To Blame
That was the headline of the article that ran in the newspaper the day after my death.
Yes, I’m dead.
How, then, am I talking to you? I’m not sure. I guess you’ll have to die to find out, but I wouldn’t recommend it because so far, death is boring and unfair.
Now you ask, what happened? I’ll tell you.
It was a normal day and I was walking home from work in the most uncomfortable shoes. Actually, the shoes that caused my death weren’t uncomfortable so much as constricting, and after a full day of sitting in these shoes I realized that my feet were suffocating.
It’s true that Plantar Hyperhidrosis, or sweaty feet disorder, runs in my family; however, I had not been diagnosed mainly because I have dainty, adorable feet which make it impossible to believe that I could ever suffer from such a thing. Besides, my foot sweat always smelled good, kind of like a strange, but delicious combination of nutmeg and dill.
I briefly remember thinking I should remove my shoes and walk barefoot because my feet were slipping and sliding like clumsy fat ladies on ice. What happened is somewhat unclear, because death will do that to you, but the next thing I remember is meeting with a surly insurance representative. Apparently this is the first thing that happens to you when you die—you meet with an insurance rep who tells you the details of your death and confirms your pre-existing conditions before allowing you into the afterlife.
“What-what happened? Where am I?” I asked.
A middle-aged woman in a beige, polyester suit, sitting behind a desk looked up from the newspaper she was reading.
“You’re in the pre-afterlife phase, you won’t even remember this, so that’s all you need to know for now. Let’s see…hold on while I get your file,” the insurance rep said. She was surrounded by overstuffed filing cabinets and stacks of paper covered the surface of her entire desk. “Aha! Here it is…Okay, apparently you were walking on the sidewalk when you bent down to remove your shoes and wipe your feet off in the grass and—Ewww!”
“Ew? Oh! No, no, it sounds grosser than it is. You see, Plantar Hyperhidrosis runs in my family and—”
“Oh really? I see...Please hold while I update your pre-existing conditions chart.”
“My what?” I asked.
The insurance rep pulled some papers out of a manila envelope and held it over the paper so that I couldn’t see whatever she was scribbling down.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I literally have a busload of people coming in for their appointment in about ten minutes. Do you want to know how you died or not?”
“Yes, of course, tell me everything,” I said.
She turned back to my file and rifled through the contents before pulling a newspaper out.
“All right, where was I…okay, it says here you put your sweaty—ugh, god, I’m sorry but that’s just really gross,” she said with an exaggerated gag. “Anyway, you put your sweaty shoes back on and continued walking but you slipped, because of your sweaty feet, and fell into a lane of oncoming traffic.”
“So a car hit me?”
“Um, no, actually, a bus hit you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yep, pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“Look honey, I’m really not supposed to get too far into the details, but you seem sweet, despite your sweaty feet—”
“Excuse me! But you’re being extremely unprofessional here. Please stop talking about my sweaty feet.” I was about to put my feet on her desk so she could smell them and realize they weren’t that gross.
“Right, of course—ha! Where are my manners? Yes, of course, other people were hurt. After the bus driver hit you, he swerved into another lane and a trailer hit him head-on. Everyone on the bus died—not that many, only about six people—but, like I said, they are going to be here any minute now, so…”
“So my sweaty feet killed not only me, but other people too?”
“Yes. Look, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up over it. After you fill out this paperwork you won’t remember any of this and you can go on to whatever your destiny is or wherever your path leads you, your fate, your—ahem, your ‘God’—whatever you believe.”
The insurance rep handed me a stack of paperwork as thick as the Bible.
“So, then, does this mean you’re dead too?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“How did—”
“Cancer.”
“Why are you—”
“Why am I here talking to you about afterlife insurance instead of enjoying some kind of paradise or heaven like they show in the movies? Ha! God lord, you’re all the same…listen, sugar, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to—”
“Ah, stop! How could you possibly have more questions? Go fill out your paperwork. That’s all you’re supposed to do. That takes you to your next step. Usually, if you don’t have too many pre-existing conditions, you move on to your afterlife right away.”
“Well, I don’t think I have any—”
“Let’s see. Whoopsies! Looks like you do have quit a few, actually. Well, you might have a bit of a wait period, but nothing too extreme—not like eternity! Hahaha!” She had a wild laugh, and I imagined that’s what a hyena might sound like, but I can’t be certain because I didn’t live long enough to ever hear a hyena laugh.
“What does it say? I didn’t think I had any pre-existing conditions!”
“The good news is that you had insurance—crappy insurance—but you had insurance, which means your afterlife won’t be spent paying off the debt you acquired like a certain "Man in the Mirror." Yeah, I hope you didn't like his music because I'll tell you right now that you won't be hearing much of it in the afterlife, sham on! Ha-ha!"
"Uh, okay...and the bad news?" I asked.
"What was I saying...oh, right, the bad news, all right. So the bad news is that your pre-existing conditions, like your sweaty foot disease and the fact that you’re a woman, will make it harder for you to start your afterlife right away, and you probably won’t be able to get new insurance…”
“What? New insurance? I’m dead! Why would I need insurance now?”
She looked at me and sighed, as if to say, I’m sorry you’re too stupid to get this but that’s not my problem.
“Oh honey, the private insurance companies have been collecting from the dead since the early nineties when they realized they’d have to deal with health care reform eventually. And now that reform is actually, well, almost happening, they’ve become even more strict about enforcing afterlife insurance.”
“But-but…I don’t have any money, I-I don’t have anything,” I said.
“Hahaha! Oh, you are silly! Of course you don’t have anything, you don’t need anything here—you’re dead, honey! Money doesn’t have meaning in the afterlife, so the insurance companies use time as currency—they take a small fraction of your afterlife, which you haven’t been to yet, as payment for the afterlife insurance. Ugh, you know what? I’ve said too much. Look, sweetheart, it’s complicated, and I don’t have time to explain it all to you now, but basically the dead have to have insurance in order to get to their afterlife, which will happen as soon as you fill out your paperwork and your application is processed. But, this is all explained, in detail, in your paperwork,” she said, slamming my file closed. “I’m sorry, but I really must go because my next appointment is here.”
Suddenly everything was dark, but it didn’t feel dark—it just felt like nothing. There was the sound of a slamming door and when I opened my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, I was in an all white room with the same florescent lighting as the insurance rep’s office. For a moment I thought it was some kind of heaven, but there was a long table with one chair and in the center of the table was my bible of paperwork and two pens.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here but I know it’s been at least several days in the living world. At one point a loud, booming voice from above told me nothing would happen until the paperwork was finished—I thought it was God until I realized there was an intercom system. I’ve been testing things out here. Sometimes I run full speed into a wall, or I pinch myself until I think I can almost feel something but I never really do. I used the pens to draw a picture of mountains on the wall, it reminded me of pictures I've seen of Switzerland. As I was putting the finishing touches on my mural, I turned away for just a second and when I looked back the mural was gone; it just disappeared.
Eventually a newspaper appeared on the table. It was dated November 10, 2009—the day after I died. The front page was splattered with headlines about health care reform, and just when I was feeling grateful for something to read I noticed a tiny Post-It sticking out from the center section of the paper. The Post-It read: This is real. You are dead. Finish your paperwork. Afterlife is waiting. It was stuck on top of my obituary.
They (whoever they are) thought I was in denial but I know I have to be dead because my feet aren’t sweating, and they don’t smell like nutmeg and dill anymore—they smell like nothing like everything else.
I can’t explain why I can’t do the paperwork because I don’t really know. But I do know someone is watching me, waiting for me to hurry up and be done, I feel nothing but the presence of something or someone—I can sense frustration. I suppose I like to think of it as my own personal form of protest, like Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist” only different. By refusing to complete the paperwork I’m denying the process completion, I’m debasing the system. I could be a hero, I think. But then I remember, dead people don’t become heroes.
That was the headline of the article that ran in the newspaper the day after my death.
Yes, I’m dead.
How, then, am I talking to you? I’m not sure. I guess you’ll have to die to find out, but I wouldn’t recommend it because so far, death is boring and unfair.
Now you ask, what happened? I’ll tell you.
It was a normal day and I was walking home from work in the most uncomfortable shoes. Actually, the shoes that caused my death weren’t uncomfortable so much as constricting, and after a full day of sitting in these shoes I realized that my feet were suffocating.
It’s true that Plantar Hyperhidrosis, or sweaty feet disorder, runs in my family; however, I had not been diagnosed mainly because I have dainty, adorable feet which make it impossible to believe that I could ever suffer from such a thing. Besides, my foot sweat always smelled good, kind of like a strange, but delicious combination of nutmeg and dill.
I briefly remember thinking I should remove my shoes and walk barefoot because my feet were slipping and sliding like clumsy fat ladies on ice. What happened is somewhat unclear, because death will do that to you, but the next thing I remember is meeting with a surly insurance representative. Apparently this is the first thing that happens to you when you die—you meet with an insurance rep who tells you the details of your death and confirms your pre-existing conditions before allowing you into the afterlife.
“What-what happened? Where am I?” I asked.
A middle-aged woman in a beige, polyester suit, sitting behind a desk looked up from the newspaper she was reading.
“You’re in the pre-afterlife phase, you won’t even remember this, so that’s all you need to know for now. Let’s see…hold on while I get your file,” the insurance rep said. She was surrounded by overstuffed filing cabinets and stacks of paper covered the surface of her entire desk. “Aha! Here it is…Okay, apparently you were walking on the sidewalk when you bent down to remove your shoes and wipe your feet off in the grass and—Ewww!”
“Ew? Oh! No, no, it sounds grosser than it is. You see, Plantar Hyperhidrosis runs in my family and—”
“Oh really? I see...Please hold while I update your pre-existing conditions chart.”
“My what?” I asked.
The insurance rep pulled some papers out of a manila envelope and held it over the paper so that I couldn’t see whatever she was scribbling down.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I literally have a busload of people coming in for their appointment in about ten minutes. Do you want to know how you died or not?”
“Yes, of course, tell me everything,” I said.
She turned back to my file and rifled through the contents before pulling a newspaper out.
“All right, where was I…okay, it says here you put your sweaty—ugh, god, I’m sorry but that’s just really gross,” she said with an exaggerated gag. “Anyway, you put your sweaty shoes back on and continued walking but you slipped, because of your sweaty feet, and fell into a lane of oncoming traffic.”
“So a car hit me?”
“Um, no, actually, a bus hit you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yep, pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“Look honey, I’m really not supposed to get too far into the details, but you seem sweet, despite your sweaty feet—”
“Excuse me! But you’re being extremely unprofessional here. Please stop talking about my sweaty feet.” I was about to put my feet on her desk so she could smell them and realize they weren’t that gross.
“Right, of course—ha! Where are my manners? Yes, of course, other people were hurt. After the bus driver hit you, he swerved into another lane and a trailer hit him head-on. Everyone on the bus died—not that many, only about six people—but, like I said, they are going to be here any minute now, so…”
“So my sweaty feet killed not only me, but other people too?”
“Yes. Look, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up over it. After you fill out this paperwork you won’t remember any of this and you can go on to whatever your destiny is or wherever your path leads you, your fate, your—ahem, your ‘God’—whatever you believe.”
The insurance rep handed me a stack of paperwork as thick as the Bible.
“So, then, does this mean you’re dead too?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“How did—”
“Cancer.”
“Why are you—”
“Why am I here talking to you about afterlife insurance instead of enjoying some kind of paradise or heaven like they show in the movies? Ha! God lord, you’re all the same…listen, sugar, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to—”
“Ah, stop! How could you possibly have more questions? Go fill out your paperwork. That’s all you’re supposed to do. That takes you to your next step. Usually, if you don’t have too many pre-existing conditions, you move on to your afterlife right away.”
“Well, I don’t think I have any—”
“Let’s see. Whoopsies! Looks like you do have quit a few, actually. Well, you might have a bit of a wait period, but nothing too extreme—not like eternity! Hahaha!” She had a wild laugh, and I imagined that’s what a hyena might sound like, but I can’t be certain because I didn’t live long enough to ever hear a hyena laugh.
“What does it say? I didn’t think I had any pre-existing conditions!”
“The good news is that you had insurance—crappy insurance—but you had insurance, which means your afterlife won’t be spent paying off the debt you acquired like a certain "Man in the Mirror." Yeah, I hope you didn't like his music because I'll tell you right now that you won't be hearing much of it in the afterlife, sham on! Ha-ha!"
"Uh, okay...and the bad news?" I asked.
"What was I saying...oh, right, the bad news, all right. So the bad news is that your pre-existing conditions, like your sweaty foot disease and the fact that you’re a woman, will make it harder for you to start your afterlife right away, and you probably won’t be able to get new insurance…”
“What? New insurance? I’m dead! Why would I need insurance now?”
She looked at me and sighed, as if to say, I’m sorry you’re too stupid to get this but that’s not my problem.
“Oh honey, the private insurance companies have been collecting from the dead since the early nineties when they realized they’d have to deal with health care reform eventually. And now that reform is actually, well, almost happening, they’ve become even more strict about enforcing afterlife insurance.”
“But-but…I don’t have any money, I-I don’t have anything,” I said.
“Hahaha! Oh, you are silly! Of course you don’t have anything, you don’t need anything here—you’re dead, honey! Money doesn’t have meaning in the afterlife, so the insurance companies use time as currency—they take a small fraction of your afterlife, which you haven’t been to yet, as payment for the afterlife insurance. Ugh, you know what? I’ve said too much. Look, sweetheart, it’s complicated, and I don’t have time to explain it all to you now, but basically the dead have to have insurance in order to get to their afterlife, which will happen as soon as you fill out your paperwork and your application is processed. But, this is all explained, in detail, in your paperwork,” she said, slamming my file closed. “I’m sorry, but I really must go because my next appointment is here.”
Suddenly everything was dark, but it didn’t feel dark—it just felt like nothing. There was the sound of a slamming door and when I opened my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, I was in an all white room with the same florescent lighting as the insurance rep’s office. For a moment I thought it was some kind of heaven, but there was a long table with one chair and in the center of the table was my bible of paperwork and two pens.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here but I know it’s been at least several days in the living world. At one point a loud, booming voice from above told me nothing would happen until the paperwork was finished—I thought it was God until I realized there was an intercom system. I’ve been testing things out here. Sometimes I run full speed into a wall, or I pinch myself until I think I can almost feel something but I never really do. I used the pens to draw a picture of mountains on the wall, it reminded me of pictures I've seen of Switzerland. As I was putting the finishing touches on my mural, I turned away for just a second and when I looked back the mural was gone; it just disappeared.
Eventually a newspaper appeared on the table. It was dated November 10, 2009—the day after I died. The front page was splattered with headlines about health care reform, and just when I was feeling grateful for something to read I noticed a tiny Post-It sticking out from the center section of the paper. The Post-It read: This is real. You are dead. Finish your paperwork. Afterlife is waiting. It was stuck on top of my obituary.
They (whoever they are) thought I was in denial but I know I have to be dead because my feet aren’t sweating, and they don’t smell like nutmeg and dill anymore—they smell like nothing like everything else.
I can’t explain why I can’t do the paperwork because I don’t really know. But I do know someone is watching me, waiting for me to hurry up and be done, I feel nothing but the presence of something or someone—I can sense frustration. I suppose I like to think of it as my own personal form of protest, like Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist” only different. By refusing to complete the paperwork I’m denying the process completion, I’m debasing the system. I could be a hero, I think. But then I remember, dead people don’t become heroes.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Window Watching
Two years ago I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Plaza. It was my first brush with "city living." My desk was set up in what the leasing office referred to as a "sun room" and it faced out towards Brush Creek. Many days were spent sitting at my desk, watching people and the traffic on Ward Parkway. Below is a brief (revised) excerpt from something I wrote during this time. I’m not sure how to classify it, so let’s just call it true-ish fiction.
Looking out this window is like looking into a glass display case at a department store. You see things you might want, consider needing, but can’t bring yourself to investigate further. Cars race side by side, honking out their frustration. I know they just need to be heard by someone. I hear you, I say. But no one listens. I see possibilities, things I want to know about, but my interest is lost in the effort it takes to get outside.
It is a big bay window, though there isn't a bay to speak of, this being a landlocked state. I do have a river in view but it’s more of a polluted creek. Sometimes I imagine myself gazing out of this window onto a different scene, but I never go to the trouble of envisioning a view. No, I prefer to imagine myself imagining. There's less disappointment that way.
I hear other city noises from this window. Sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars whip through the air and the brief moments of silence are interrupted with blaring car alarms. I don’t mind the noises. I’m curious about the carnage. Once, there was a police car in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. The officer was bent over examining the pavement. I watched the scene unfold as if it was a movie and my window was the screen. The officer picked up a white trash bag that had been abandoned, haphazardly left to rest on the streaming yellow lines. From where I sat, a dark, weighty object appeared to be inside the plastic bag. A lost appendage, suicidal squirrel, contaminated clothing—what was inside? The officer wore gloves that made him look guilty even though I knew it was for a purpose: fingerprints or DNA, or maybe the bag held a toxic material that would burn the skin of anyone who touched it. Holding the plastic bag away from his body, the officer dropped it into his trunk. When he drove away traffic flooded as if nothing ever happened.
There was another time, late at night, when I saw a couple arguing from my window. I turned off all the lights so I wouldn’t be seen, grabbed a bag of chips and pulled up the blinds. It was cold outside and I watched their words freeze in the air until the space between them seemed dense and impenetrable. Even I could see from my window five stories above that she was taller than him by a head. I recognized the man as the guy from the sixth floor who was always sweaty and carrying a gym bag (I called him cranky workout guy), but the woman was unfamiliar to me. I wondered if they were arguing because she was so tall, or maybe it was because he was so short, or maybe it was because they loved each other, once. The man sat on the building's designated bench holding his head in his hands as the woman climbed into a car that seemed too small to carry all of her rage. I kept watching, waiting for the man to move. When I woke up it was morning. They were both gone.
I also like watching bathrobe lady. I don’t know bathrobe lady’s name, but I imagine it to be something like Ethel or Marge. When the weather isn’t bad, she wears a housedress and carries her cats outside like two footballs, one under each arm. She sits on the bench, smoking skinny cigarettes and petting her cats. When she walks through the halls inside, she hums a tune without a melody like she wants to announce her presence to those trying to ignore her. The only interaction I've ever had with bathrobe lady happened as I was standing outside, trying to light a cigarette and she was walking inside. When she saw me struggling she put one cat down, holding it still between her feet and said, "This will kill you when you get old," while cupping her hand around my lighter to help block the wind.
And then there was Gene. I called him Walker Texas Drunkard, which turned out to be a pretty accurate nickname, and I watched from my window as people pitied him and held doors. Gene was the middle-aged drunk with a walker who fumbled his way in and out of the building while yelling obscenities at the cab drivers that took him everywhere he went, which appeared to be mostly bars and liquor stores. We met in the elevator once, he was carrying a heavy white plastic bag; we were both going down. He talked about loneliness nonchalantly and smelled like cauliflower and malt liquor. I was never curious enough to ask why a man his age was using a walker, but as I held his arm and guided him down the stairs he told me a botched surgical procedure, lots of pain pills and too many bottles of Scotch were to blame. He slurred, spit, stumbled and swayed as I tried to steady him in a way his walker couldn’t. We talked briefly about his broadcast career and his glory days. I asked questions to avoid the awkward acknowledgment of his blatant instability and he gave me sad answers with a smile. As I sat Gene down on the bench I asked if he was going to be okay and he looked at me and laughed. I asked again, this time with more purpose, if he was sure he was going to be okay—all I needed was the peace of mind so I could leave him and not feel bad. But he saw right through me; I was just like everyone else. Then he heaved his plastic bag onto his lap and said, “Thank you, Kim. I’ll be just fine right here.”
I know all of the people who live in the building from my window. I know when they go grocery shopping, I know their visitors, I know their parking spots and how often they leave and come back. I developed a story for each of them and I don’t want to spoil it by learning the truth. For the most part I keep my communications to quick head nods and forced smiles to discourage any worthwhile interaction. I go around knowing as much as I want to know. I tell myself it’s better this way as I sit at my window and wait, I'm always waiting now, for something interesting to watch.
Looking out this window is like looking into a glass display case at a department store. You see things you might want, consider needing, but can’t bring yourself to investigate further. Cars race side by side, honking out their frustration. I know they just need to be heard by someone. I hear you, I say. But no one listens. I see possibilities, things I want to know about, but my interest is lost in the effort it takes to get outside.
It is a big bay window, though there isn't a bay to speak of, this being a landlocked state. I do have a river in view but it’s more of a polluted creek. Sometimes I imagine myself gazing out of this window onto a different scene, but I never go to the trouble of envisioning a view. No, I prefer to imagine myself imagining. There's less disappointment that way.
I hear other city noises from this window. Sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars whip through the air and the brief moments of silence are interrupted with blaring car alarms. I don’t mind the noises. I’m curious about the carnage. Once, there was a police car in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. The officer was bent over examining the pavement. I watched the scene unfold as if it was a movie and my window was the screen. The officer picked up a white trash bag that had been abandoned, haphazardly left to rest on the streaming yellow lines. From where I sat, a dark, weighty object appeared to be inside the plastic bag. A lost appendage, suicidal squirrel, contaminated clothing—what was inside? The officer wore gloves that made him look guilty even though I knew it was for a purpose: fingerprints or DNA, or maybe the bag held a toxic material that would burn the skin of anyone who touched it. Holding the plastic bag away from his body, the officer dropped it into his trunk. When he drove away traffic flooded as if nothing ever happened.
There was another time, late at night, when I saw a couple arguing from my window. I turned off all the lights so I wouldn’t be seen, grabbed a bag of chips and pulled up the blinds. It was cold outside and I watched their words freeze in the air until the space between them seemed dense and impenetrable. Even I could see from my window five stories above that she was taller than him by a head. I recognized the man as the guy from the sixth floor who was always sweaty and carrying a gym bag (I called him cranky workout guy), but the woman was unfamiliar to me. I wondered if they were arguing because she was so tall, or maybe it was because he was so short, or maybe it was because they loved each other, once. The man sat on the building's designated bench holding his head in his hands as the woman climbed into a car that seemed too small to carry all of her rage. I kept watching, waiting for the man to move. When I woke up it was morning. They were both gone.
I also like watching bathrobe lady. I don’t know bathrobe lady’s name, but I imagine it to be something like Ethel or Marge. When the weather isn’t bad, she wears a housedress and carries her cats outside like two footballs, one under each arm. She sits on the bench, smoking skinny cigarettes and petting her cats. When she walks through the halls inside, she hums a tune without a melody like she wants to announce her presence to those trying to ignore her. The only interaction I've ever had with bathrobe lady happened as I was standing outside, trying to light a cigarette and she was walking inside. When she saw me struggling she put one cat down, holding it still between her feet and said, "This will kill you when you get old," while cupping her hand around my lighter to help block the wind.
And then there was Gene. I called him Walker Texas Drunkard, which turned out to be a pretty accurate nickname, and I watched from my window as people pitied him and held doors. Gene was the middle-aged drunk with a walker who fumbled his way in and out of the building while yelling obscenities at the cab drivers that took him everywhere he went, which appeared to be mostly bars and liquor stores. We met in the elevator once, he was carrying a heavy white plastic bag; we were both going down. He talked about loneliness nonchalantly and smelled like cauliflower and malt liquor. I was never curious enough to ask why a man his age was using a walker, but as I held his arm and guided him down the stairs he told me a botched surgical procedure, lots of pain pills and too many bottles of Scotch were to blame. He slurred, spit, stumbled and swayed as I tried to steady him in a way his walker couldn’t. We talked briefly about his broadcast career and his glory days. I asked questions to avoid the awkward acknowledgment of his blatant instability and he gave me sad answers with a smile. As I sat Gene down on the bench I asked if he was going to be okay and he looked at me and laughed. I asked again, this time with more purpose, if he was sure he was going to be okay—all I needed was the peace of mind so I could leave him and not feel bad. But he saw right through me; I was just like everyone else. Then he heaved his plastic bag onto his lap and said, “Thank you, Kim. I’ll be just fine right here.”
I know all of the people who live in the building from my window. I know when they go grocery shopping, I know their visitors, I know their parking spots and how often they leave and come back. I developed a story for each of them and I don’t want to spoil it by learning the truth. For the most part I keep my communications to quick head nods and forced smiles to discourage any worthwhile interaction. I go around knowing as much as I want to know. I tell myself it’s better this way as I sit at my window and wait, I'm always waiting now, for something interesting to watch.
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