"Who in this park, or even in the whole world, doesn't have problems? Who doesn't have a drink too many times once in a while and maybe even ends up passed out in their own driveway, pissing themselves? Who doesn't drink too much sometimes or have a puff from time to time? And who doesn't have problems with the people they love? This is our home. This is our community. I am Jim Lahey, and I am your Trailer Park Supervisor!"*

    Today was going pretty well until I had a very sad realization.

    I was tying a piece of string around the anchor that holds up my bedroom blinds so I could jerry-rig a clothesline in front of my fan (which is in front of my second-hand “new” mattress) when it dawned on me that I’ve become trashy.

The window where the clothesline begins.

    This isn’t entirely my fault.
 
    I want to state, for the record, that I have been known to be trashy in the past, but that I did not come from "trashy" people. My family are mostly upright citizens with jobs and teeth and all that good stuff. The trashiness aspect sort of weaves in and out of our history, and isn't so much genetic as accidental. What I'm saying is: this isn't my parents' fault, either.
 
    Here's what happened:

    First of all, I had saved up about three weeks worth of laundry and smuggled a few pounds worth of quarters to LA from my parents’ house (necessitating a very long, and incredibly irritating search at the airport during which TSA completely unpacked my suitcase and threw my underpants and what-have-yous around for all the other TSA agents to see. “You got money in this suitcase? I have to make sure it’s not a gun!” This, in and of itself, would have been enough to put me over the edge, but Ouisa had rolled all my clothes so nicely just a half-hour before so that I could fit a month’s worth of clothes into my carry-on. It seemed wrong and unfair for the TSA lady to take so much pleasure in undoing it all. And I put it through the machine, didn’t they already know what it was? So I decided to pretend to cry, going so far as to put my face in my hands and shake ever-so-slightly. But you know what? TSA didn't even notice or care. Once again, my degree in theatre was useless). Anyway (Charles Dickens’ run-ons got nothing on me!), today seemed like the perfect day to wash everything. 

My clothesline.

    So I did. And then I put it all in the dryers, including one that had a little sign on it stating that it had recently been serviced and was in full working order. But that sign was a liar.

    My sheets and towels came out perfectly dry. Everything else was somewhere between dry and sodden. We’ll say it was a notch beyond “damp.” And totally wrinkled. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to give that laundry room any more of my hard-earned (stolen/smuggled) quarters. So I made a clothesline in my bedroom using the wall-anchor for the blinds and the inside doorknob of my closet.

    When I looked at the results I felt proud. And then I immediately shame-spiraled into sad.

    The mattress, which has been leaning against the wall for the last couple of months, was a hand-me-down from my friends Tom and Jess. They were upgrading to a king-sized bed and knew that I was hoping to one day have a big-girl bed (I currently rock a double), so they gave me their queen. Problem is, I don’t have a box-spring or bed frame for a queen, so the mattress just leans against my wall waiting for better times. (It seems increasingly clear that these times may never come.)

My big-girl bed.

    It wasn’t until I saw the mattress next to the clothesline that I realized how far I’ve sunk. I’m one bad day away from collecting used cars in my lawn and making beer can sculptures. 

The whole, sad picture.

    I’ve always suspected that I was an interior designer trapped inside a lazy person’s body; that if I could just get my act together, I’d decorate an apartment that was so adorable people would ask me for advice on wall hangings and interior paint.

    Instead, I should just get a muumuu, a pack of unfiltered Pall Malls and a few dozen cats, set up my lawn chair in the courtyard of the building and offer unsolicited advice to all my neighbors as they come home from work.

    Sigh.

    Do you want to know something even sadder? I already own a muumuu. 

    Furthermore, my brand-new Costco membership (thank you again, Chad!) has only upped the ante, making me look even more like a person who revels in not having nice things. Look what I bought:

World's largest jar of pickles posed next to an O'Doul's can ("It's what beer drinkers drink when they're not drinking beer!").

    To make it slightly classier, I took a picture of my economy-sized hummus, which seems like it might be a middle-to-upper-class condiment/dip.

The O'Doul's can makes sure my fridge doesn't look too "uppity."

    Anywho, the photos are so you could get the full effect. Luckily (unfortunately?), I don’t embarrass easily. And I think my pictures are getting better/less shaky, if I do say so myself.(And the O'Doul's aren't mine, I swear!)

*Quote is from the truly awesome and perhaps under-appreciated Trailer Park Boys (Mike Clattenburg, 2001-2008), an awesome Canadian sitcom which you can find on Netflix. My friend Colin told me about it a few months back and it's starting to seem more and more like my life. Or maybe he recommended it because he saw the similarities...