High Maintenance

I awoke this morning with a start as I had just realized my artwork was coming due and I would have to return it to the library soon.

The main two items hanging on my while apartment walls were both checked out from the local Public Library.

From a tiny room tucked away in a discreet corner of the upstairs, I hauled down my little black and white Ansel Adams and "Victorian Winter" to the elderly woman and handed her my card. I was a bit nervous as the whole thing seemed so out of the ordinary, but she didn't bat a false eyelash.

"That'll be $4 please, $2 each." So, for $2 a piece I was out the door with my artwork securely wrapped in a big ass canvas tote marked "Property of Public Library".

I have no couch in my apartment, but darn it I have art. If only for 3 months. By the way, I was able to renew the pictures for 2 more weeks. This is perfect as it will allow me to keep them for the Super Bowl (American Football championship) party I am throwing. The invitation clearly states BYOC. Bring Your Own Chair. It may seem funny, but it's not a joke.

I don't really have much in my apartment but I have made it a well organized, clean and fun place for my children and me. What it lacks in amenities and comforts in makes up in freedom. I love my apartment. There are some oddities, however (due to my oddities, mostly).

I have towels hanging in my master bathroom (a term I use very loosely in this case) that have little tassels on them and match the color scheme of my bedroom comforter / pillow set. I do not use them, as I have put them there merely for show. They are not machine washable.

Seriously.

I store my toiletries in a tupperware container which I keep under the sink. Yes, it would be nice to have a proper fancy schmancy drawer, but this plastic bin does quite nicely, thank-you. It also stacks neatly on top of the other containers stored underneath containing medical supplies, back-up supplies, and miscellaneous, respectively.

My Love derides me for keeping the toilet seats in my apartment completely shut. She admires the fact I have bowed to her feminine preference to keep the seat down, but wonders why I spoil it by also closing the cover.

I do this due to my fear of losing stuff down my toilet.

One morning I was bleary eyed and more bull-in-a-China-shop than usual and I knocked my entire plastic bin off my vanity. The contents flew everywhere in the cramped quarters and most landed harmlessly on the white linoleum floor. Most, that is, except for my night bite guard.
As a still recovering stress jockey I tend to grind my teeth at night. It was worse years ago when I would wake up with headaches from this cursed nocturnal activity. Things have improved over this past year, but nonetheless it has been my habit to pop it in every night.

I didn't realize it was missing until after I had used the toilet.

This was during the morning hours, so when I say I "used the toilet", I mean in a complete and full manner.

Hours later I was grimly searching the bowl and inner plumbing for my over priced dental appliance. At this point had to ask myself, "If I do happen to find it, would I really use it again anyway?"

I decided to take this as a sign that I should let it go.

Which I was happy to do until I realized my toilet kept plugging up. The maintenance crew from the office came by and started doing their "rooting". All the while, the guy was asking me questions concerning my bathroom behavior. What do I put in this toilet, besides the usual? What kind of a diet was I subjecting myself to?

I tried to keep the conversation to a series of smirks, grunts and nods, and was mostly successful. I was torn between the desire for this guy to actually rescue my bite guard and hoping he would just clear the clot without knowing the cause to escape the inevitable awkwardness.

He didn't find it, so I'll just have to focus more on meditation and relaxation techniques. All for the best, really.

Back to my apartment, though, one oddity my Love points out to me is that my "bachelor fridge" is really out of the ordinary. Yes, it does contain the obligatory case of beer (alongside the occasional 6 pack of Two Brother Brewing company Bitter End or Heavy Handed Hop... shout out to the local boys!).

The trouble is that each of the beers is arranged standing in neat rows with the label facing outwards. It is my like my own little glass army of crisp refreshment.

The beers are kept company by a case of bottled water. All labels facing forward.

Usually, the only other liquid at hand is soda water. When I get to buy the variety pack at Costco (a local warehouse store) I arrange the soda water by colors, blue for plain, green for lime etc... These I keep in same-color rows.

All labels facing forward.

I can not accurately describe the satisfaction I receive upon viewing this every time I open my fridge door. I sometimes refrain from enjoying a beverage as the removal of that particular bottle would ruin the symmetry. Unless, that is, I have more in storage. In that case, I will replace every bottle I take out in order to keep the balance.

This leads me to my hoarding "issue" which I inherited from my father (you may recall from an earlier blog his family lost everything to a tornado). I have more paper products in my apartment than items of food. This is due to an irrational fear of running out of toilet paper which happens to be one of my top fears. It ranks just below dieing of cancer.

I have enough hair shampoo and conditioner in giant bottles from Costco that some would term it, accurately I'm afraid, as a lifetime supply.

Which raises the question from some people like my close friend and fellow blogger Sarah, "Does a man need conditioner?".

First of all, I am not just some "man". I am a high maintenance anal retentive metrosexual.

And yes, I do need conditioner. I do not roll out of bed looking like this, you know.

I even socialize with the entire value chain involved with keeping my hair neat, clean and healthy. I meet my coiffeur for drinks, and even attended a pool party at my stylist's house. It was there I met the sales rep for the Product I use (don't call it hair gel... you don't get a frequent buyer's card for hair gel. You get it for Product.)

I am termed "high maintenance" in what I choose to believe is a loving (or at least tender) fashion by my colleagues, friends and, most endearingly, by my Love.

She started getting a trifle concerned when every time she called me for a 3 week span it seemed I was shopping at Bed Bath & Beyond (BBB). It was right at the time I realized I actually enjoyed living in my apartment and didn't want to rent or buy a house for myself yet.

BBB is AAAwesome.

I live an easy walking distance from Linen and Things. It is actually right next to the CiCi's pizza. I consider this section of the mall a sucking black hole of cheapness and bad taste.

Linens and Things is to Bed Bath and Beyond what Walmart is to Target.

My high maintenance extends to other areas of my life. During a recent business trip I was accompanied by three of my office mates. I insisted on using the United 1K desk to check in, even though the lines for the self-check were shorter or non-existent. (1K is United class for people that fly over 100,000 miles a year. The number 100,000 can be represented by 100K or 0.1M, but 1K just means one thousand. Therefore the term 1K under represents my status and pisses me off).

I was the only one of the four of us to check my bag. It was sized properly to fit on the plane, I just couldn't take it on because I packed my hair gel, cologne, and some other liquids and gels (including running nutrition).

My colleagues gently reminded me I could take on 3 oz. bottles of gels and liquids. I not so gently reminded them my Product does not come in 3 oz. bottles. They then suggested I buy little bottles and squeeze or funnel my stuff into them and carry those on.

The day I actually do that will be the day I know the terrorists have won.