I’ve spent a chunk of the past week in a drug-induced haze, logging lots of time in bed and on the couch though sadly, not in a fun way. Blasted spring cold and worst allergy season EVER. But I’m dragging my ass back into the real world, rolling the dice by deciding to do this on Friday the 13th, when my gut tells me I should probably log one more day in bed, just to be safe.
I’ve downgraded my daily pill intake from Nyquil (makes my legs feel numb in an oddly good way) to Benadryl (gives good sleep). I’ve managed to show up for work (more so physically than mentally). And now that reality is coming into focus and I have a vague memory of the past week of my life, I realize I’m suddenly facing an enormous mental to-do list that I managed to compile in the drug haze and a hard deadline of getting my entire apartment packed up for my carpet installation on Tuesday (more on that later).
First things first. The dreaded Friday the 13th.
Anyone who knows me knows I’m superstitious. No stepping on cracks. I only pick up pennies that are heads up (tails up is bad luck). I won’t walk under ladders. Breaking a mirror means seven years of bad luck. I make wishes when all the numbers on the clock are the same, on the clasp of my necklace when it finds its way to the front, on birthday candles and on stars. I knock on wood. I have a horseshoe necklace for luck. When I get chills it means someone is walking over my grave. When my ears ring I know someone is talking about me. If my nose itches I’ll either kiss a fool or get in a fight. Plucking out a grey hair means ten more will grow in its place. I rubbed some random monkey statue in Belgium that was supposed to bring good luck (and, bonjour, I would say it did). And opening an umbrella indoors and raising it over your head…well, now you’re just asking for trouble.
And once again, a vivid Friday the 13th memory comes to mind (and not just the nightmares after I had watching that friggin movie when I was all of 12 years old. Brilliant idea, Kiki.). But this memory is of the kinder, gentler kind, though I may shame myself in the process. Many moons ago I used to worship the TV show Rags to Riches. It was definitely a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of show and there’s a fairly good chance it only aired in the 10570 zip code. It was sort of a new twist on Annie where these girls from an orphanage were “rescued” by an obscenely rich, fortysomething playboy (who was not supposed to be creepy despite the fact that he was a playboy and he opened his home to teenage girls). The story was he wanted to improve his image so in came the orphans. Add in a butler for comic relief and some musical numbers and you’d think instant hit, right? Not quite. So it was like a bad rip-off of Annie. Except it was the 60s. In California. And he adopted five girls, who differed in age and race and were in no way related to each other, but good God didn’t they just love each other. And more importantly they loved to sing. And they weren’t even rehearsing for a glee competition. Sure they’d change up the lyrics so that it fit with the show, but I didn’t care. It was genius. (And I was young. Sort of.)
Anyway…there was one episode (see video above...and I can sing all the words...still) where they all head to Vegas to ask Elvis is they can have one of his guitars for an auction (don’t ask) and one of the girls boasted about how the Saturday after a Friday the 13th was always a lucky day for her. I’m not sure why I thought that was such a cool concept or why I vividly remember it until this day, but here I am, talking about the details of a Rags to Riches episode as if the show was as brilliant as Mad Men. I always manage to forget about this until a Friday the 13th rolls around and then I catch myself wondering….Hmmmm, I wonder if tomorrow will be lucky for me too. Only time will tell, but I’m keeping a good thought.
And in the meantime, while I did manage to watch all of Veronica Mars (Season 3), and get knee deep into Desperate Housewives, (Season 5), while being resigned to my bed and couch (did I mention how much I worship my Apple TV), this weekend promises a whole different kind of entertainment. As I mentioned earlier I’m having about 400 sf of wall-to-wall carpet in my apartment changed on Tuesday. In my fully furnished, wonderfully pack-ratted, I store-boxes-of-boots-and-shoes-under-my-dining-room-table-because-there’s-no-other-place-to-put-them studio apartment.
And I’ve been saying for weeks, hell, months, that once I get the place repainted (check) and re-carpeted (almost a check) I will clean and purge and organize like never before. Now I’m a girl who likes to clean. Loves an organization system. I’m by no means a minimalist. I love to have evidence of my life and my interests around me. But I also like to have a place for everything and have everything in its place. But then life takes over and buying clothes I don’t need happens and there are magazines I keep meaning to read and financial paperwork that I don’t think I can get rid of yet. I’m not in the hoarder zone or anything creepy like that, but I have a lot of stuff and not a lot of space. (Excuses. Excuses.) But when I’m in the right frame of mind, I can clean and purge like a champ. So this weekend my dream is to harness that frame of mind and like the Nike ad says, Just Do It!
So I have to pack up my place (I did a smaller version of this pack-up for the painters and that was awful. But at least I could stash stuff in the closet and under my bed. Not so much this time.) I also have a bunch of clothes I need to return. Yes, I get a high just hitting the “purchase now” button even though I know I don’t need another cardigan sweater or pair of workout pants. Don’t judge. It’s been a rough year. And I send a lot of crap back when it arrives and I realize I don’t like it or, worse, can’t even remember ordering it. Oops! But to note, you can never have too many purses. That’s just fact. They always fit. They don’t pinch your pinkie toes. The more the merrier. I’m a proud purse whore.
Back to reality (again), I thought I’d go balls to the wall and get some groceries delivered, hit the gym and drop off a bunch of dry cleaning because that’s one less thing I’ll have to empty from my closet when the carpet guys come. (They are going to HATE me by the way. And I mean ragingly HATE me. And all my crap.) On paper, this is really shaping up to be the single girl’s sad sitcom weekend. I just need some cats and some Cheetos and maybe a depressing song playing in background on repeat.
Except that I’m not sad. (That’s a lie. I’m super sad about the fact that this week was the Bethenney Ever After finale. Thank God I have A Place of Yes to keep me company for the time being. But beyond that I’m not sad.). And if I do need a happiness kick, there’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer. And the last two episodes of Castle on my DVR. I mean, I am coming off a week of sickness, I should probably take it slow. I’m just saying.
And now for something completely unrelated to everything I’ve written…there are moments in my job that are brutal. And some that are fun and downright rewarding. And every once in a while I come across something that makes me think, “only in this job and only in this office.” Today I was lucky enough to have one of those moments that makes it all worthwhile. Long story short (too late!), I was reviewing our office lease to see if we could hold the landlord’s feet to the fire for failing to do something (outlook not good) and came across an entire section of the lease entitled “Pornographic Use Prohibited”. Now I’ve worked in some combination of Corporate Real Estate and Facilities for over a decade and read more leases than I can even begin to tell and can say, in all honesty, that I have never, ever come across even a version of the pornography clause. You would think that it would go without saying that your office space is not for pornographic use, but I guess when you rent an office in that black hole of 34th and Tenth, some things need to be spelled out.
So not only does our lease stipulate that we are not allowed to bring any obscene or pornographic material onto the premises, but further goes on to say, and I must quote for the sheer hilarity of it – “shall not permit or conduct any obscene, nude, or semi-nude live performances on the premises, nor permit use of the premises for nude modeling, rap sessions, or as a so-called rubber goods shop, or as a sex club of any sort, or as a “massage parlor”.”
I don’t even know where to begin.
No rap sessions? So I should cancel the upcoming Jay Z concert that I booked for our next in-house Happy Hour? Or does no “rap session” mean no more idle chit-chat around the water cooler to help pass an already painfully slow day? This lease is so specific, yet so damn vague.
Then there’s the “so-called rubber goods shop”. Rubber like bands? Tires? Gloves? Cat suits? (Meow). And give us a little credit. As if we would open a place that only *supposedly* sold rubber goods. Oh, we would SELL rubber goods.
And I LOVE that “massage parlor” is actually in quotes within the lease. It’s like they knew we’d try to pretend to open a legitimate massage parlor (I do heart my trips to Bliss!) that just *happens* to offer up happy endings and then some. I mean not for nothing, but we are far far on the west side where trannies and sketchiness make frequent cameos. A massages-plus establishment wouldn’t be out of the question. I’m fairly certain I pass a few on my way home.
So that’s my story. Sickness and superstitions and no salacious behavior in the champagne room. Or the workplace. Rags to Riches and packing and purging. Hopefully I won’t run into Jason Voorhees in the laundry room tonight, because you know that’s where I’ll be.
And to end on a high note, I give you this….a song that just makes me happy.
