Today started the same as every other day in the past few weeks.
I open my eyes, the television is on (what’s a timer), the cat sheds happily at the foot of the bed and I’m okay.
For about thirty fucking seconds.
So I haul my lazy ass out of bed, push the button (Max) on the coffee pot and listen to it make a sound reminiscent of a goddamned B-52 taking off.
It’s a cuisinart with the built-in grinder. Do NOT buy one of these things. The sheer complexity of washing it far outweighs the joy of getting out of bed and pushing the button. Max.
My mother calls. It’s Sunday so she’s up bright and early in her usual attempt to make my life a living hell. Oh god why does she hate my sister? If only she hated me as well.
After 30 minutes of ‘Have you gotten a job? When is your next doctor’s appointment? Are you taking the fish oil capsules I’m sending? Don’t cry for any man. You’re not a loser. You’re just….”
Thanks mom. What you meant to say was… how come I’m not up to your standards.
It’s been this way since I was a kid though.
Straight A’s? Not good enough. What? Why don’t you have any friends like your sister?
Going away to college at 15? Not good enough. What? You’re not going to stay at home with me for two years and go to junior college first you’re just going across the country by YOURSELF? (at this point I always hear… “Ren you EEEDIOT”…)
You’re playing piano in LA/NYC/Long Beach/Bumfuck Nowhere and making money at it? Not good enough. What? You haven’t applied to Med School?
How can my own mother make me feel like shit when I’m in my 40’s? Does it ever end?
Memo to Self: Feed mayonnaise to tuna. No wait wrong movie.
When my own daughter is 45 do NOT call her every friggin day to remind her of what she has not accomplished.
OR maybe I will bwahahahahahahahahaha
Luckily my father isn’t as bad. He’s just a bona fide whack-job psychiatrist. My mom loves me, and helps me but she’s a pain in the ass.
Being the family’s beloved Black Sheep has it’s own horrors believe me.
If/When my parents finally kick off I’ll be bereft. For now though Jesus Jumping Christ!
It appears as though yesterday was not especially productive on Planet Rachael.
Yesterday was spent indoors watching DVDs with the blinds closed and doses of Xanax.
The People’s Drug.
In an attempt to remedy this I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Alright the sleeves part is strictly metaphorical. It’s too damned hot to wear anything, especially with sleeves.
In the space of an hour I’d:
cleaned the cat box (oh happy day said Lizzie Borden), vacuumed, removed all traces of cat hair from the couch and foot of the bed, taken out the trash, had two minor break-drowns (oh happy clinical depression said I), combed aforementioned poker-playing card-cheating feline and started the laundry.
Let’s talk about the laundry. In particular the whites.
I live in an apartment building four-plex thingy with a rooming house next door. We all share the same two washers and dryers .Eeeeew another rant for another afternoon right there.
A wash is a buck and a dry is a buck.
Except if you’re OCD like me and put in that additional quarter for the extra rinse cycle on the sheets or towel loads.
Plus it takes me four hours to do three loads because I am constantly running across the parking lot, up the stairs to the laundry room, and checking the 100% cotton clothes to pull them out before they shrink. Laundry day looks like fucking Mardi Gras in this apartment, except that instead of beads festooning the doorways there are camis, bras, stockings and skirts.
Anyway, there are no clean white socks left in this house. Or white panties or white shirts, of which I own two. Hey, the curvy and voluptuous (this goes for full-on fatties too) should never wear that color.
Bad bad bad. Might as well wash myself up on the beach stuck with a fucking harpoon. While clad in horizontal alternating yellow and green stripes.
I may have a retardation problem when it comes to picking husbands but I DO know a tad about style.
So the whites don’t amount to even a half load of laundry and you can’t hand wash the fuckers because I use bleach on them, AND who the hell is going to wash the socks they wear at the gym in cold water and Woolite? Not I.
I will not wash them Sam I Am
I will not wash white socks by hand.
The dilemma: Do I spend another two bucks and one hour on such a paltry quantity of laundry?
The answer: No.
So I still have a load of whites to be done.
Anyone have a washer and dryer I can use? Wearing tan socks to the gym is tackier than stalking an ex.
With that I shall cease my blathering for the afternoon. It’s time to put on a pair of shorts, tank top and some sneakers for a walk down to the Sands Regency. On Sunday night they have free jazz by the pool.
The only downside is that I may run into he-who-may-not-be-named and he’ll think I’m stalking him.
Fucking small-town Reno and the lack of music venues.
He can always leave if he’s that uncomfortable yes?
Or I could.
Or he can blow me.
Or I could blow him.
Any of the above choices would be okay .
Currently listening :
By The Dresden Dolls
Release date: 18 April, 2006