Loads of Fun

So I live in an apartment complex that isn’t in the worst part of town.  It’s not even the next to worst.  It’s not ghetto adjacent even.  For some reason, however, while the rent goes up, so does the crime.  Or maybe I am just noticing it more. 

I was trying to do my laundry the other day.  Although it was 10am on a Tuesday and there are five machines (well, currently four since one was broken),  I had to make three attempts to get an empty machine.  I often have as many as 4-8 loads come Laundry Day (who knew my daughter and I could generate so much laundry???) and not a lot of full days off, so, like all residents with a mission to finish their laundry quickly, I usually prefer to use as many of the machines as possible.  Keep in mind it’s also $2/wash and $1.75/dry, so Laundry Day is pursuant to when I have the money to actually do the laundry as well. 

My neighbor (a brassy, but seemingly cool woman in her mid-40s or so) was in the laundry room on my first attempt to get a load in the wash.  She had just finished filling the four working washers, so I returned to my apartment to wait the 30 minutes until she was through.  At 30 minutes I tried again.  The washers had just been re-started.  Damn!  Someone had snuck in while I was watching an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  Back to the couch. 

Another 30 minutes went by.  I tried again.  This time there were three washers free.  Success!  I loaded them up and returned to hang out with Mrs. Maisel. 

When my wash was ready to transfer to the dryer, I returned to the laundry room.  Another older woman was in there, transferring her clothes to the dryers.  She was talking to a younger man about the hike in rent (mine has been raised $150 in two years).  He was pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.  Upon indicating that I could use the one he’d freed,  I started to load my soggy garments into it.  The man offhandedly mentioned something about how he was supposed to have clothes in two separate dryers, but returned to his upstairs apartment.

Which is when all hell broke loose.  As I was loading my clothes, the brassy neighbor came screaming down the stairs.  Well, not screaming because she had laryngitis, but whispering furiously. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?”  She looked in two of the dryers (one of which I was currently filling).  My neighbor slammed the other dryer door shut.  “Someone took my fucking laundry!!!”  She opened it again in disbelief.  Still no laundry.  “Seriously, where are my fucking clothes?”

So let me explain something here.  In spite of liking to use all the machines at once, I am a super courteous resident when it comes to laundry room usage.  If someone comes to the laundry room at the same time, I will relinquish use of one (some) of the machines.  I set a timer so that I can be sure to clear my machines in a timely manner.  I clean out my lint screens.  I hold the laundry room door open for other residents.  And I absolutely cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would be motivated to steal another person’s laundry. 

Yes, I have heard stories of a woman who will throw people’s laundry in the trash if they leave it in the washer for too long.  I’ve even walked into the laundry room when it smelled like shit (literally) because someone disposed of their dog’s feces in the same trashcan.  I have even found vomit-covered clothing strewn about outside of the laundry room (not sure what happened there).  Apparently, though, this laundry theft is a semi-common occurrence.  The older woman confirmed it with her own story of having recently found a note in the laundry room that was written by another resident pleading for the return of her newly cleaned clothes. 

This, my friends, is fucking bullshit.  I mean, seriously?  This is where we’re headed?  Is it really necessary to go out of one’s way to enter the laundry room (with a key no less) and steal from one’s neighbors?  To clarify, no one here is wealthy.  We ain’t washing couture in the laundry room.  My own laundry is only a veritable cornucopia of Walmart T-Shirts and Thrift Store Cardigans.  Some of my underwear is so filled with holes, I don’t know that I should even wear them as period panties.    What on earth would someone want with another person’s laundry?  I get freaked out just finding someone else’s sock mixed in with mine.  I don’t care if it’s been washed.  It’s not my fucking sock. 

So I went to the office to complain.  I told them I would happily write up a formal complaint.  Of course they did nothing.  They can’t (won’t) do anything, “management” said.  We’re supposed to stay with our laundry, I was told. So I responded (jokingly?), “Then don’t be surprised if you hear of a lavender-haired women in Laundry Room #5 beating up one of the other residents.” 

And so I went to sit in the fucking laundry room to babysit my clothes, writing this blog entry and throwing shade at anyone walking past.  It wasn’t even my laundry that was stolen, but now it’s my mission to make sure that it won’t be.  No one is to be trusted. 

What a waste of time.  Sigh. 

Until next time, my lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 30)

TWO SPACE OR NOT TWO SPACE

I readily admit that I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.  While I enjoy catching up with friends and acquaintances and I do like seeing and sharing memes, jpegs and random thoughts, sometimes Facebook can breed angst.  It can be a place where, rather than feeling uplifted, educated and inspired, I may feel horror, pain or ignorance.  Today, after reading an article posted on my friend’s page, however, I felt shame.

That’s right, shame.  You see, apparently I have a problem—A problem brought so clearly into the light by this article that I could feel nothing else:  I am a chronic two-spacer!  (Insert scary, dramatic music here!)

What is a two-spacer?  Let me explain:  In reading my blog entries, you might notice that there are large spaces after each of the periods.  These are created by typing an extra space in between the sentences.  This, my friends, is apparently WRONG.  At least, it is according to the article, "Why You Should Never, Ever Put Two Spaces After a Period", by Fahrad Manjoo.  Apparently, to add an extra space at the end of the sentence allegedly goes against the typography norm (meaning typographers really hate this practice).  The norm, of course, is to add only ONE space after each period, a simpler and much more efficient method of typing.  Double spaces will supposedly create holes in a paragraph, implying that the reader must pause, thereby breaking the flow of the writing.

Whew.  What is this world coming to?  First, Pluto is not a planet and now, no extra space.

I, like most adults of a certain age, learned the practice of the duo-space in a High School typing class.  The instructor was a big, burly coach, incidentally missing part of his pinky.  In a booming but strangely nasal voice, he would call out what we were to type:  "Period space bar space bar".  It has been ingrained ever since.  

Frankly, typing an extra space is no more work for me than typing one.  My fingers do it automatically.  If anything, I have to think harder about only using one space after a period, often because I am typing very quickly.  Also, as an actor, I LIKE pauses, dramatic or otherwise.  Pauses can enable our brains to better process the information.  Really, the only time a single space might become my habit is when I am typing a text or email on my phone.  Tiny keys and/or a touch screen are not necessarily conducive to a double-tap. 

So really, I guess I don’t feel shame about my two-spacing nature at all.  I was never big on norms anyway—even if I can be a bit of a Grammar Nazi. 

So space out, world!  It's your world.  Write what you will.  

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

PS  If you’d like to read an article which disputes the theory of a single space as better, check this one out.  It’s long, but pretty funny.   

*Entry for 2/2/14.  Only 10 More Days in the Countdown...Eep.   

40 Days Till 40 (Day 22)

SHAME, SHAME, WE KNOW YOUR NAME

A very kindhearted and lovely friend of mine posted on her Facebook page today that she was both saddened by and tired of all of the “shaming” she sees online.  She pleaded that we need to stop it, vowing instead to post only positive, innocuous comments (“I love cake!”) when she sees something that is upsetting or with which she disagrees.  I liked this idea, but of course it got me thinking.

Traditionally, “shaming” is defined as  “to cause to feel shame” or “to drive, force, etc., through shame.”  Lately, however, shaming has become about public humiliation, strangers (and sometimes acquaintances or family) feeling that it is OK to bash someone online, whether through photos, memes or comments.  Our communication skills—and compassion—have suffered. 

I was recently accused of “shaming” (although not online) by someone with whom I worked in a leadership position.  This really upset me both because I work really hard to be diplomatic and motivational, even in the direst circumstances, and because the person who said it was someone with whom I’d had problems.  I liked her, but she wasn’t the most tactful person, a habit that had previously caused great upset in our organization.

I wondered then (and frankly still wonder) what was her implied definition of “shaming”?  Was it calling to light an issue for which responsibility and action needed to be taken? To me, “shaming” is belittling, bullying and manipulating.  I didn’t call anyone names or intentionally insult them.  Was I being accused of shaming for telling people (including her) to do their jobs or to take ownership of their situation when they weren’t doing so otherwise? 

Or was she just saying it because she herself was insecure and didn’t like being told what to do? 

Either way, I am not with that organization anymore.  There were other factors leading up to that decision, but her comment was the last straw.  Since the divorce, I have learned that I do not do well with passive aggressive, disrespectful or unappreciative behavior and seeing a comment like that in a mass email did not sit well with me.  I have many other, much more positive projects on which I’d rather focus my time and energy. 

I will leave you with one last thought on shaming, however:  Can we really shame others if they don’t feel shame—or that they’ve done anything wrong? 

I’m rubber and you’re glue.  Whatever you say, bounces off me and sticks to you.  Lol.  

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

*In case you’re still wondering:  “Shame” is defined as “the painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc., done by oneself or another.”  Written 1/25/14.