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9:52 am | 12 March 2003 | don't be fooled by the frocks that i got

So i guess i had a bushel of preconceived notions about things that would change when i became an adult (i am not talking about being able to buy booze, although that is possibly the best part about the whole rigamarole). No, i mean things that would change about me. I was wrong, dead wrong. Here are a few examples:

1. My clothes will be in good shape, well-taken-care-of, and will match.
No. I am wearing, today, a luscious celadon-coloured a-line suede skirt...that i have not worn since last St. Patrick's Day. It would seem that, at this time last year, i got a small spot of something on the crotch, and have not been able to get it out (it appears to be ash, which makes sense--i remember being seventeen and being so drunk i dropped a cigarette into my lap, where it burned merrily until someone fished it out--and since i was drinking heavily on Amateur-Night-i-mean-St-Patrick's-Day, ash seems reasonable). So this morning, as i tried to remove the grey, quarter-sized smudge, it occurred to me that i'll probably always be like this. My clothes will probably always have a smear of paint, or a patch, or a tear, or a run. I am simply not anal enough to care about this sort of thing. (For those of you who are interested, the spot is now mostly gone--a combination of rubbing it with poster putty and then gently massaging baby powder into the remaining dark spot has largely camouflaged it--and anyway, you shouldn't be looking there in the first place, you pervs.)

2. Similar to the above, I will have my shit together.
Yeah, right. My bag is still a comforting jumble of cig boxes, gum wrappers, notebooks, lipgloss, sundry tools*, and necessary medical supplies (bandaids, aspirin, carpal tunnel arm brace, etc). I have realized the value of the vertical surface for keeping track of important papers and so the back of my apartment's door flutters gently with receipts, post-office parcel notices, phone numbers, and post-its that i have forgotten the meaning of (7507 W. Cermak, one reads. I have no idea where/what this is. Another: Lieblingsfarbe. I do not speak German. And so forth.) I also didn't do my taxes for two years because i had W2s from Illinois, Michigan, and California, and it just seemed too daunting so i filed them all away. But after a while, i sucked it up and got them done (read: i gave them to an accountant because i was afraid of the long arm of the law). Hey, I still got $700 back!

3. I will not be afraid of things (you know, "things").
Ha. No. The spare closet in my studio, comfortingly lit by a single bare bulb dangling from an Inquisition-style chain and packed with art supplies, board games, and fabric, has proved the ideal hidey-hole for when things get gritty. In fact, if i were one of those people who give a shit about terrorists, it'd be the perfect place to line with duct tape and tinfoil--it has access to water pipes and outside ventilation that can be manually controlled, etc. But since "terrorists invading my five-unit building with harmful intent" is not near the top of my phobia list, i have not done so. Now, do i, in fact, harbor an irrational fear that i will be somehow transported back to the Mesozoic but my cell phone will still work to call the present, enabling me to call my friends and go slowly insane and die while they assume i'm just all cracked out in People's Park? Yes, yes i do. But i haven't figured out what kind of plastic tarp and duct tape will stop that from happening, so i hang out in my closet and crochet instead. Hey, it passes the time!

4. My apartment will be spotless at all times.
I don't know whether there was some magical moment where my mothers decided to get their shit together, or whether it's a generational thing--they are both natural caretakers and my stepmom, in particular, has an OCD sense of cleanliness and order (once i dusted the shelves in the den and a few hours later she came downstairs, livid. "Who moved the duck?" she demanded, threateningly. It would appear that when i replaced the knickknacks on the now-dust-free shelves, i foolishly set the carved wooden mallard seriously TWO INCHES to the left of where it had been. Oh, tragedy! She is totally insane). At any rate, though several of my friends (including the Asian Federation) are pretty serious housekeepers, the larger number (many of them perilously close to the age of thirty) are still existing in the sort of beer-can-strewn, crusty-dishes-havin' houses that i tried to avoid at (gulp) Michigan State. And anyway, some of my neatest/cleanest friends still rack up parking tickets, or get their cars towed on a monthly basis, or fall down all the time. So who knows? When i am in a good mood, the apartment is perfect. When i am depressed, such as over the last month, i huddle piteously amid heaps of clothes, books, and granola boxes. Well, fuck it. The dog doesn't mind. clm.

* For some reason i have a collapsible, Swiss-army-style twenty-piece Allen wrench in my bag's inner pocket, which will, i guess, let me assemble the shit out of any Ikea furniture anytime, anywhere (I am here envisioning some kind of West-Side-Story type rumble--Now, gentlemen, ladies, we will...assemble the Hussar!. And all i have to say about that is: Look out, Swedes.


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