As usual, the geniuses that are the members of my condo's Home Owner's Association Board of Directors have scheduled outside window washing during the hottest month of the year. Here's who suffers, and why, in order of importance:
1) Me. This building has poor circulation and aluminum siding, so it's warm in here even in April. Thanks to this feature I rarely have to turn the heat on in the mild Seattle winter, but the only thing that allows me to maintain a little sanity the other three seasons is to have my window-inserted, portable air conditioner on day and night. In order to have any of my windows washed, I have to remove the special insert and close my window DURING THE HOTTEST MONTH OF THE YEAR. I love sweating in a 110 degree room with no circulation almost as much as I enjoy eating live spiders or having sex with molten glass.
2) Other people who live in my building. They think it's stupid, too. They keep allowing the Board to schedule this same activity at this same time, but they're all a bunch of pussies who are deathly afraid of the angry little bag of wind who elected himself Board President. I can't fight him alone, mostly because he knows I don't like him, whereas everyone else sticks to talking about him behind his back and agreeing with him to his face.
3) The window washers. Apart from the occasional glimpse at some of the better looking people in the building forgetting to wear clothing that day, window washers don't enjoy dangling off of a tin can heated to 1000 degrees. As stated above, this building has metal siding, and though most people who do such loathsome jobs are used to heat, they're not used to third degree burns.
4) My dog. I rescued a dog this past spring from a kind but neglectful home in a cool state, where he was living after having been rescued from an abusive home in a hot state. There's a fifty-fifty chance he's never experienced what to him will be a surprise external window washing. He will, no doubt, express his surprise at an hour when I am never awake unless forced out of bed at gunpoint. The window washing will continue on my side of the building for hours, which will allow my dog plenty of opportunities to bark with alarm. Oh, goody.
There are other things that need doing around here, and getting outside windows washed is a waste of money. It only lasts a week, it costs thousands of dollars and it doesn't keep us residents safe from the throngs of violent gang members and junkies in withdrawals desperately trying to get inside and steal something to pawn. Fixing the broken garage door, and putting a security system between the garage and the rest of the building, would. But that was shot down by the Board President.
Then again, what good is my stuff if I'm dead or in the hospital unable to enjoy it? The main problem with no security in a gritty, urban neighborhood is the potential for a mugging or a raping or whatever anyone feels like doing to a man or woman. What I find is that when you say "no security" to a man--or woman who grew up in a Martian suburb--he thinks "I don't want my electronics stolen because they were expensive." When you say it to your average, urban woman she thinks "Here's my wall-mount, flat-screen TV! It's HD ready and cost $3,000! Please don't rape me!"
What lesson have I learned? Next condo, make sure the security system could foil an MI-5 agent. Make sure to buy during the summer, because we bought in winter and had no idea what "this building retains heat nicely" meant. Make sure a woman who could care less if she can see outside or not, and who grew up nowhere near a farm, gets herself elected HOA Board President.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Calling All Professional Insomniacs
A recent study found that morning people are marginally more successful than night people. Complying to convention gets you a bigger paycheck than those who set their own hours. I didn't need some stupid study to tell me this, because I'm living the dream--pardon the pun. The results are indisputable, but the impetus is completely unfair.
Why is it everyone expects the night persons of the world adhere to the crack-of-dawn schedule of stock jocks and line cooks? Nights aren't the exclusive domain of drug addicts, vampires and rock stars, are they? I lead a dull and sedentary life of disabled leisure, without the pleasures of blow, fresh blood and groupies; and I'm not the only sober alive who functions better with sleep hours of roughly 3:00 a.m.-10:30 a.m. Admittedly, I've even completely missed a noon appointment. I'm becoming unapologetic to the point of rudeness, while watching fellow night owls make themselves miserable trying to please the majority.
My mother, for instance. She often drags herself out of bed at 8:00 a.m., Thursdays, with four hours of sleep under her belt, to take advantage of grocery store senior discount day. That's when her time's a'wastin' pals want to go, as if retirees have some place they have to be after shopping. Instead of accepting that she's under slept, miserable and suffering from sleep-deprivation psychosis--and negotiating a compromise--she's more afraid of disapproval than misery.
"It pisses me off, too, but it's what we have to do to maintain our friendships, Wendi. You're the weird one." Instead of being a compatriot, she wants me to join in the misery. "I'd rather be a well rested, slightly less bitchy person when around my friends," say I. "They should thank me for sleeping through brunch. And my name is Wendina, not Wendi. You of all people..."
It's a convincing piece of evidence that our mothers have no concept of the changing of the times. Our standards of civility are different, even for morning people. We are living in an entirely different world than the one moms grew up in, when farms actually existed, and cows needed tending, and chickens dropped eggs that needed to be snatched before they formed embryos, and crops had to be harvested before sunrise so farmhands could avoid heatstroke... and their vittles had to be on the table by dawn. Gone are complex, 1952 hairdos, aprons and perfect make-up. No more turkey in the oven by 5:00 a.m. so it's ready for serving by noon.
But I completely digressed, thanks to the hot button that is the word 'mother'. What I mean to say is, I'm hell bent on disproving those study results. I'm going to finish that book I've been writing for four years and get my ass on Oprah before she retires. Then I'm going to spend my long, lonely nights counting all the cash that'll come my way. And I'm going to start a not-for-profit dedicated to getting miserable night people the sleeping pills they need to drift off by 11:00 p.m. every night, so they can go out and make a slightly better living.
Speaking of Oprah, when does that rich bitch usually get out of bed?
Why is it everyone expects the night persons of the world adhere to the crack-of-dawn schedule of stock jocks and line cooks? Nights aren't the exclusive domain of drug addicts, vampires and rock stars, are they? I lead a dull and sedentary life of disabled leisure, without the pleasures of blow, fresh blood and groupies; and I'm not the only sober alive who functions better with sleep hours of roughly 3:00 a.m.-10:30 a.m. Admittedly, I've even completely missed a noon appointment. I'm becoming unapologetic to the point of rudeness, while watching fellow night owls make themselves miserable trying to please the majority.
My mother, for instance. She often drags herself out of bed at 8:00 a.m., Thursdays, with four hours of sleep under her belt, to take advantage of grocery store senior discount day. That's when her time's a'wastin' pals want to go, as if retirees have some place they have to be after shopping. Instead of accepting that she's under slept, miserable and suffering from sleep-deprivation psychosis--and negotiating a compromise--she's more afraid of disapproval than misery.
"It pisses me off, too, but it's what we have to do to maintain our friendships, Wendi. You're the weird one." Instead of being a compatriot, she wants me to join in the misery. "I'd rather be a well rested, slightly less bitchy person when around my friends," say I. "They should thank me for sleeping through brunch. And my name is Wendina, not Wendi. You of all people..."
It's a convincing piece of evidence that our mothers have no concept of the changing of the times. Our standards of civility are different, even for morning people. We are living in an entirely different world than the one moms grew up in, when farms actually existed, and cows needed tending, and chickens dropped eggs that needed to be snatched before they formed embryos, and crops had to be harvested before sunrise so farmhands could avoid heatstroke... and their vittles had to be on the table by dawn. Gone are complex, 1952 hairdos, aprons and perfect make-up. No more turkey in the oven by 5:00 a.m. so it's ready for serving by noon.
But I completely digressed, thanks to the hot button that is the word 'mother'. What I mean to say is, I'm hell bent on disproving those study results. I'm going to finish that book I've been writing for four years and get my ass on Oprah before she retires. Then I'm going to spend my long, lonely nights counting all the cash that'll come my way. And I'm going to start a not-for-profit dedicated to getting miserable night people the sleeping pills they need to drift off by 11:00 p.m. every night, so they can go out and make a slightly better living.
Speaking of Oprah, when does that rich bitch usually get out of bed?
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