I live alone. Sometimes it’s sucky. Like when I’m making dinner. For one. Again. There’s a scene in Must Love Dogs when Diane Lane (love her!) starts yelling at the butcher that she mostly eats over the sink and doesn’t need recipes. That’s me. Except it’s usually the little peninsula counter thing I have because the sink is in the corner and it’s dark over there. And I like recipes because I like to cook. But sometimes living alone is great. Like when I can hog the bathroom and the hot water in the morning. Or if I forget a towel when I shower or forget to grab the clean underwear from the dryer before said shower, I can dash around the apartment au natural (this could probably happen if you lived with your significant other. Or a roommate you’re creepily close too.) Me? not so much with the naked in front of the roommates. I think they appreciated that about me. And then there are the habits that are learned when living alone. Like running around the apartment without clothes on. Or taking a shower without the door closed. Or leaving the window mostly open in the middle of winter and making it freeeezing upstairs but toasty downstairs. Or leaving laundry everywhere. Or not washing dishes. For days. I like to hide the fact that I’m such a slob. Those close to me know it’s a lie, but they let me be in denial when I’ve frantically cleaned before their arrival and then casually comment “it’s usually cleaner than this, but I ran out of time”. To the rest of the world I can hide my shame when it comes to dirty dishes (and, um, the eternal pile of dirty laundry in the living room [it’s near the bathroom and the stairs to the basement, why would I ever bring it all the way upstairs just to bring it back down]). It’s just. I’m the only one who sees it. And as long as there is enough clean underwear and enough pans to cook vegetables and meat into some sort of dinner. And as long as there are enough plates to eat over the peninsula. And as long as there are enough clean forks to eat pie. Dirty dish/laundry piles don’t really bother me. Unless it’s summer because then there are bugs. And my apartment is old and has a wet cool cellar with C-E-N-T-I-P-E-D-E-S. This is one reason I really wish I had a big strong roommate, male or female. I can deal with most bugs. But those nasty brown-thousand-leg-move-at-the-speed-of-light things freak me the eff out. Seriously. In terms of creep factor they are on par with the s word. (the s word is the animal that Padma wants on a mother-effing plate). So in the summer I keep things a little cleaner in a futile attempt to keep nasty things away. Usually this fake I’m-always-this-clean routine works. Until I need an oil delivery. And because I’m a new customer the oil dude has to come out to “inspect” the oil tank. And he tells me I have a leak. And I call my dad, who is friends with the landlord (which is how I landed in my apartment) and my dad and the landlord talk back and forth and my dad calls and asks questions like “How was he able to inspect the tank, it’s behind a wall.” And I have to explain the dude told me he has to look at the bottom of the tank and there’s a hole in the wall so that the bottom of the tank can be seen. And then he asks “well is it a puddle, because they spilled some oil when they put the new boiler in” and I explain “I don’t know. The dude just said it’s leaking and he maybe had his hand on the pipes”. And then he asks “which pipes? The big ones coming from the tank?” and I’m think the eff I know. I don’t have a plumber’s license and though I’m independent in most ways I’m the idiot that’s been checking the tank gauge (win for me for not being a total idiot) since July even though only the heat uses oil and I didn’t turn on the heat until October 28^th but what I said was “I don’t know. The small pipes near the bottom?” hoping that by making it a question, rather than a statement, he could maybe fill in the blanks and get me to say whatever it is he wanted me to say so he would understand what his crazy offspring was saying. Instead he repeated “small pipes near the bottom” slowly in a way that let me know he was writing it down and he was trying to write it down verbatim. But wait. He knows all there is to know about stuff like this. This is why I called him. If he’s writing something down its foreign to him. And now I’m the girl who doesn’t know what pipes are in her basement (that’s what she said. ha!) But really. I can tip toe into the basement in the pitch black to reset the fuse. And I can change the light bulb in the head lights of my car. And once I even replaced a whole tail light. And I can hunt down that damn beeping smoke detector and get a new battery in that bad boy. And I can deal with a clogged drain. And I built a pot and pan rack from wood and nails and stuff, and screwed it into the wall. But if you ask me to point to the water heater or boiler or other big metal tank-shaped thing in my basement I’d eenie-meenie-miney-mo it and try to look as cute as possible when I guessed. Anyways, my dad took his notes, talked to the land lord and then called me back. And this whole post is to get to this. The landlord is stopping by this afternoon sometime. He lives next door to me so it’s nice and convenient for him to stop by when he can. And when he lets himself in I’ll still be at work or the gym. AND HE’S GOING TO SEE MY DIRTY DISH PILES. Think this will change my behaviors? No way, man. But at least I have the decency to have shaaaame for an hour. Until pinterest lures me in with it’s pretty pictures. Then those dishes will be far away resting on the back burner of my mind. And on the back burner of the stove.