last monday my apartment flooded. FROM ABOVE, which was really an extra special kind of a treat. so the worst part wasn't the floor above collapsing into my living space. it also wasn't the hours i had to spend throwing out most of my belongings because the asshole who lives above me fell asleep with the shower running. it wasn't even the finding out that he's broke and hasn't paid rent in months and the only way to recover any damages would be to sue him for the handful of starburst in his threadbare hoodie pocket. no, the worst motherfucking part of this whole nightmarish ordeal was shoving the cat into a pillowcase that she would not stop trying to chew and claw her way out of while i ran up and down the stairs trying to find the maintenance dude only to have him tell me there was "nothing he could legally do." it was like carrying a bag of pissed off coyotes, man. coyotes who won't stop yowling at an ear-splitting volume while shitting themselves even though you are asking them in your calmest end of the world voice to settle it the fuck down already. this counterproductive bitch couldn't get it through her tiny brain that without the safety of that standard size soft cotton jersey she would drown a bitter old spinster because there currently are no working arks on the north side of chicago.
and i know what you're thinking: good thing you kept up the payments on that renter's insurance you were savvy enough to purchase, responsible grown up person! well, um, about that.
i mean, if we're talking about being a grownup let's talk about how i'm not even writing this at home right now, because although i have been living in the same tiny apartment for the last six years i still haven't set up internet there. YOU READ THAT RIGHT. six years in the same place and i have yet to call AT&T to come set my shit up. six years of slow porn and endless mp3 downloads and i am still dragging my laptop to heartland and growling rabbit unshowered and in my pajamas three times a week to spend hours at a time writing jokes and eating room temperature quiche while trying to dodge the red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes of all of the hip millenials scowling at their macbooks through fragrant cappucino steam, lulled to indiffernce by the soothing sounds of cold war kids and . and also avoiding that awkward mating dance around the shared electrical outlets, which is quite possibly the least graceful human interaction on the planet. i hate playing coffeeshop twister with some bearded dude wearing beats headphones and a knit hat inside because i forgot to charge my little computer before i left the house, dislocating my joints and shit trying to reach around a motherfucker pretending he doesn't know he's blocking three perfectly good outlets.
and let's also talk about how i didn't even have a piece of paper to write this list on so i stole the new york times style section from the communal newspaper table and scribbled it on that. and i didn't even make it up, i just compiled a bunch of random internet checklists. fucking hopeless.
totally scientific adulthood necessity checklist:
1 renter's insurance. had it, let it lapse. here's the thing, though, before you get all haughty and judgmental: i paid for that shit for eight years, FOR EIGHT REAL YEARS, before i absentmindedly closed the bank account the monthly payments were debited from without transferring it to my new one. eight real years without a fire, eight real years without a burglary, eight real years without my motherfucking ceiling collapsing on my head when all i was trying to do was watch matt lauer and eat some cold rice noodles. two months ago i'd be throwing my head back laughing gaily as i surveyed the new furniture my insurance settlement bought. instead i am left wondering where all my goddamn socks went. OH YEAH, THEY DROWNED. [ ]
2 401k. okay, so i just got paid. and usually i toss my paystub in the trash without even looking at the shit so i can get on asos and buy some more shit i'll never wear, but this time i looked at it. and, so far this year, i have contributed $1200 to my retirement fund. well, who the fuck knew?! that's amazing. especially if i want to comfortably retire in a one-room tin house in liberia. HOLY FUCK WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WHEN I'M OLD. jesus, i better die while i can still afford an apartment for someone to find my hot, young corpse in. i don't know how long i've been contributing to this shit because i can't even tell you what i had for dinner yesterday, but let's say i've been setting aside $1200/yr for six years. that is $7200. i can't even buy a t-shirt from the jay-z collection at barney's with that shit. which is to say if i could even figure out HOW, because i have no idea what bank this money is in or whose dick i have to suck to get some out. what good is this money if i can't dip into it when the next generation iphone comes out? DOES THIS MONEY EVEN EXIST?! [ ]
3 a signature drink. laura was talking a few minutes ago about how her wine refrigerator keeps her pinot grigio at the perfect temperature and i just sat there slack-jawed, mouth agape, because i don't know what the fuck grigio means. homie is, what, thirty years old? and already has a refrigerator specifically for wine?! WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH MYSELF. i mean, i have a freezer that is filled with outdated lean cuisines, but i don't think that's really a thing. at au cheval the other night mwongeli was talking to me and geno about the cocktail list and totally gave me the side eye when i ordered a drink fit for someone with the palate of a seven-year-old. i know how to order a whiskey that sounds cool, and i know enough about scotch and bourbon not to embarrass myself in case jack donaghy ever asks me out for happy hour, but let's be honest: the best drinks are the ones that look like ice cream and have umbrellas and shit in them. or they're the color of antifreeze and served in an actual hula girl's belly button. there is no better sound on earth than the slapping of a palm against the side of a blender as it tries to coax out the last frothy bits of your tropical typhoon colada breeze punch. [x]
4 a tailor, a therapist, and a barber. two out of three ain't bad. unfortunately for my shattered nerves, the dude who lengthens my inseams and the woman who cuts my hair can't solve the nervous breakdown of which i am regularly on the precipice. man, i am stressed the fuck out. and anxious all the time. plus i'm crying more than usual, over dog food commercials and television singing competitions and little kids outside without mittens on. i really might be losing it. i made an appointment to have a bodyworker deal with this joint pain, i'ma start taking yoga from liz in january, and maybe by then my insurance will turn over and i can start talking to a professional about how to process my feelings in a healthy way but until then i'm taking the point here because HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU KNOW THAT HAVE AN ACTUAL TAILOR. [x]
5 knows about good coffee and wine. i don't know shit about coffee. if you put a styrofoam cup of day-old gas station coffee in my left hand and the most expensive cup of freshly-made pour over intelligentsia coffee in my right i would not be able to tell the difference between the two. and wine is hella confusing. WHY ARE THERE SO MANY KINDS. and then there are, like, sub-genres and shit. the wine store is like the motherfucking matrix. i don't have time deciphering wine within wine, just give me a box of that cheap shit which i will pour into a decanter and no one will ever be the wiser. my friends are fucking dirtbags. i mean, these bitches do shots of old granddad. i'ma take a sommelier course and waste $50 on a bottle of wine for that hoe? NAW, BRO. [ ]
6 legal representation. ask your dad if i have a lawyer. i was served with my first subpoena when i was 19, and the first thing i did was go straight to your childhood home with a copy of the surveillance tape and a shoebox full of receipts and asked that dude to get my ass the fuck out of trouble. it's steady work. i stay getting into hilarious jams. legal shit is boring. [x]
7 a real suitcase. every time i go anywhere the only thing i have that is big enough to hold some unfolded yoga pants and a couple pairs of emergency underwear is this giant patagonia messenger bag i got from this outdoor person store around the corner from my job ten years ago. the fucking thing is not even meant for travel, but it's the only bag i own that clicks shut and has actual zippers. the bitches in the store were like, "what are you even doing in here?" with their eyes when i bought it, as it is meant for long athletic, granola-fueled hikes over mountainous terrain. and no, i am not going camping anytime in the near future aka ever in my whole life, but i needed a sturdy motherfucking bag so i bought it. and that bag has been to new york, california, denver, DC, and tunica, ms. and every time i've met my ride in the airport s/he has asked me if we needed to go get my actual suitcase from baggage claim. [ ]
8 has some savings and an emergency fund. how much do you have to have in the bank for it to count as "savings?" like, if my rent check hasn't cleared yet and sprint is taking an extra-long time to process my most recent payment and there are still four figures in my account can we call that an "emergency fund?" i need to see proof that you single people with hourly jobs are actually putting money away and letting it earn interest or whatever. (i have no idea how that works.) every time i think i have an extra thousand bucks just lying around my tooth falls out or my ceiling falls in and there goes the down payment on that lion i've been wanting to buy. [ ]
9 remembers birthdays. thank goodness for the internet. i am trying to limit my facebook activity because it is an overwhelming mindfuck, but the one thing it's good for is making me look like a caring human being on your birthday. i know what you're thinking. "don't be too proud of yourself. a real grownup would have a datebook with everyone's birthdays and anniversaries written in it so she could mail cards and gifts in advance. e-cards don't count as real acknowledgement." and to that i say: um, well. you might be right. i have absolutely no defense. SHIT. [ ]
10 owns a basic set of tools. I HAVE ONE HAMMER. and it's not even mine, mel gave to to me when i told him i had tried to use a meat tenderizer to put nails into a dresser i was putting together a few years ago and then i just never gave it back. where do people learn how to build things? is that what children who aren't raised by functioning alcoholics do for fun on the weekends?! in my house, we slept until three in the afternoon and talked really quietly until dinnertime, when the advil kicked in and it was almost time for another cocktail. were the rest of you getting up early to construct treehouses and jungle gyms in your backyard? i have never had the desire to put anything together ever, and the only reason i even bothered with the dresser was because mark put it together for me and i broke a drawer and was too embarrassed to ask him to come over and fix it. this is why i will never own a house, because i don't ever want to know how a wrench works. i want to email my building manager with a list of the shit i broke in the morning and come home to fixed shit that night. I HAVE NO USE FOR PLIERS, SIR. [ ]
11 goes to the grocery store and makes healthy, responsible choices. my last peapod order consisted mostly of seltzer water and gluten-free pie. [ ]
12 keeps a well-stocked medicine cabinet. here's what i got if you get sick at my place: tons of imodium in case you have diarrhea, a shitload of prescriptions that won't help your situation in the least bit unless you develop acute crohn's disease minutes after you walk through the door and even then you probably need a doctor, and a large ziploc bag filled with assorted expired name brand cold medicines, because i am stupid enough to believe that generics don't work as well. seriously, i have so much old mucinex. but nothing for a sore throat. or a toothache. i don't have any antacids. no neosporin, nothing for a regular headache, and half a box of those pills that turn your pee orange if you have a UTI that i bought in 2006. i have a giant bottle of potassium supplements but no visine, a refrigerator full of fancy probiotics but no nyquil. i have three economy-sized bottles of fish oil, but if you have a runny nose when you come over to watch american horror story i would have to give you a roll of toilet paper. at least it's extra soft. [ ]
13 has funeral shoes. and if you died from a horrible lung infection right now because i can't keep not-expired cough syrup around, i would be stuck wearing black bootcut yoga pants, these black puffy north face boots i have to put an insole in because they're basically flat inside and destroy my fucking knees, and my winter coat to your goddamned funeral. i'm pretty sure i have some black dress pants somewhere and the kind of sheer black shirts you can't wear out during the day otherwise people will be able to count your multiple skin folds with stunning accuracy, but that shit is not appropriate. are funerals the kind of thing you can send a gift card to six months after you missed it? i'm asking for a friend. one who wears flip flops and gym shoes all the time. [ ]
total score: infant, essentially.
click here. buy my book. i need a new bed.