How can my apartment not be clean yet? It feels like I've been cleaning apartments for years. Obviously I have far too much stuff if I can still be cleaning like, a jillion years after I started.
Yesterday Figaro and I were discussing the short lapse of time until he arrives, and I mentioned that I had to clean the apartment before he did. He explained that he was already aware of what filth I was content to live in so I shouldn't bother. I pointed out that I was aware he was aware, but as a reasonable hostess, if nothing else, I didn't want him to get an infection in here or something. And he laughed. Maybe because of his visual nature, he always has a tickety-boo household - meals on time and no rubbish strewn across the floor and stuff like that. I must say it's very attractive. I can hardly organise my ass into panties every morning.
I've started being rude to salespeople, which I suppose heralds my entry into the middle class. As in this exchange at the Hummingbird Centre:
Spliffe: Hi, a friend and I each have orchestra tickets for Thursday night's Wozzeck, but we'd like to go together. Can we swap these for two cheaper seats together on the balcony?
Salesperson: (Blank stare) Uhm, that person over there can help you. Wait. Uhhhhhhh . . . how much did you pay for them?
Spliffe: Hold on, I'll check.
Salesperson: Was it 20-something? Because if it's 20-something, there's no exchanges.
Spliffe: Okay, I'll pay a premium.
Salesperson: No, there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: Even if I pay a premium, for worse seats?
Salesperson: Yes, that's right, unfortunately there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: You realize that makes no fucking sense, right? Honestly, that's the dumbest thing I've heard all day.
Salesperson: Well, when you buy the tickets you're told . . . (Spliffe fucks off in a little huff.)
I did not need to say 'fuck' to the salesperson. I did not need to cut her off midsentence, but most of all I did not need to manifest anger at her for following procedures, even if those procedures were the dumbest thing I'd heard all day and made no fucking sense. But nonetheless, if the same thing happened today there's a good chance I'd do it again. Working in sales must be R_U_P_T rough. I've been in a position of authority over people making requests to me professionally for so long my intuition has forgot that - I know it intellectually, how it sucks working in sales, but my emotional reaction to rubbish like that is an anger against the institution that manifests by me swearing at some dead-eyed salesperson who almost certainly isn't paid enough to give a fuck about whatever he or she is selling.
Well, at least I'm not rude to wait-staff. When that day comes, so do the SSRI's, which a doctor with whom I'm on close terms claims she'll prescribe at the drop of a hat - not just for those who need it for clinical disorders, but also for the cranky. Don't like the idea - but people who are rude to wait staff need spanking and perhaps chemical help.