Dire Fresh Bed

My landlady wants to host a wine and cheese social with Bryce and the tenants in our new apartment. We’ve only lived there a month, and already the place resembles a third world country.

I’m eagerly awaiting Angelina Jolie’s arrival to adopt one of us.

Do you think third world, peasant mothers imagine such a boon? Perhaps Ms. Jolie has become a folk legend among grain-chewing, tribal women. A pallid goddess will arrive to select her malnourished infant and take little Click-Click away to a life of Eastern European nannies, thousand dollar strollers and crazed photographers documenting the child's every move. Click-Click, indeed.

I too can only imagine such a fate. Sadly, no celebs will grace the door of 233 Greene Ave any time soon. And I am the only photographer beseeching Bryce for a few brazen boudoir pics to spice up our regimented rutting. Alas, he’s too camera shy in the bedroom, even while wearing his V for Vendetta mask au natural.

Speaking of the bedroom, we’re gradually making our way towards the back of our spacious apartment. We've moved from sleeping in the living room, to sleeping in the guest room and on Friday, a clean fresh mattress will be delivered for our bedroom proper. I’m quite excited. For far too long I’ve slept upon the creaky wooden slats and sandbag padding that is my deplorable futon.

Oh futon – you have served me well as both a resting space and a reclining space. Although I wrongly suspected you were infested with bedbugs, rarely ever have you caused me concern or discomfort.

Until now. I simply can’t stand the thought of you. There you lay, but a few inches from the ground. Sheathed in an old padding and draped with a dirty sheet, oh pitiful futon, my back creaks at the mere thought of you.

And it’s not like my neighbors and landlady will be snacking Camembert and Gouda, snuggled on my futon. Nonetheless, the terrible lounge’s presence throws shame on my household.

Foxy and I reclined on the sofa Friday night, enjoying DVR and Red Bulls and says to me, “You and Bryce live like little boys. There’s an old pot of rice on the stove. There are comic books everywhere, clothes on the floor. What is that V for Vendetta mask for?”

And, so, yes! I’m a slob. Without someone to fold my clothes, they just sit there. I’m considering hiring a maid service because I have neither the enthusiasm or the time to clean properly.

I am hesitant however, as my previoius (and only) maid, Svetlana, died the day after she cleaned my apartment. At the time she was moonlighting as a nanny for a lawyer’s family on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. According to the police, she was pushing the family’s thousand dollar stroller across Eighth Street when she became confused by the contraption’s global navigation instrument. As she fiddled with the controls she failed to see the oncoming Fresh Direct truck. The Eastern European nanny was killed instantly by a hurtling transport of organic, pre-made meals destined for working mothers who neither have the enthusiasm or the time to cook for their adopted babies..

Luckily the family’s adopted daughter, Zheenaya, survived. The stroller’s safety airbags deployed, protecting the little Kenyan-American’s life.

If only I had a safety airbag. The incident so rattled my nerves that I simply can’t imagine hiring another maid without seeing a nightmarish Fresh Direct truck hurtling towards me. Last week, Bryce said “Beep, Beep” and tossed a stem of aspargus across the table. I shrieked and very nearly felt faint right there in the restaurant!

And it sadly occurs to me that my life showcases so many women getting viciously run down by buses, trains and trucks. Is this symbolic of something greater? I’ll consider such while I toss and turn on my futon, dreaming of Friday’s bed.