Notes from The Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza

1. I imagine it's never a good sign when you find yourself needing to clean off your cleaning supplies before you use them.

2. Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza Soundtrack (Part 1): The Raconteurs: Potentially not awesome for my neighbors who live above or below me, but good entertainment for the ones who live across from me and can see into my windows. Much grooving going on, amidst the cleaning.

3. Multi-Surface Cleaning Wipes: For when you're not sure what the surface is that you're cleaning. It looks like wood, but I don't think it actually is wood. Synthetic wood paneling, perhaps?

4. First horrifying discovery of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza is made: It's altogether possible that the top of my refrigerator hasn't been cleaned since the day I moved in here. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with my living situation, "the day I moved in here" is something that happened 9.5 years ago.

5. First "The Fumes From the Cleaning Materials Might Be Getting to Me" deep realization of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza: The number one most awesome thing about my old roommate is that she was always totally up for anything. Didn't matter what it was. You needed somebody to accompany you somewhere utterly ridiculous? Chris was absolutely on board and ready to make it more fun than it would have been with anybody else. That's a pretty awesome trait. (Come home!!! And not just because I'm apparently a disgusting human being without you here! I miss my partner in crime!!!)

6. MAJOR SETBACK!!! A big pile of God knows what just spewed out of the ceiling and all over the air conditioner I just finished cleaning. I went upstairs and banged on the neighbor's door to see if they'd just done ... something ... to make this happen, but they didn't answer. I hear them moving around up there ... Grr!!! And seriously, WTF?! What kind of irony is it that a mere three hours into the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, my apartment revolts on me?! All proof, apparently, the I'm simply not meant to live in a clean apartment. A demoralizing blow has been dealt to the initial enthusiasm of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza. Resorting to Moxy Fruvous to try to restore good mood.

7. Day One Synopsis: The kitchen has been cleaned from top to bottom. In some cases, twice.

... To be continued.











October 9 Update:

... For those of you (and I know there are many) who were eagerly awaiting some updates on the next stages of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, I'll have you know that I haven't been holding out on you. What I've been holding out on is cleaning my damn apartment. There was a fury of bathroom cleaning ... um, Sunday night, I think? But aside from that, my old roomie arrives in under 24 hours, and my apartment still looks like a bomb went off.

I actually went out last night and purchased giant pink Rubbermaid containers (They didn't have the usual clear ones, and I was desperate.), into which I plan to dump all the shit that currently resides on the floor of my roommate's old bedroom. (And if history is any indication, that is likely where it will stay. Until my apartment collapses in a heap of disrepair. Or I die. Whichever happens first.) The only upside of the mad cleaning dash that will commence around 6p.m. this evening is that it will encourage me to be ruthless. Because let's face it. I'm over 30 now. I'm probably not ever again going to fit into those pants that made my ass look so fantastic when I was 25. And on the off-chance I ever do lose the post-30 poundage, those pants probably aren't the sorts of things that have any business being on the body of someone over the age of 30. No point holding onto them any longer. Into the trash they shall go!

[Note to people who worry about this sort of thing: I would give my under-30 pants to charity, but the city removed all the Salvation Army boxes a couple years ago, I imagine, in a flourish of terrorism prevention. Which, while potentially keeping us all alive, has created complications not unlike the complications resulting from the terrorist prevention-induced removal of all the trash cans from Rockefeller Center at Christmas-time. (No empty coffee cup has ever gone on such a journey as the one my empty Dunkin Donuts cup embarked upon with me during the last-minute Christmas Shopping Adventure of 2008. Nary a trash can in sight.) There is simply not, at this point, any time to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up. And I do not, at any point, have the patience nor organizational skills required to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up, so that wasn't ever going to happen anyway.]

Alright. Wish me luck! If there's anything worth posting during my Night-Long Stashing-My-Ridiculous-Shit-Out-Of-Sight Extravaganza, I'll be sure to let you know!

Next Day Update: Discoveries from a Frantic Evening of Cleaning:

1. It turns out that, around 2:30a.m., the bathroom at the Wash World more or less turns into a public bathroom for drunk people who just aren't going to make it from the nearby subway stop back to their apartments. About five minutes after each train rumbled by overhead, a stream of people in various states of alertness stumbled into the Wash World and asked somewhat desperately to use the bathroom. It got a bit comical after awhile!

2. I'm a little irritated with myself for not cleaning my apartment sooner. It took only about three hours to clean "The Forbidden Mess" (so deemed by Joe, who's curiosity about the situation was piqued when I invoked the value of 10 years of friendship to ensure that he wouldn't look behind the guest room door the last time he was here, so embarrassed was I by what was going on in there). Mostly I really just needed to throw shit out.

3. So yeah. Those of you who know me, know that I lost a ton of weight (since gained back, annoyingly!) when I started running marathons in 2003. Like, I actually got pretty skinny. I knew this much. What I didn't know, however, is that I apparently also started dressing like a slut when this occurred. I found a teeniest tiniest little denim skirt last night. Holy crap. I recall emerging from an unfamiliar subway stop in Brooklyn several years ago wearing this skirt and being appalled when the cop whom I'd asked for directions to the bar where I was meeting my friends asked me if I was a stripper. I still don't think that comment was quite appropriate coming from an on-duty cop, but at least I now understand where he was coming from. Good lord.

But yeah, otherwise fairly uneventful! Just talked to my roomie, and she'll be here is about two hours, so hooray!!!

Office Life Really Sucks

We had a water cooler at my last job. As in, a machine that took tap water and cooled it so that it was nicer to drink than water from the sink. We're not talking about a water bubbler here, which is a machine that cools and dispenses spring water from a big overturned bottle. We're talking about tap water. Not even filtered. Straight from the pipes.

Which, by the way, is fine with me. That's not where I'm going here. Tap water is what I drink at home. I used to have one of those Britta filters. But it was too much of a pain in the ass to monitor the health of my filter. And anyway, the filter took up so much room in the container that I found myself refilling the fucking thing every night. And my sink is usually full of dishes, so finessing the container under the faucet was a pain in the ass. And the filters weren't cheap, and at the time, I had no money. So yeah. I gave up on filtered water. NYC has some of the cleanest, best tasting tap water in the nation, so I decided to take advantage of it.

Which was exactly the theory upon which my former employer was operating. It was an environmental organization, so feeding the billion dollar bottled water machine in the face of perfectly potable tap water would have contradicted our calls for reduced consumption, protection of exotic places, and awareness that petroleum-based plastics are more-or-less the spawn of the Devil.

So we're all good here. Office life, in this story at least, has not yet begun to suck.

Where the train goes off the tracks is this chick. Who, if I'm going to be transparent about things, I disliked on many levels. And I don't know whether the water thing that I'm about to tell you about was the chicken or the egg in this situation. But here's the deal: She insisted upon filling the industrial-sized coffeemaker with water from the water cooler. In other words, draining our entire supply of what was nothing more than cooled tap water in order to fill the coffeemaker, which really just heated the water back up again. Leaving those of us with an interest in drinking cooled tap water to stand around the kitchen waiting, waiting, waiting for the water cooler to replenish its cool water supply. Which took forever.

I was talking in another post about things that might land me in jail some day -- or at the very least get me fired -- and this was another one of them. I lived in fear that I might just completely snap on this chick some day. Walk into the kitchen to find her emptying our water cooler for the umpteenth time and just go apeshit all over the place. You know. Snatch the container of water she'd just filled and smash into to the ground. Grab the coffeemaker and wave it about in the air menacingly. Hurl obscenities in her direction generally and pointed insults in her direction specifically. More or less cause a scene is what I'm trying to get at here.

And this is what I mean when I say that office life sucks. Because here's what happened tonight: I went upstairs in my current office to get some water from the water bubbler, and I got wondering how the hot water tap makes water hot. You press it down, and boiling water pours out instantly. Considering that it's unlikely our office water bubbler comes equipped with super heating technology that boils water on contact, I imagine the bubbler fills a little internal container with water and then spends all day and night keeping it piping hot. Which, in addition to being one hell of a waste of energy, opens the possibility that a person could completely drain the bubbler of its entire supply of hot water. Leaving those of us with an interest in hot water to stand in the kitchen waiting, waiting, waiting for the water bubbler to replenish its hot water supply.

This thought -- and the anxiety it created within me -- is familiar. And all of the sudden I'm furious.

So let's review: I left my office to get a glass of water, and I came back three minutes later furious. About something that hasn't happened to me in several years, and likely won't ever happen again, and really wasn't that big a deal in the first place. But when you spend this much time with people, in such small confines, in often unhappy circumstances (because let's face it, we'd all rather be almost anywhere than at work) stupid shit can matastasize into something that's quite excrutiatingly irritating. My biggest fear in life isn't the almost likely possibility that I'll get run over by a car, it's that someone who wears too much cologne or hums unconsciously will move into the empty desk in my office. It just doesn't seem right.

Now. The flipside to this, of course, is that office life is also hilarious. I was listening to an interview with Gord Downie from The Tragically Hip the other evening, and he was talking about how being in a band is really funny. How, if you quit your band, your life will automatically be a lot less humorous. But that may not be true, Gord. You could come and work in an office. It's hilarious here. It's why Then We Came To The End is the funniest book I've ever read, and why Dilbert has been around for 20 years, and why people can quote the movie Office Space from start to finish. We're a tortured people, cube jockeys and office dwellers, and it's either hilarious or its excrutiating. It's rare that it's anything in between.

Stuff I Like

1. The view of the city from the window of the N train in Astoria. (Although with all the construction in this neighborhood, it's not near what it used to be. And that makes me a little sad.)

2. Live music. There was, of course, The Felice Brothers incident which made me ask some hard questions about whether, in fact, live music is intrinsically good, but generally speaking, I think it is.

3. Take-away coffee in the morning. It must come in a disposable cup (which, I realize isn't the greatest thing for the environment, but I figure my extreme reliance on mass transportation has offset my coffee cup consumption), and it must be imbibed somewhere other than where it was procured, which preferably is Dunkin Donuts, though I am not one of these vehemently anti-Starbucks people. Which is good, because God knows there's enough of them.

4. Math. And logic problems. I used to do the logic section of practice GREs for fun. Seriously.

5. Napster-to-Go. All guilty pleasures, all the time, all for $14.95 per month.

6. Archive.org and bands who let their fans upload shows to the site.

7. The New York Suite:

a. New York City. I talk about leaving all the time, and even if I ever do, this city will always be the greatest place in the world. It's possible to feel really alone and really overwhelmed and really scared in this town, but as, it seems, with all things in life, you don't get to the best parts if you aren't willing to coexist with the worst parts. There are opportunities here that don't exist anywhere else, and they make this city cool as hell.

b. And specifically, Astoria. I tell everyone that I moved here because I couldn't afford Manhattan, and now that I can, you couldn't pay me to leave. It's safe and quiet and family-oriented. We're gentrifying, but it still feels like a community here, and people take care of the neighborhood. There are great bars and amazing food. And it's cool -- and very healthy -- to live in one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the most diverse county in the entire world. It's good on a daily basis to hear people speaking other languages, and dressing according to their culture, and watching soccer or drinking frappes or practicing capoeira or doing whatever it is that's normal for them. It's good to be reminded daily that the world is a hell of a lot bigger than the little sphere in which we operate. It's good to see regularly that the average person on the planet is exactly like you: They want to fall in love and earn a sustainable living and be healthy and do things that make them happy. It's too easy to focus on what makes us different if we're never exposed to what makes us the same.

c. New Yorkers. People who aren't from here think we're callous and unfeeling. And that may be true in regards to our approach to a lot of things. But it's patently false in regards to our approach to one another. If anything, New Yorkers are more aware of our ourselves in relation to others than all but a few other populations on the planet. We live -- literally -- on top of one another; we get that just about everything we do affects the people around us. And it's our ultra-awareness of the impacts of our actions on others that results in what can be interpreted as unseemly brusqueness toward those who do not return the favor. We are a civility militia. If we push past you when you stop suddenly and for no apparent reason in the middle of the sidewalk ... if we drop an elbow into you when you fail to let us off the subway before you get on ... if we stare you down impatiently when you step up to the register without knowing what you want to order ... if a cab driver tells you in no uncertain terms that you're an idiot when you blunder obliviously into the middle of the street -- yes, we know you have the walk signal, but there's a ambulance with its sirens blaring trying to get through ... it's not that we're rude. It's that we're trying to have a society here, and when you live this close to this many people, the boundaries of acting appropriately are more rigidly defined and aggressively enforced. And I like that. I like that we're aware of one another, and I like that we don't fuck around.

d. Really pretty much everything about the NYC subway system. 5.2 million riders per day. 1.6 billion riders per year. 468 stations -- only 35 fewer than the combined total number of subway stops of all the other systems in the U.S. 24 x 7 service. Thirty days of unlimited trips for just 89 bucks. I've been on trains with everybody from Michael Bloomberg to the homeless. I've counted as many as nine different languages on the newspapers people are reading in my car. It's the most convenient way to get around, and it's the most interesting way to get around. Totally love it.

8. Looking forward to things. "The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting." (Andy Warhol)

9. Running in Central Park. It's best when I'm in shape, and it's summertime, and an 8-mile run after work feels comfortable; but even when I haven't run in forever, and everything kind of hurts a little, and it's dark and cold and wintery and awful outside, I still really like running in Central Park.

10. Sundays. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday morning brunch. Sunday evening dinner. Sundays.

To be continued ...

Update: 26+ Random Things About Me

26+ Random Things About Me: Items 31-35:

31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.

32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the very small handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.

33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.

34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I have have about a bazillion questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink. [e.g., Have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)] And yeah, I imagine they're nice and fit. Hmm.

35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.

Notes on Last Night

Holy shit. I am so fucking hungover right now that I actually might die. Cocktails on the roof turned into an eight hour ordeal. Apparently this has made me want to curse a lot. And vomit.

I actually left my bag in the bar last night. Right. Because only the first six hours were on the roof. Then we went to Connolley's. I don't know that I've ever done that. Left my bag in a bar, I mean. I woke up naked this morning with all my jewelry still on. At least I made it to my bed, which is an improvement over the couch, which is where I typically find myself after an evening of revelry, even though my bed is only about six feet further into my apartment.

Me, earlier this afternoon: I think I left my bag in the bar last night.

Irish bartender, comically: Fer fuck's sake.

At least it was there. It had my two favorite pairs of shoes and my favorite dress in it. Apparently, I also left my favorite sweater on a bar stool:

Irish bartender: Is this your's too?

Me, happily surprised: Huh. I think it is!

Irish bartender: Fer fuck's sake.

Singing: "Hangover hanging on by the fangs. Walk to work on wild feet."

Flashy Lightning

While it appears Murray Foster's eco-blog has gone in a direction much similar to this thing you're reading right now (that would be nowhere, in case you were wondering), I admire the modest aspirations with which he set out upon his blogging experiment:

"Do I think these humble postings will eventually be bound in large, hardcover books with gilt-edged pages that are stored in vacuum-sealed rooms in major libraries and then taken out once a year on the anniversary of my birth (or my death – I'm not sure which) by castrated priests in vermilion robes who recite the sacred texts while the townspeople dance a frenzied mazurka until they collapse from exhaustion? Yes. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

Now. Some social networking commentator recently said of blogs that "Never have so many said so much about so little to so few." But screw that. I'm going to espouse Murray's approach as I try to organize what feels like a bit of renewed creative energy and motivation into something focused and good. I'm flashy lightning right now. Which is better than a calm, clear night, but not as productive as a bright, clean bolt cutting through the sky.

While those of you who have had the displeasure of experiencing my apartment (and it is an experience) lately might approach the rest of this sentence with skepticism, I prefer things to be organized and complete before I open them up to other people. But going forward, I'm going to try to use this blog a a sandbox, to play in, and to see what works. If I push enough sand around, I might just create a castle someday.

(An aside to Murray: Would you please publish more of what you're thinking?? The stuff you've put in print makes me laugh, and it makes me want to write more.)

Life Is Cool Sometimes

My brother told me this story over Father’s Day weekend, and I’ve been meaning -- but consistently forgetting -- to tell someone about it. I've probably got some of the details a bit wrong, but they don't matter so much. It's more about the spirit of the story, which is pretty awesome, I think.


My brother and his wife are former NYC residents who moved to Bethlehem, PA in search of affordable housing when their daughter was born. She’s two years old now, and her favorite place on the entire planet is a car museum in Hershey, PA. She loves going there so much that my brother and SIL decided to purchase annual memberships to the museum, rather than pay each time they go. Because they are members, they were invited to a cocktail reception and preview of the current exhibit at the museum. And because they’ve been a bit desperate to go pretty much anywhere and do pretty much anything since they left the non-stop action of NYC, they decided to attend.

Perhaps it’s the snobby New Yorker in all of us who live in New York long enough to become snobs, but my brother and SIL were not expecting much from this reception. And shortly upon arriving, they find themselves watching in horror as a casually-dressed man jumps over the ropes cordoning off the public from the cars, pulls open one of the car's driver-side doors, and begins rolling down the window. They notice, however, that the man has an obvious familiarity and casual comfort with the car, and combined with the fact that none of this generated so much as a flinch from whatever security might be in place at a car museum in Pennsylvania, they make the (correct, it turned out) assumption that the man was there “with the cars.”

A bit later, they introduce themselves to the man and inquire about his relationship with the cars. It turns out he’s a local car restorer. When he was younger, everyone told him that the better money was in car repair, but he loved to restore cars, so that’s what he learned. He nurtured a modest car restoration business in Allentown, PA. Got himself a wife, some kids, probably a dog. Nothing fancy. Until the day when a customer arrived to his shop with a car. You’ll have to forgive my lack of knowledge about cars, but whatever it was, there are only three of them left in then entire world. The customer requested some work; the man said he’d be honored to restore the car. He does the work, and after some time, receives a call from the office of a Mr. Bulgari. Mr. Bulgari owned the car he’d restored and wanted him to come to NYC for a meeting. A car would be sent to transport him to and from the meeting; he needn’t worry about a thing. Understandably, our man the car restorer was a bit concerned. I’m not sure what concern precisely crossed his mind, but if I were in his shoes at least, I’d have been thinking Mob.

Still, he heads to NYC, and meets Mr. Bulgari, who it turns out is Nicola Bulgari, of watch, jewelry, and perfume notoriety. He is also one of the premier car collectors in the world. And perhaps I’m jumping a bit ahead of the story, but he’s a cool car collector. He’s not terribly enamored with the extravagant cars owned only by the most wealthy; he prefers the cars that regular people drove. He has no interest in souping up the cars in his collection; he restores them according to their original specifications. His only requirement is that he needs to fit in the car. He’s a big guy, apparently, and his joy comes from driving the cars, not collecting them. He will not purchase a car he cannot drive; he’d rather another collector enjoy the car.

So back to our car restorer. It turns out Nicola Bulgari has two car collections: one in Rome, Italy and the other in Allentown, PA. He’s got some work he needs done on some of the cars, and he’s got some auctions he’d like the car restorer to attend on his behalf. He dispatches the restorer almost immediately to an auction, with instructions to secure two cars. The restorer checks in to the auction and, based on his appearance – jeans and a ballcap – is instructed to stand near the back of the room. The restorer realizes that he may have trouble participating in the auction so far from the action, so he asks one of the people leading the auction if he might move a little closer. The person requests to see his bidding paddle. Apparently paddles are handed out according to one’s bid limit – the lowest numbered paddles go to the people with the highest limits. Our man the car restorer is holding paddle #6. He is escorted to the middle of the front row. Past Jack Nicholson. Past Jay Leno.

The story fell mostly to vignettes at this point. Nicola Bulgari is apparently a shy man who keeps a close group around him whom he treats like family. Our humble car restorer became the personal overseer of Nicola Bulgari’s Allentown-based car collection. (There is a similarly cool story about Bulgari's personal driver.) My favorite of the vignettes involved a trip he took with Mr. Bulgari to Los Angeles. Bulgari suggested they visit Jay Leno and view his car collection. Upon entering the room, Jay Leno takes one look at the car restorer and exclaims, “You’re the guy from the car auctions!!!” Apparently all the regular high-end bidders were desperate to know who was the country bumpkin sweeping in and buying up all the cars.

But what I liked, perhaps best about the story is that it doesn’t appear, at least from my brother’s telling of it, that the guy has changed at all. Nor the Bulgari has asked or needed him to change. They both love cars, and that’s all that matters. They take rides together in Bulgari’s car collection on the back roads of Pennsylvania. Sure he has a nicer shop than he used to have, and I’m certain his family’s standard of living has improved somewhat dramatically, and he’s seen a whole lot more of the world than he’d ever have seen if Nicola Bulgari hadn’t driven into his life. But he’s still the guy who turns up to the semi-formal museum exhibit opening in jeans and ball cap and lives with his family in Allentown, PA, and there's something very awesome about that.

So that's The End, I guess. You could lay a moral over this story -- "if you follow your dreams, good things will happen" or some shit -- but I think it's cooler (and more accurate) to just leave it as a story about something awesome and unexpected that happened to someone out there in the world. Yeah. Just thought it was cool.