My dad just sent me an email. I need to write up a document and have it notarized. A document authorizing my parents, or someone else I choose, to make medical decisions for me if I can't. And I need a will.
I was just thinking on my way to work this morning how horrified my parents would be by the state of my apartment. I am an untidy little person. I keep my dishes washed and I do laundry like it's going out of style. But I'm not so great at putting anything away. My place is messy.
So I was thinking, what if I got hit by a bus? My parents would be so upset at how messy my place is. I always wear clean underwear, and I've gotten rid of the really ratty ones, like the thong with one side held together with a safety pin.
Underwear, fine. Place, shocking.
And then coworker and I went to Trader Joe's. While I was paying and he commented on how disorganized my wallet is. I told him he doesn't know the half of it.
I told him my messy-place-hit-by-a-bus-horrified-parents fear. The cashier said, "Don't you think your parents would be more upset by the fact that you're dead than the state of your place?"
Good point. Maybe. This kind of mess makes them crazy.
Right after college I lived in Mt. Pleasant with my friend Maude, who is even more untidy than me. We had a small apartment, the floor of which was always covered with books, clothing, art supplies, stuff. We just never picked up.
In case you weren't in DC, Mt. Pleasant was pretty sketch in the early 90's, but we were young and oh-so-oblivious.
And in the spring of '93, which was also the spring of the drive-by shooter, a serial rapist broke in to our apartment and attacked Maude.
I mention the drive-by shooter because he was the reason that there were police on the street all over our neighborhood. And the rapist - who in the end turned out to live a few blocks away - knew that.
So Maude, who had fallen asleep in a chair waiting for her boyfriend, awoke to find a man with no pants on about to put a sweater - one of my sweaters from the floor - over her face.
She fought - hard, and she screamed, and because she was in the chair, he couldn't get a grip in her. And as I said, he knew there were police everywhere. So eventually, he ran.
He left his boxers in the bathroom. Turned out to be what he did in all the cases. But the police at the time? Not remotely interested.
Of course this was horribly traumatic, and I am summarizing, and it took her a very long time to get over it.
As you can imagine.
When Maude tells the story now - and it is much more horrifying, since she actually lived it - she ends by describing with glee how, when the police arrived, they looked around our apartment in amazement and said "Did he do this?"