Six Commandments of Domestic Dirt Baggery

If you're anything like me, the prospect of moving into your own apartment without another person who can split the costs may have you crapping yourself with fear.

After all, this is an expensive proposition: there's heating oil or gas, electricity, food and of course, soap.

Well, I'm here to tell you that there's no need to spend money on most of this bullcrap. Sometimes, you've really got to pick and choose, and there are ways you can get your basic needs (and more) met without paying up the bum for all of these "necessary" implements.

Here are my Six Commandments for Maintaining the Illusion of Responsibility Without Actually Earning/Spending Much Money.

1) Ye Shall Not Shower at Your House.

I learned the hard way that you need heating oil or propane to make your water a hospitable temperature. This really isn't something you want to fuck with. Therefore, use other people's facilities to clean yourself!

How, you might wonder? Well, there's always the first (boring) option: you can just ask. However, I find that this option gets old after one, maybe two uses. So you need to start getting creative with it: Start having random "accidents" whenever you are at the homes of friends and family.

Example: When a friend passes the bubbler your way, accidentally slosh some bong water onto your shirt and/or pants. Be like, "Oh MAN! I got stank-ass bong water all over me, and I have to go play bingo with my grandma later. Can I hop in your shower for a quick sec?"

The thing about accidents is that they happen all the time. You can think of a number of inventive scenarios in which you just have to bathe at someone else's abode twice or even thrice weekly.

Your friends will probably be talking behind your back about how clumsy you've become, but all the while you will definitely be smiling to yourself while lathering up with their expensive brand name body washes, and shaving your nads with their Mach 5 razors.

2) Ye Shan't Work From/ Loaf at Home

Look, I'm not saying you have to get a job. And I like loafing around just as much as the next guy. But think about it: just about any activity (save for sleeping) requires that you use electricity, heat and/or other resources that you must pay for. You can't play Call of Duty all day at your house without using electricity. You can't sit around in your underwear and watch porn unless you have electricity, Internet access, and possibly even heat.

I'm not saying you SHOULDN'T do these things. In fact, it is your constitutional right to play Call of Duty, watch porn, and/or eat Easy Mac while shopping online for chicken-themed kitchen decor.

I'm just saying you shouldn't do this stuff at your house. You can do some or a combination of all of these things in other places.

You can probably play Call of Duty at Walmart for a good long while. You can most definitely watch porn on your computer at Starbucks. If you feel exposed doing this (or don't want to pay for a cup of coffee...I don't blame you) you can always sit in the McDonald's parking lot and watch in the privacy of your own car, or behind a discreet shrub.

If you have gainful employment that is located outside of your living space - and you'd actually like to keep that position - you've pretty much got all of these bases covered, because you can typically do many of these things and even get paid at the same time.

3) Go Forth and Be Slutty.

Alright, this may be going a little bit too far for some people, but hear me out: I'm not promoting that you change into (or continue being) a dime store hooker for the physical pleasure it brings.

The point of this isn't fun, it's a FREE PLACE TO CRASH.

Even the biggest pieces of shit usually feel obligated to let a chick or dude sleep in their bed for a while after they've bumped uglies. Don't count on kisses or cuddling, but you will get something far better: a warm bed - at least for the night.

This is a major score, because it means that you don't have to have your heat or a/c cranked up in your apartment if you're not sleeping there! That's a solid 4-12 hours (depending on how you play your cards) of utility savings.

Plus, the great thing about this is that you can do it again EVERY NIGHT. Even if the chick you slept with last night pulled a knife, or the guy you boinked kept trying to show you his hairball collection while you were nodding off in his lap, you can just find another bed to sleep with tonight.

4) Refrain From Buying That Which is Naturally Abundant.

Now, this is mainly addressing the need for nourishment. Of both the physical and mental varieties. You definitely know by now that you can peruse Dunkin Donuts dumpsters, trash cans outside pizza parlors, and straight up sidewalks for food. You also know that you can get books, movies and music at libraries, right? Well, more often than not, you can also get that last crucial element you need for maximum comfort right outside in the Great Outdoors.

Let's Try Out a Few Equations to Familiarize Ourselves With the Concept:

Trashcan pizza scraps + lofty library novel+ 1970s side of the road Lay-Z Boy = Many afternoons of cost-effective bliss.

Also:

Expired health food store fruit leather + your mom's Dell laptop + library Ren & Stimpy DVD + metal TV dinner tray found in woods =
A solid week of al fresco nirvana.

Just make sure you are near an unlocked vehicle so you can plug your computer into the adapter for uninterrupted "Powdered Toast Man".

5) In Times of Need, Use-ith Only Crock Pot & Coffee Maker.

I don't really think you should buy these things. Perhaps, instead, ask for them for Christmas, Hanukkah, or Festivus. However, you should really have them on hand - at your own apartment - in case of emergencies.

An emergency is when it's precipitating outside and no one will come pick you up. Or, when you know for a fact that your car won't start because it's just a matter of time until the dampness seeps into your spark plugs and renders your vehicle into an asphalt-beached whale.

An emergency also might entail someone coming to visit. You know, that relative or "friend" that decides to "pop in" unannounced to see your new place. Let me first acknowledge that this is bullshit. Next, let's prepare you to use your Crock pot and coffee maker to service all of this intruder's needs.

OK, so basically you can make anything in a crock pot: meat, vegetables, dessert, breakfast, etc. You will have to suck it up and use a bit of electricity for this, but you're still good to go in terms of heating oil/gas. You can eat a meal made in this puppy for days, too, because it makes huge batches of grub. It's a god send.

Now, you may be a little bit more puzzled when it comes to the coffee maker.

"I don't drink coffee," you might say. (And I might ask: what is wrong with you?!)
Or, "I really prefer my cup of Joe squeezed from a french press." Well, you're a fucking snob. But also, the french press doesn't do the same magical things as a coffee maker does. After all, you have to boil water to get the damn thing to function, otherwise it's worthless.

A coffee maker will make coffee, but it will also boil water for tea and other stuff. Which brings me to the final commandment...

6) Your Quesadilla Runneth Over: Eat Mexican All Day, Every Day.

Alright, so that other amazing thing that a coffee maker does besides create delicious java and boil water for a myriad of needs? It makes QUESA-FUCKING-DILLAS.

Let me just sing the praises of Mexican cuisine for a bit, here: It's amazing.

Usually, tacos/burritos/quesadillas/enchiladas whathaveyou are a nutritionally complete meal when you include veggies (if you actually care about that), they're delicious, and most importantly - they're cheap as shit to make.

So basically, I learned from experience that when your stove doesn't work, when you have no microwave and no toaster oven, the coffee maker serves as a cooking surface.

Simply remove the glass carafe from the device, and then turn the appliance on. Next, you're going to want to grab a soft taco shell and shred some cheese up on that mofo, ese.

Just leave the taco on the coffee burner for like five to ten minutes and I promise you: the cheese will melt.

BAM! Instant hot plate.

Finally, add whatever else you want to put in there: chicken (cooked in crock pot beforehand, or from KFC bucket, whatever), beans, veggies, sour patch kids, tincture of bat toenail, etc.

A couple of minutes on that bad boy and you've got yourself some serious gourmet shit.

And demanded Moses of his Disciples,  

What Say You?!

**************

Singer/Songwriters & Their Respective Neuroses

There are a lot of great songs that we hear every day on the radio, our iPods or even in the grocery store.

However, even though we hum along and fumble through the lyrics, we don't always, well...think about exactly what these musicians are trying to say.

In fact, I hardly ever fucking know what song lyrics are trying to express - although I do have my suspicious. And my suspicions confirm that most, if not all songwriters, are absolutely looney tunes. (Which of course, doesn't mean we love them any less).

Here are a few songs I personally love, along with a rather judgmental assessment of what the lyrics of each are attempting to express...As well as a (kind of) clinical sum-up of what they're ultimately telling me about the singer/songwriter's personality.

Name: Iggy Pop

Diagnosis: Deranged, Perverted Stalker.

Evidence:

lyrics to "Search and Destroy":

"Look out honey, 'cause I'm using technology..."

This motherfucker is so into you, he's discreetly using his iPad (and, of course, the Interwebz) to discover your address, home phone number, the names of all living relatives, and their respective ages.

Once Iggy has your address, he will Google map your house and drive, walk or bicycle past it daily.

 "Baby penetrate my mind...
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin' - searchin' to destroy."

Chances are, this twisted character pleasures himself to your Facebook default pic and eventually breaks into your home to steal all of your dirty undies.

Name: Smokey Robinson.

Diagnosis: Anxious Attachment Style (AKA: Overly Needy Cry Baby)

Evidence:

lyrics to "I Second That Emotion":

"Oh, but if you feel like loving me / if you got the notion -
I second that emotion. 
Said, if you feel like giving me a lifetime of devotion,
I second that emotion..."

Whoaaa there, Smokes! There's a huge difference between "feeling like loving you" and "a lifetime of devotion". A BIG fucking difference, dude. I think you're taking things a bit too fast here. Let's slow it down a bit.


"Maybe you want to give me kisses sweet,
But only for one night with no repeat.
Maybe you'd go away and never call -
And a taste of honey's worse than none at all..." 

Seriously, Smokey?! Can't we just enjoy a movie for once in our fucking lives? Do we have to have this conversation about FEELINGS every single time we see each other?

Yeah, well, I guess if you think that "a taste of honey's worse than none at all," I'm going to think long and hard before giving you a taste of honey in the first place, if you get my drift...

Backup Evidence: lyrics to "Tears of a Clown" (self explanatory). You need to learn how to keep your shit together in public, man.

 Name: Gordon Lightfoot

Diagnosis: Avoidant Attachment Style/Pathological Narcissist 
(AKA: Category 5, Grade A Dickhead)


Evidence:

lyrics to "For Loving Me/Did She Mention My Name?":

"So don't you shed a tear for me,
'cause I ain't the love you thought I'd be...
I've got a hundred more like you
(So don't be blue)
I'll have a thousand 'fore I'm through."

OK, so let me get this straight. You're dumping me, and trying to comfort me...With the fact that there are shit tons of other chicks identical to me, and you're going to bang them all?

WOW, thanks! I feel like a million fucking bucks now - Good as new.

But wait--

"Now there you go you're cryin' again,
Now there you go you're cryin' again.
But then someday when your poor heart, is on the mend--
I just might pass this way again..."
That's what you get for lovin' me."

Holy shit. This is cold blooded.

He's disdainful of the fact that I'm (understandably) blubbering like a lovelorn war widow after the breakup. To make matters worse, the second scrap of "comfort" offered up is basically saying: once I start to feel strong again, when getting out of bed becomes less of a challenge each morning, he'll probably just come back around and fuck my shit up all over again.

OH, and it's not even over with him after that, either--

Most people only know this song as "For Lovin' Me". However, there's another version that gives us even more insight into the mind of this sadistic fuck. It's called "For Lovin' Me/Did She Mention My Name?"

After that whole dreadful first bit, the song segues into a pleasant folk lilt and he throws this little monkey wrench at us:

"Did she mention my name, just in passing
And when the talk ran high
Did the look in her eye seem far away?
Won't you say hello from someone, they'll be no need to explain -
And by the way, did she mention my name?"

Wow. Just, wow.

So now, this insufferable Cockasaurus Rex is hundreds of miles away, I'm finally getting back to a semblance of my former self, and I have this conversation with a neighbor:

"Oh, hiiii! Dude, you'll never guess who I bumped into the other day...Yeah, it was Gordon Lightfoot! He wanted me to tell you that he said 'hi'.

...

"Well actually, he said to tell you that he's screwed like 43 girls since you guys broke up, and all of them were much hotter than you...he like -- well, he just said, 'tell her someone she used to know says hi, and banged a chick that looked like you last week, only more attractive.'"

...

"Uhhhm....Well, I don't know why I didn't keep that to myself. I guess I just, like, thought I should let you know or something. Uh cool, yeah I'll see ya later, too. Yep, bye."

AWESOME.

More Bullshit Commercials

I laughed, covered my mouth in embarrassment (for the girl starring in this rubbish),  gasped in disbelief, and then laughed again.

Infomercials: Forever Fucked Up

hit counter



 I don't really feel like I even have to say anything to make this funnier than it already is. Or more pitiful, for that matter.

However, I'm going to make some comments anyhow:

A) "Forever Lazy" will definitely ensure that you never, ever get laid again.

B) Why is this better (or different) than the feety pajamas we wore as kids? Oh, wait--I know. It's different because we were five then, and forty year old adults SHOULD NOT WEAR ONE-PIECE SLEEPWEAR.

C) "While Dad does what he does best!" Jesus...I feel so fucking bad for that fictitious father. He fell asleep (after a couple of brewskis while watching the game) and now drunken dozing is what he "does best"?
Naturally, they aren't showing him slaving away at a thankless job for 10 hours a day, mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, or making sensibly healthy lunch decisions like half a sandwich and soup at Panera instead of the meat lover's sicilian-style heart attack from Little Caesar's. He tries, goddamn it! And this infomercial tries to take that all away from him with an ill-informed little jab suggesting he's lazy. Fucking bullshit.

D) "With a drawstring hoodie to keep the chilly weather away"...Wow. PLEASE don't give people the idea that these are acceptable to wear out of the house. Frankly, they shouldn't even be worn WITHIN the house.

E) "forever lazy has zippered hatches in the front and in the back..." Oh, ewwwwww. Being unwilling to pull your fucking pants down to take a shit or piss is the ultimate in filthy humanry. That's seriously as low as it gets.

The Mobile Shoe Chronicles

Summer's just taken its final bow and already I find myself nostalgic for some of its finer points: a ripe, juicy raspberry from the rail trail, the rush of bubbles and zesty refreshment that follows jumping (not diving) into a lake or pool, a worn New Balance sneaker lying on its side along the sunny highway...

Wait a minute......What?!

Yeah. I don't know if this is something that just an overly observant crackpot like me would notice, or perhaps everyone is aware of this phenomenon and it's just one of the many things we don't discuss.

You know what I'm talking about, I think.
Shoes on the side of the road.
Where the fuck do they come from?!

I can't even really imagine the scenario wherein footwear (and it's always just a solitary shoe, never a pair) would be destined to spend its last days directly adjacent to a roadway.

Well, I guess I can imagine one or two scenarios, actually...

Possibility #1: Abandonment Amid Insurmountable Anguish

The dashboard lights in Chad's Chrysler start to flash red in unison, and the vehicle sputters to a stop.

"Aggggh!! Fucking Troy!" he bellows, slamming his steroid-infused fists on the steering wheel.

It's the second time this week Chad has broken down on 787. He cranks the wheel all the way to the right and swings his legs out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Today, he's stuck on the exit 8 off-ramp coming into Green Island.

"Gotta push," he mutters.

 Chad gets behind the gray rust bucket and heaves his body weight against it. The wheels begin to turn. The vehicle moves and then slowly sinks, half astride the shoulder and halfway on the filthy, gravel-strewn grass.

He grabs his Monster energy drink from the cup holder and locks the doors.

Chad doesn't have AAA. In fact, he doesn't even have the money to get his cell phone turned back on, let alone enough cash to hire a tow truck if he could make a call.

He attempts to take a swing from the beverage can, but drops it mid-gulp, dripping radioactive liquid all over his stubbly face and mouth.

"GRAAAAAH!!!" Chad screams, spiraling into a sudden 'roid rage. He kicks his foot into the air, launching a size 9 New Balance sneaker into traffic. Then, he starts running against traffic along the highway, partially shoeless and panting.

He bursts into a nearby Gold's Gym, where he ends up punching a guy on a treadmill and throwing 45 pound weights at people as if they were weightless Gushers fruit snacks.

The abandoned New Balance sneaker sits on the side of the highway, shaking its head.

Possibility #2: Air-headed Reckless Abandon

It's a beautiful September afternoon. Taylor and Jimmy are on their way to 'Toga so they can eat overpriced hamburgers at Circus Cafe and then "get shitfaced" one more time before the summer ends.

Taylor is admiring her blue-painted toenails, positioned prominently on the dashboard. Damn, my pedicure looks effing awesome, she thinks to herself with a smug smile.

"Dude!!! Can you believe how, like...AMAZING it is out today?" she asks Jimmy rhetorically.

He turns to her and grins, wrap-around shades obscuring his terrifyingly pale, serial killer eyes.

"I know, babe, it's fuckin' unreal!" he says, leaning back in the driver's seat like a gansta.

Taylor hums along with a Ke$ha song playing on the radio. She just popped a Xanax and she's feeling good; frankly, dealing with Jimmy is SO much easier when she's on meds.

She tosses her head from side to side and and begins fist pumping. "This is my JAM," she cries.

She then transitions into a fist pumping/full body convulsive combo (maybe it's a spasm due to the medication, it's not really clear) which subsequently causes her to thrust her foot out the window. "Weee, hahahah!" she chortles.

The 70 mph highway speed creates a sheering wind, lifting Taylor's Havianas flip flop right off her foot. It sails happily into the breeze, glad to be rid of her.

 The sandal lands on the side of the Northway, where it currently lives today with an overweight husband, 2.3 children and a King Charles Spaniel.








hit counter

Thinking the Unthinkable...Doing the Unnatural.

 There are some things in life that seem plain unnatural to me. A large part of me reacts whenever I try to/consider doing these things, in a way that is most likely primal and self-protective. Simply put—something in me just doesn’t want to do it.

One of these things is diving.

I understand that people think diving is fun, and I would never begrudge someone else the pleasure of diving into water over and over and over again, but I just don’t get it, personally.

My cousin Sarah stood at the edge of the pool, her one-piece bathing suit dripping from previous Olympic-worthy attempts. “It’s not that hard,” she assured me. “Just arc your back and put your arms over your head in front of you. Then jump in head first, straight down.”

Ummm...go in head first? Straight down? I looked at her, and then the water, with uncertainty. Clouds rolling over the pool started to turn the water an uncertain shade of dark that failed to illuminate the depths.

Although I did eventually dive, I can’t say I loved doing it. Jumping into water headfirst is just...well, wrong. And when it’s diving into a lake, river or other watering hole that doesn’t have the reassuring “10 feet” painted along the side? Forget about it. Visions of paralysis and bloody head injuries dance around my brain.

Another thing that seems highly unnatural—When I first tried to do it, I never thought I could manage.

I was 11 years old, sitting in the optometrist’s room with the mirror, sink, and bright overhead lights. “Here you go,” my bespectacled doctor says cheerfully, handing me two small plastic ovals with numbers on them.

He peels them open for me. “See that little round jelly-looking thing there?” I nod my head. “That’s the contact lens. Now, I want you to balance that on your fingertip with the curved part touching your finger, like this. Good. Now, pull your eyelid down and place the lens on your eye. Then blink.”

...

Place the fucking lens on my EYEBALL? Are you insane? I look at him with obvious discomfort and trepidation. Aren’t we taught our whole lives to never put things in our eyes? 

“Be careful or you’ll poke an eye out?”

“Stop rough-housing or someone might lose an eye”?! 

This just felt so wrong. However, I got the hang of it, after at least an hour of agony and fighting with my reflexes to blink, pull my finger away at the last minute, and to not cry.

While I still hate diving, and the idea of putting a contact lens in my eye still seems unnatural, I can do these things now. One task that still eludes me from time to time has to do with a ubiquitous enemy: the Horse Pill.

The Horse Pill comes in many different forms—some seemingly innocent. I read an article in a magazine that touts vitamin and mineral supplements for everything from healthy, shiny hair to immunity boosts and more energy. Well, why the hell not? I ask myself.

I smuggle home the brown plastic bottle of pills and pry it open, a glass of water dutifully in hand. Then, I shake the bottle upside down into my hand and out comes...a fucking blue whale of a pill.

Taken aback and slightly fearful, I check the label. Yes, yes—it’s the Flax Seed oil that Dr. Oz guy recommended. But how could this be? Is there some sort of a height and weight adjusted pill size? Surely this version of the pill has to be for Shaquille O’Neil, because no one else has a throat the size of a fucking fully extended accordion to accommodate this nuclear submarine.

I place the pill on my tongue and slide it to the back of my throat. Then I fill my mouth with as much water as it can reasonably handle without spillover. I say a little prayer.

It may be telling to know that when I was about three years old, I choked on a Flintstones chewable vitamin. I hated the flavor of those godforsaken pills...”grape” flavor my ass. That shit did not taste like grape; more like a combination of dry dog food and Dimetapp cough syrup. So, I did what any respectable child would do when supervised and unable to spit something into a napkin.

I tried to swallow it whole.

Mayday, Mayday, abort mission...

I began to choke and fight for air as if I were pinned underwater by a wave.

I grabbed my mom’s voluminous 80’s sweater, her face contorting into a look of alarm. She throws me in front of her and makes a ball with her hands, pulling them sharply inward against my upper stomach.

After a few of these maneuvers, a purple object catapults from my gaping maw. Mom heaves a sigh of relief, and I gulp in as much sweet, fresh air as I can handle.

That’s the last time I take a fucking vitamin, I think to myself. (But without the “fucking” because I was three.)

******

Fast forward again to today.

Tipping my head back and scrunching my eyes shut, I fear the moment when I must hurl myself upon a sharp counter top corner, trying in vain to clear my throat of the Flax Seed pill with no one home to perform the Heimlich.

The horse meds go down without incident. “Thank you, Jeebus,” I quietly mutter.

Then, I look down at the kitchen table. Four more brown plastic bottles sit in a neat row, all varying in size, quietly taunting me like playground bullies. “Vitamin C” shrieks one. “B-6 and B-12 complex”, sneers another. I reach into each bottle, spilling out exactly one pill from each. My eyes widen with horror and disbelief.

All Horse Pills.

Every last one of them.

The Nuances of Interior Decoration

A couple of weeks ago, my pal Chantelle and I were trolling around Target. I just moved into a new apartment, and as such, was searching for some appropriate items to make my place inviting and home-y. A new bathroom rug was an important purchase on my list. It's not that I didn't have a bath mat already; it's just that it was a sickly, bloated-looking purplish pink hue, and it happened to look grotesque in the new bathing area.

My bathroom is now yellow, with white trim. This may be one of the many unfortunate side effects of possessing a vagina, but there is a large part of me that needs decor to "go with" its surroundings. A ghastly lavender-pink shower rug was certainly not going to do the trick in a yellow bathroom, LET ALONE with a cream and sage striped shower curtain. (Yep, I said fucking "cream and sage." Could I have said green and white? Yep, but I'm FANCY like that.) So, I did the thing that any self-respecting human with female reproductive organs would do: I sought an alternative.

Now, you are probably thinking: Cut to the chase, here...Did you get a white bath mat, or a yellow one? Or: I don't give a shit which color bath mat you chose! Well, then cease reading right now, because the plot thickens from here.

I didn't choose a yellow mat--I mean, what are the odds of picking up just the right shade of yellow without so much as a paint swatch? That's stuff and nonsense! Also, I know I could have gone with white, but have you SEEN how dirty white gets? My landlord comes in to fix the toilet with shit kickers on, simply riddled with cow feces. I'm not about to get a white bathroom rug so he can doodie all over it.

So in the end, I chose brown. I find it looks fantastic with most shades of yellow. it's basically a neutral, and nearly impossible to stain.

Stalking the aisles of Target, the elusive brown rug finally caught my eye. I saw the rich shag sticking out from the bottom shelf. Ahhh, here we go, I thought in delight. I grabbed it out; Chantelle nodded her approval. The rug was the perfect hue--a deep, chocolaty, earth color. I glanced at the tag, expecting it to say something like "Drizzled Cocoa" or "Rich Earthen Brown". Imagine my surprise when I see what it actually says:

WALRUS FUCKING BROWN?

"Sink your weary soles into the luxurious comfort of ...Walrus Brown."

"Nothing completes an elegant bathroom quite like the sensuousness of...Walrus Brown."

Yeah.

I know nothing makes me want to unwind and transcend the day's hardships more than the instantaneous nirvana that is Walrus Brown. I can enjoy a languid bath, an invigorating shower, or engage in some heated tusk wars.

...

Okay, okay...That shit ended up costing $9.99, and it looks pretty fly against my buttercup yellow walls. Not to mention the cream and sage shower cu--...Well; you get the idea.