A Fine White Whine

After a lifetime of pre-war apartments, I never knew what dank holes I was dwelling in. I don’t think anyone would complain about stainless steel and floor-to-ceiling windows. (Yes, yes, a few of my most unfavorite labels: white whine and first world problems. And speaking of white wine and loathed labels: we have a freaking wine cooler, not of the Bartles & Jaymes variety [was that a middle-aged enough reference for you?] which is the epitome of yuppieness. I hate the term yuppie and maybe hate wine coolers even more. It’s taking up good storage space.) But I never realized until now how filthy everything is.

I scrub my laptop and within days it’s covered in dust again. Fingerprints are on everything. No amount of sweeping can stanch the flow of cat hair and dirt. I’m discovering that all the clothes and plastic hangers previously in my closet (I thought closets protected from dust?) are coated in hair and crud, my lesser-worn shoes are literally coated in furry layers of dust (and every single back heel and toe tip is scuffed and ripped, not just on the shoes I was aware had problems).

I want to go sit in a dark, tiny-windowed curtained room.
Privacy issues aside, it’s really fucking hot. To the point where it’s 50s outside and 80s indoors (the air conditioning keeps coming on even if I open sliding doors) even wearing a tank top and bare-legged, I’m sweating and get cranky and headachy. Not to mention that there is no place to sit in the entire apartment without glare on my computer screen (I’ve given up on trying to edit photos). I may even get a sunburn.

Meanwhile, I don’t want to be ridiculed like these people (and still remember this whites hate curtains/blacks love them discussion from a few years back) so window treatments (such a horrible phrase–can we just say curtains or drapes?) are certainly in the works. On the up side, maybe we won’t have to use the heat in the winter at all.