i think that if i ever get rich and famous i'll still do my own laundry.


for a while i dropped it off with this lady, then i had her coming over and cleaning up after me too.

talk about losing perspective...

she'd come over at 8AM to find me doing lines off the kitchen table, eating doritos and drinking heineken as i counted the money i'd made the night before.

i liked to take each bill and press all the creases out of it before placing it neatly on the appropriate pile.

the cleaning lady would stand in the middle of the room with her coat on and stare at me as i haphazardly and unsuccessfully tried to cover up what i was doing. she listened as i went on about how i was "extremely concerned" about the birdshit splattered across the bedroom windows. and the grout in between the bathroom tiles...what could be done to get that to be a perfect white--not an off-white or almost white, but a pearly, heaven-sent white? she nodded and looked down at the floor while i spoke. i really could care less about any of those things but i thought that by taking a tone i might seem like a together kinda gal and less like the fraudulent waster that i was.

when i was done talking she nodded her head and got straight to work. it turned out she could really care less too.

the one person she hated, though, was fitz. it started right away, the first time she saw him she made tisking sounds under her breath as he flamed-out about something. she made us coffee and practically shoved the cup at him.

"hello?" he called out, his voice syrupy-sweet.

"may i have cream instead of milk for my coffee? i believe there's some on the door of the fridge...could you bring it to me, por favor?"

"i am not spanish," the woman said, clearly offended.

"my language is arabic," she said, shaking with anger.

"oh yeah?" fitz said, narrowing his eyes.

"well you're in new york now, sweetheart. you'd better hurry up and learn spanish."





mcdonald's in canada.