Lucky Number Seventeen

Living in 450 square feet can make you go crazy. Especially when it’s messy. All the time.

My main objection to living in my apartment is not that it’s overpriced. I don’t complain about the bus-stop black dirt that collects on my window seals. The torn up wood floor in my closet isn’t a problem – I put a rug over it. I don’t object to the loud music from the bar across the street or to the, “I must have a small penis,” man that revs his Harley every night after pounding a few (beers, not women). And while I must admit that the crazy-ass lady who staggers up and down my block yelling profanities (“f***ing vagina bitch” is my favorite) sometimes hits my last nerve, I still wouldn’t move because of her.

But I would move because of my shallow kitchen sink and lack of dishwasher.

And might I just say? Don’t leave fruit remnants in your sink for over two days – especially grapefruit. Sweet Moses, there is no mistaking the smell of rotting grapefruit rind. It burns your nose hairs. And possibly your scent glands.

But back to the sink. I hate it. And I probably hate it most because it keeps my dish-doing habits in check. The sink is so shallow that it fills quickly – we’re talking within three days. And when you consider that the only meal I tend to eat at home is breakfast (which consists of a water glass, a cereal bowl, and a spoon), this is one small sink.

To my dismay, one day I came home from work and could no longer avoid the stare of my heaping dirty dishes. I didn’t even change my clothes before rolling up sleeves and waiting for hot water to run through the tap. I have a strategy – plates first, bowls second, pots third, and then lastly, silverware. Now, on this one particular day there were more dishes than usual. So by the time I got to the end of the pile, the soap suds reached up and over the silverware sprawled across the bottom of my sink. And I swear, it was like the never-ending scarf joke. I just kept pulling and pulling and pulling silverware out of the bottom of my sink, not having any idea when it would end.

I finally finished and was admiring my well organized dish-drying rack (what’s the proper term?) when I noticed the unbelievable amount of spoons in the silverware section. I counted them. SEVENTEEN.

Now what any single girl, living by herself, in a 450 square foot apartment is doing with seventeen spoons, I have no idea. There is no explanation. I felt like a person missing a thumb – why were there no forks or knives in that collection? What the HELL was going on over the past few days that I felt the need to use seventeen spoons?

And naturally I started crying. Bawling actually. I’m single, with no prospects, I live in a shoebox with a woman who audibly accuses an invisible person of being a “f***ing vagina bitch,” and I use seventeen spoons in three days.

So I made this natural connection: seventeen dirty spoons in the sink = single forever. Yes yes. Makes complete sense now.