Like most people, I look forward to my weekends and all the promise they hold. By the time Friday night rolls around I often have these big aspirations that go far beyond being excited about being able to sleep until I wake up. Alarm clock be damned! But my weekends aren't quite what they used to be.
A few Fridays ago I got an email from an old friend, who I recently got back in touch with. She was home, working her way through episodes of Damages while her hubby was sick in bed. I was voluntarily enjoying good conversation around my parents’ dining room table. And on these very crazy Friday nights, my friend posed the question - what happened to our wild and single nights back in Boston? It’s true. We had *a lot* of fun back then. I definitely went out more nights than I stayed in. Unless it was a money saving girls night in, that often involved poorly made cocktails and snacks from Trader Joes.
But these days, I get home from work, on average, around 7 p.m. and the last thing I want to do is battle in the laundry room or clean my bathroom. So my weekends are usually a mix of chores and wish lists and to-do’s and hopefully something self-indulgent and fun. (Just to keep it all in perspective “self indulgent and fun” can be fulfilled with a Murder, She Wrote marathon or by popping in a DVD from my The Hills box set.)
And by the time Monday morning rolls around I’m usually coming off a restless night’s sleep (so tired, yet so wide awake on Sunday night) and I’m irked that I didn’t make a dent in the planned to-do’s. Or, after a good weekend, I’m feeling very “I rock” considering how much I got done, though still wish there was one more day before I had to go back to work.
Two Friday’s ago, New York City had that fluky, freakishly spring day. It was sunny and in the 70s and women everywhere dusted off their flip-flops and minis and hit the streets. What horrible snowy winter? we all mused. Flowers were in bloom. People were giddy. It was the dawning of a new day.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love me some spring fever, but I’d just dodged the St. Patty’s Day debacle the night before. (Been there. Done that. Ironically have a 2011 t-shirt that I got the week before in a drinking-thinking extravaganza). But I was on a mission and on this gorgeous spring night I couldn’t help but do the math:
Friday night + Unseasonable warm temperatures = Empty laundry room
Anyone living in an apartment can appreciate the struggles of doing your laundry when you either 1) share washers and dryers with 100 other apartments or 2) don’t even have a laundry room in your building. It’s a battle. Reasonable people get crazy competitive over machines. And invariably there are those awful ones who yank out someone else’s laundry the second the machine clicks off. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve certainly taken clothes out of a machine. But I do like to give at least a 3-minute grace period. The elevators can be slow. I tried to show some respect (do unto others and all that).
But not the machine-stalkers. Respect is not a word they know. They’re like those people you see at casinos who stalk the slot machines that haven’t hit and when the frustrated player gets up, the stalkers pounce, banking on the fact that a machine was overdue. The washers in my building are like slot machines. It’s no joke down there.
So two Friday nights ago (and again two days ago – I have no shame) – I did five, that’s right, I said five loads of laundry. It was way overdue (the previous two weekends were reserved for fun as evidenced by the St. Patty’s tee). But I have to say, there was zero competition on the laundry floor and I was in h-e-a-v-e-n! It was like having my own private laundry room (one of my many dreams bee-tee-dubs). And while my laundry is cooking I usually knock out some other cleaning. I’ve said it before – when I’m in the right mood I genuinely like to clean. Maybe it’s a control thing. Or just the satisfaction of crossing something of my list. Or maybe I’m just procrastinating from all those things don’t want to be doing. So yes. My name is Audrey and I can be a clean-a-holic.
I know laundry is a time suck and sure I could send it out, but nothing skeeves me more than the idea of someone else washing my clothes. In my entire life, the only other person who has ever done my laundry is my mom. I know it’s the control freak thing, but I can’t help but wonder if they even wash the clothes (I’ve had friends get their sheets returned with big yellow stains that look like cat pee). And I don’t want strangers touching my towels or sheets or ahem, unmentionables. Call me a snob or whatever, it’s just not for me. Maybe it would save me time, but the anxiety I’d have in exchange doesn’t make up for it. And I’m not sure that I could argue this as a cause for a bottomless Xanax prescription.
So once again, this Friday was a quiet and successful night in. But tons of clean laundry wasn’t enough for this girl (though the pile, strewn all over my bed, along with my clothes rack which was bursting at the seams with the stuff I line dry and my ever-growing ironing pile, made me feel a bit like the mom in Johnny Dangerously). For my nightcap I cracked open some wine and hit my DVR. (DVR and Apple TV have pretty much ruined me.)
I caught up on two episodes of Bethenny Ever After. What can I say? I just capital “L” Love Bethenny. I read an interview with her where she said that five years ago she was $50,000 in debt and couldn’t even pay her rent. Now she’s a brand. I find something inspiring about her story and her success. And I think she’s just hysterical. Have to love a girl who acknowledges that all the hair and make-up and the fancy dresses aren’t who she is on a daily basis. That she’s a girl who sleeps in coffee-stained flannel pants. So I watch the show. Have the yoga DVD. I actually planned to tackle her chocolate chip brownie recipe this weekend (I know…I should have been writing). But that plan sadly fell apart. Divine intervention?
Now it should be said that I’m in a no way a cook. (Though I do make a damn tasty coffee cake). But I survive. I can bring home the bacon. Fry it up in a pan. But I won’t be hosting a formal dinner party any time soon. So back to the cookie sheet sitch. As I mentioned before, last summer I was in the process of buying a new apartment and it had a gorgeous kitchen. Custom drawers and cabinets. Granite countertops. All new appliances. The place actually made me want to learn how to cook.
So I decided to prepare for the apartment by buying a few news things for my fab new kitchen, like cookie sheets. The ones I was using were hand-me-downs from mom and I had very vivid memories of making cookies on them throughout the 80s. So like any wannabe cook, I hopped on Crate & Barrel and ordered up some new sheets. I was going to start this new phase of my life right and promptly dumped the old ones in the trash. The first thing I planned to make with the new ones was nothing more interesting that a frozen pizza, at which point I learned the cookie sheets didn’t fit in the friggin over. They were too goddamn wide!
WTF?
Since when are all cookie sheets not created equally? I mean it’s not like I have a freakishly small over. Apparently I just don’t have the skill set to think to pay attention to dimensions of things that I assume are standard (I’m sure a real cook would’ve known better). So just like the apartment deal, the cookie sheets didn’t work out. And I didn’t quite make it out to get new ones so my Bethenny brownie cookies were a no go. Best laid plans.
And then it’s as if I blinked and it’s Sunday night and all of a sudden I have a daunting week ahead. And in a world where these kinds of things only happen to me I woke up this morning, to the sound of my heat pipes banging, despite the dial being turned off. Though this was way better than the jack-hammering outside my window that woke me up way too early yesterday morning. Anyway…..I rolled over and saw it was barely 7:30 so I happily went back to sleep. I woke up about an hour later, and in an effort to get a jump on the day, decided to get up (early morning = afternoon nap in my book). It wasn’t until I got the paper, put on the coffee and flipped on the TV that I realized it was 7:30. Wait? What? Oh, yes, my wonderful alarm clock has one of those auto daylight savings things so it “sprung ahead” this morning, which was the original daylight savings. Seriously?
So being up Sunday at 7:30 a.m. certainly wasn’t part of the plan, but I managed to roll with it. I didn’t get everything done I wanted to – does anyone every knock everything off their list? But I’m feeling good and totally took that nap and am winding down and am completely sucked in the Law and Order:SVU Killer Blondes marathon. Amazing how that “self indulgent and fun” thing came full circle!
And the song of the post is one of many I was playing during the cleaning spree - this whole CD sounds so much better louder!
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