Aimster Struggles With Her Laundry

Let me begin by saying that I am well aware that I have failed in the keeping of this blog.  With all honesty, I expected no less of myself.  Or perhaps I should say I expected no more of myself.  I have never been one for keeping up with writing.  My childhood bedroom is filled with dozens of notebooks that are the beginnings of hundreds of novels.  Rarely did I make it past the first chapter.

But, dear reader, you deserve better.  I have not stopped having adventures, nor have I stopped being Aimster.  In fact, more people call me Aimster now than when I began this blog.  So I really have no good reason to stop documenting said adventures.  And tonight, an incident so ridiculous befell my personhood that I felt I had no choice but to do what I always do when something embarrassing happens to me and share it with the world.  God bless the Interweb.

As most of you reading this probably already know, I went to the most excellent University of Southern California.  Tomorrow is game day.  And that is where my story begins.

I have but two USC shirts and one of them is currently on loan to a dear friend who needed to wear it to UCLA on college spirit day.  I was overjoyed to help with such a noble endeavor.  My other USC shirt was still dirty from the last game I attended.  And tomorrow I'm headed back to the beloved Coliseum, so I needed to wash that sucker.  Hence, upon coming home from work I headed into the laundry room of my apartment.

Here's where the fun starts.  On the door of the laundry room there was a sign that said, "Wet Floor".  I walked in very carefully, as I have a great penchant for slipping on the driest of floors, so a wet floor is more dangerous to my feet than a spindle is to Sleeping Beauty's finger (side note:  I am totally watching that movie while I write this - love me some Disney).  Strangely, the floor was not really wet at all.

I went to the laundry machines.  One of them has been out of order for some time now.  It has a note that read:

The next one also had a note:

The final machine too had a note.  It read as follows:

Great, I thought.  This machine only might be broken.  I will just use this one.  So I loaded my clothes and poured a nice dose of detergent on top.  I put in my three shiny quarters and pushed in the coin slot.  And that's when the real trouble ensued:  nothing happened.

Puzzled, I looked closer upon the machine.  And then I realized:  it wasn't even plugged in.  At this point I felt I had two options:  1) Plug in the machine and risk the wrath of my building if it leaks all over.  2) Not use the machine.  Thinking that I wasn't sure how a broken washing machine might affect my precious clothes, I felt it safer to stop.

But then another dilemma arose.  Half of my clothes were now covered in detergent.  I had to get that stuff out.  But how?

So I traversed back upstairs to my apartment and retrieved a plastic bag.  I put all the detergent-soaked clothes inside and headed to my shower.  The idea seemed simple at first.  I only had to rinse out the detergent spots in the stream of the shower.

If only things had stayed that easy.

To begin with, when I aimed the shower head at the detergent ridden areas of clothing, the water preferred to rebound back in powerful little spurts that sent mini storms of water all over my bathroom.  I was getting water everywhere.  Furthermore, although the water stream was strong enough to bounce aplenty, it didn't seem to be penetrating my clothing enough to really get the detergent out.  It was time to change tactics.  I put in the drain plug and ran the bathwater.  Everything seemed to be going quite nicely in the tub.  The water was soapy and grossly dark.  I began to ponder how dirty a creature I am.  I did sweat a lot at that last USC game.

I now realized that washing my clothes in the bath was quite like taking a bath.  Everything is getting rinsed, but everything is also sitting in its own filth.  I could see no solution other than using the shower again to rinse out the soapy water.  Only this time something would have to be different.

I stripped off all my clothes; tied my hair into a bun; retrieved some string, scissors, and hangers; and hopped in the shower with my sopping wet clothes.  I tied one end of the string to the shower head pipe.  But there was no good place to tie the other end.  I finally settled on the rack Orongejello and I hang our towels upon.  It's supposed to be an over-the-door rack, but instead we have it perched upon a bar that the last tenant used for a shower curtain, even though our shower has two glass doors and doesn't need a curtain at all.  I put some hangers on the string and was all set.  I started retrieving pieces of clothing off the floor of the tub.  The shower was running on cold, full blast.  I soaked every piece of clothing through and through.  I hung each item on my makeshift clothing line as I went along.

So here's a jolly fun fact.  When clothes get wet, they get heavy.  I am pretty sure my cozy little cardigan, after being soaked more than a kiddo in the front row a of Shamu's splash zone, weighed a good hundred pounds.  So the more clothes I added to my clothing line, the slacker it got, until finally the over-the-door towel bar couldn't hold the weight any more and took a dramatic slide that also pulled the shower door shut.

In case this situation doesn't seem absurd enough to you, please remind yourself that I am standing, naked in my shower, hair in a sloppy bun, holding a million pound cardigan, trying not to get tangled in a piece of string haphazardly hanging over my sloppy bun, attempting to not really get hit by any water because it's cold, yet thrusting my hands into the water to rinse the billion pound cardigan, while my shower door slams shut on me and my clothesline takes a dramatic plunge towards the depths of the tub basin.  Oh, and the shower door hits my head on its journey forward.  Thankfully, it really only grazed the side.

Have I mentioned that my skin doesn't really seem to like straight up detergent and is turning bright red in glorious patches?

And did you forget that I am washing my clothes in the shower, all because some stupid apartment manager doesn't seem to know how to make an actual "Out of Order" sign?

Well, joke's on you, apartment manger, because I used a crapload of water getting my clothes cleaned and our utility bill doesn't include that.

Here's some pictures of my clothes hanger, just for fun:

That about sums up most of this (mis)adventure.  Luckily the driers aren't broken so I was able to dry my clothes in a 21st century manner (who knows how long it takes a trillion pound cardigan to dry on its own).  The last little detail:  I wanted to type this up on the couch, but Orongejello was away with both his laptops, so I typed this entire tale on my 1960's cursive typewriter.  Now I just have to transcode it (which I have, since you're reading it).

Fight On!
Aimster

Aimster Succeeds at Not Failing

I have come to the conclusion that I am a horrific blog-maintainer, and that no matter how often I tell myself I will get better, it will probably never happen. It’s like the following other moments in my life:

Situation:
One year I went to go see my dad’s college roommate, who was a professional comedic ventriloquist, perform a children’s show. Instantly, my new life goal was to become a ventriloquist. I convinced my parents to buy a dummy for me for Christmas. It came with a video on how to do tricks like throwing your voice.

Result:
I watched the video once. Throwing my voice took more practice than I had anticipated, so I gave up my dream after a few weeks. The dummy still sits on a shelf in my room. Later in life, I realized my parents spent a lot of moo-lah on that present when there was very little moo-lah to go around. Whoopsy-daisy. I wonder if it was any compensation to them later on that I got great use out of the special stick that you use to move the dummy’s hand when I repurposed it to be my wand in the Harry Potter musicals I made with my friends where I played Harry Potter. Probably not. Sorry, parentals.

That sentence about the wand was quite poorly constructed. Much like my ventriloquism goals.

Situation:
I really wanted a pet guinea pig but my parents weren’t sure I should have one because I did not have the best track record with consistently caring for my pets. I came up with an entire spiel with how I’d be different this time around and exactly how I was going to be a good mother to my new guinea pig. Again, I convinced them to get me one. I don’t know if their multiple instances of getting me things I would never follow through with is more of a comment on how much they love me or how ignorant they can be, but I’m going with the former because that one is definitely true. And because my mom reads this blog.

Result:
I had an adorable guinea pig named Cinnamon. For some time, I took good care of him. Slowly but surely, I became much lazier about cleaning his cage. I have an inferior sense of smell so it didn’t bother me so much, but my mother has a sharp sense of smell so it bothered her a great deal. My laziness exacerbated when I realized that if I went long enough without cleaning my guinea pig’s cage she would do it for me simply because the stench overpowered her.

One day, I realized what a pathetic pet owner I had become, and when a nice man from our church fell in love with Cinnamon whilst doing construction on our home, my mother and I decided to give Cinnamon to him. Cinnamon spent his final years in a specially built habitat with constant attention from the man and his family. RIP little fella.

Ironically, I now own 2 guinea pigs. Even more ironically, I adopted them from a guinea pig rescue agency which made me fill out an application. I had to answer a question about whether or not I’d owned a guinea pig previously. Let’s just say I left out a few details. [Note: My guinea pigs now are much better cared for, although I owe a good chunk of that to my roommates. One of piggies still likes me the best though.]

Here is a list of other things I have started ambitiously and never actually finished:
-Starting my own website
-A slew of novels, screenplays, and short stories
-This list

Interestingly, I began this blog entry intending to write about how I was too damn tired to write a blog entry that told any stories. Then I told two stories. Maybe if I start not intending to do things, I will actually do them.

Aimster Causes a Disaster in a Parking Garage

I am highly critical of others when they do foolish things, especially when those things cause congestion in traffic.  LA is brutal enough as it is.  Unfortunately, I put myself in a situation last Sunday that morphed my pride into shame faster than a stick of butter morphs into melted cancer when you microwave it in BPA enriched plastic. 

I was on my Bluetooth chatting with my Mommy as I pulled into the underground parking garage for Target.  The car in front of me got their ticket and drove through, but the bar that blocks the next car from proceeding didn’t go down right away.  Without even giving it a second thought, I continued to drive.  As the bar came down on the roof of my car, I realized I had just done something so dumb that even I, a girl who has danced around the middle of a street dressed as Harry Potter in a red-and-white striped pirate shirt, was embarrassed of. 

After telling my Momma what I had done because getting laughs out of my misery is one of my eagerly employed defense mechanisms, I got off my phone and found a parking space.  I decided the best course of action was to go over to the parking ticket machine and push the button for a new ticket.  As it was a Sunday and Target is so popular and product-ridden you will probably be able to buy stocks there soon, there was a nonstop influx of cars entering the garage.  I threw myself in front of a few before finding a guy with his window rolled down.  I quickly explained the situation and asked if I could grab a ticket ahead of him.  He looked at me like I was a moron, which was actually fair because I was. 

I went up to the machine and pushed a button, but no ticket was produced.  After a few more futile pushes, I hypothesized that the machine had a sensor and a car was necessary to get it to birth a ticket.  The man pulled his car up further for me, I pushed the button, and the ticket was mine!  I thought I was good to go so I began walking away.

About 15 yards later I looked back and saw that the bar to separate the cars was still up.  Apparently, those thingamabobs also have a sensor and if they don’t sense a car drive under them, they won’t go down, and if they don’t go down, the machine will not give another ticket.  The sounds of many cars honking penetrated the not-so-crisp parking lot air because the chap who’d tried to assist me was holding up one of the entrances to the garage.  Cars were backed up past the garage ramp and onto the street.    

By now the parking garage attendant had noticed that I was parading around where only cars were supposed to be and he beckoned me over.  I sprinted to give the chap who'd tried to help me the parking ticket and then approached the parking attendant.

Parking Attendant (PA):  What is going on?

Aimster:  I accidentally drove into the garage without getting a ticket, so I tried to walk up and get one from the machine but there is a sensor that won’t let you get a ticket without a car so I couldn’t get one.

PA:  So whose ticket did you just give to that man?

Aimster:  That was his ticket.

PA:  Why did you have it?

Aimster:  Because I tried to get a ticket by walking up and pushing the button, but then the machine wouldn’t give him a ticket so he couldn’t drive forward, so I gave him the ticket.

PA:  So you don’t have a ticket?

Aimster:  No.

PA:  Okay.  Let me get you a new ticket.  You wait here.

He said that last part very sternly, probably sensing that I would only worsen the fiasco if I stepped into the midst of cars again.   He returned with my new ticket.  I thanked him and sauntered away as quickly as possible and with my head drooping more than Charlie Brown’s would if he accidentally killed Snoopy.  The fact that the attendant got me a new ticket instead of just making me pay the lost ticket fee is a miracle that helped me to understand how in LA young, thin, moderately attractive, stupid girls still manage to succeed in life. 

Normally I try to learn from all my mistakes, and while I’ll never do this again, I am currently more interested in seeing if I can make money of my idiocy by selling this scenario to a reality TV show starring Paris Hilton, one or more Kardashians, or the Jersey Shore kids.  But in my ideal world, it would be a reality TV show starring dinosaurs (a T-Rex would be the ideal candidate for this situation because their short arms would make it difficult for them to hit the button on the ticket machine). 

Aimster Has an Allergic Reaction

I like to be proud of myself for things that are actually completely beyond my control.  It gives me satisfaction, like I am naturally beating the world at its own twisted game.  One thing I have always felt makes me superior to others is that I am not allergic to any foods.  I don’t think less of people who have food allergies; I just like to think that my body was built for greatness. 

I recently learned the hard way that when you are snobbishly proud, sometimes a greater force sees fit to smack you sideways and spit on your misery. 

I don’t really know how it started, but I suspect it was at a dinner meeting I attended a few weeks ago.  The chef had concocted a homemade Italian dish.  One bite revealed that it was way beyond my spicy tolerance, but I didn’t want to be rude so I ate my whole portion anyway, hoping that sipping wine after each bite would either alleviate the pain to my tongue or eventually make me tipsy enough to ignore it.  That strategy made me run out of wine pretty quickly with neither feat accomplished. 

My tongue was still burning when I snuggled into bed a few short hours later, but I felt okay.  I drifted off into dreamland.  Unfortunately, dreamland was visited by punk-jerk (I am coining that phrase because it describes what I’m trying to get across better than either word on its own) nightmares where I was in pain and could do nothing to stop it.  But the combination of wine and lack of sleep made me drowsy enough that I never awoke until I heard the horrid noise that is worse than the screech of a murderous harpy (a.k.a. my alarm clock). 

When I did emerge from punk-jerk dreamland, I truly was in pain.  My throat and chest felt quite tight and it hurt to breathe or swallow.  I began to wonder if I was having an allergic reaction.  However, being the responsible adult that I am, I decided that I still needed to go to work.

A few hours into work, responsibility was becoming a side thought.  Furthermore, after learning of my ailment, my co-workers insisted I go to the hospital.  I decided to call my insurance to get a list of places I could go and still be covered.  A customer service operator gave me the information for two urgent care centers and two hospitals. 

I drove myself to the nearby urgent care center, where I ended up in an elevator full of moms and children because the building also housed Dan the Man Superkids, which is a gym described on the website as “an awesome new facility designed by Dan the Man to provide and encourage a fit and healthy lifestyle for children”.  I made a mental note that I should participate in any study where they can Benjamin Button my age for a day so that I could go play there, but my pain deterred me from pretending to be an expectant mother just so I could check it out. 

Upon exiting on the correct floor of the building, I went to sign into urgent care, only to learn that the urgent care people rented out a normal doctor’s facility after hours and during the daytime I would have to make an appointment.  Thanks for the head’s up on that info, Aetna insurance.  I had just wasted more time not getting treatment for my increasingly tight throat and chest. 

The UCLA hospital was the next closest place.  Being a graduate of USC, a short moral dilemma where I contemplated whether or not I could bring myself to enter the UCLA campus ensued, but that ended when I remembered that some people slowly asphyxiate to death from allergic reactions and perhaps this wasn’t the time for my Trojan pride.        

I got checked in to the hospital and all my vitals were a-okay.  They had me take a seat in the waiting room, at which point I decided to check my texts as I’d sent a few freak-out messages saying I was going to the hospital.  At that point I’d only heard from my parents, so I guess they really do love me the mostest.  After reassuring them that I was going to be okay, which is always a fun thing to say when you have absolutely no control over such matters, I read the magazine I’d conveniently stashed in my purse.  Soon after my boyfriend Orongejello got a hold of me and told me he was coming to the hospital.  I tried to talk him out of it because I knew he had lots of things to do that day, but he is a good boyfriend and insisted on being there. 

I got moved into a teensy-weensy room and had to put on one of the poorly engineered hospital gowns. The gaps between the top and bottom ties were so large that no matter how tight I tied it, the flap was always opening up and revealing my chest.  Thankfully, I got to keep my bra on, so I didn’t flash everyone completely. 

Two doctors came in, one a veteran and one a newbie learning the ropes.  That’s what you get in a teaching hospital.  For the rest of this entry, the veteran doctor will be referred to as Burt while the newbie will be referred to as Ernie.  Burt and Ernie asked lots of questions, told me that my throat had broken out in a rash, and decided they were going to jam a camera down my mouth and esophagus to make sure it wasn’t closing up for realsies. 

Whilst they set out to set up the camera, Orongejello arrived, which made me feel better because he is strong and has medical knowledge so if the UCLA people attempted to poison me upon finding out I was from USC he would be able to stop them.  I suppose having a hand to hold was nice too. 

Burt came back and moved me into an eye examination room with one of those electric chairs, which he made taller so my throat would be at eye level.  He then sprayed my mouth and throat with a numbing spray.  It may have been the worst thing to ever enter my mouth, and I tasted things like glue when I was a foolish youngster.  It actually stung.  If I were an advocate of torture, I would say this should be used to get terrorists to talk.  The only problem would be that it numbs your mouth, making it a bit difficult to say anything clearly.  Maybe it could be sprayed in eyes.  I would probably admit my deepest darkest secrets that only my dead dog knows if someone did that to me (R.I.P. Sparky). 

Burt had me grab my tongue and hold it out of my mouth as he put the camera into my oral cavity.  After a few seconds of examination, he concluded that my body was not choking itself.  I thought I was in the clear until Ernie arrived.  Burt asked Ernie if he wanted to try using the camera because he’d never done that before.  He briefly explained the process, and then Ernie proceeded.  Ernie was not such a smooth operator as Burt.  I tried not to gag, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t have prevented such action.  I probably sounded like Regan from The Exorcist in the part where she breathes all funny.  Needless to say, if I’d had a rubber ducky, I would have jammed it down Ernie’s throat. 

Burt had me go back to my original room, where Orongejello and I sat for a few minutes until Ernie came in to tell me that I was indeed having an allergic reaction and to give me antihistamines.  After that, they told me to go home and rest up.  It was a good thing Orongejello was there because I wasn’t allowed to drive. 

There’s not much exciting to report after that.  I spent the rest of the day sleeping and for 3 more days eating felt like my throat was the head of a needle and food was an elephant getting forced through.  When I finally could consume nourishment painlessly, I made the poor choice of having a hamburger, onion rings, and a Butterfinger milkshake.  That didn’t sit so well, but I did watch The Expendables right afterward, so I had absurdly powerful guns and ridiculously awesome knife stunts to distract me from the nausea. 

I still don’t know for sure what caused the allergic reaction.  I suppose I should go to the allergist one of these days so he can stick some needles in me and tell me what’s what.  I have to be careful who I go see though.  Those UCLA hospital people may have figured out where my loyalties lie by now, and sticking me with danger needles sounds like a pretty good way to do me in.