Dirty laundry

Airbnb announced this week that it would discourage its hosts from pushing their change-over chores onto guests … just in time for Thanksgiving.

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The news stoked the internet into another spontaneous eruption of a multi-alarm blaze (though perhaps one or two alarms shy of whatever bird-puppet bidding war broke out between a famous songstress and a twee boutique in Brooklyn).

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Guests and Hosts alike bickered over the banalities of how much work is too much to expect from people staying in your short-term rental.

The self-imposed policies of a disruptive enterprise … that started as regular schmoes like you and me being able to rent out a room in our house to make a little dough … have become something closer to corporations buying up all the starter homes and studio apartments they can find for cash while the deteriorating hotels and motels of yore become kitchen-less housing for those who may never get the luxury of complaining about a vacation.

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It’s just business.

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Not that these little notes on housekeeping shouldn’t be created and negotiated, but the consensus seems to be that there is a limit to what might be sensible. And apparently that limit needs to be spelled out.

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Should you charge a cleaning fee if you expect renters to do chores such as laundry, dishes, and, by some accounts, routine maintenance?

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How many times have we thanked the entrepreneurial heavens for the rare chance to rent a stately, seven-bedroom lakeside cottage (off season, of course) so that we might accommodate eighteen members of our extended family?

That’s what I was thinking … as I skimmed the rental agreement.

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This might be the last reunion where my ailing father would enjoy a beer with his siblings. I can tell you from experience, I never saw the fine print spelling out that I would be responsible for stripping the beds and washing all linen before checkout until I sat with a printed copy on the morning of our departure.

Honestly, it didn’t spark an anxiety attack as much as it wrung out a wry smile. Especially once it became clear that the house had not been stocked with enough cleaning supplies to get the job started, let alone finished.  

Truly, as I worried about whether we had enough bottled oxygen so my father could breathe during the trip home, as I obsessively followed him from room to room detangling the hose that tethered him to a condensing unit while the weekend happily progressed, the realization that the Airbnb beds would have to be laundered seemed like a practical joke.

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Now, granted, the house was charming, the price was reasonable, and amenities (including the use of bikes and boats) felt downright remarkable. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how anyone was supposed to wash AND dry two loads of laundry before the 10 a.m. checkout.

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Wouldn’t it be easier, I thought darkly, to give everything a few spritzes of room freshener, and a tumble in the dryer, before folding it all up neatly and pretending I am a super guest?

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And then I thought: “Ew  … I bet that actually happens.”

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As I gathered up the sheets and tossed them at the foot of the washer, leaving them there with the empty jug of detergent balanced on top, I was sure being an OK guest would be not only acceptable, but the better part of valor.

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I needn't have worried. Our host was entirely accommodating, as if he, too, were surprised by the fine print.

Dirty laundry and five stars all around.

Rest and recreation

 Awakened by the second-most jarring sound ever known to rouse a person from a deep weekend slumber, I slapped the air around my bedside table to silence the foghorn alarm. Instead of jumping into the day, I relaxed back into my pillows, having given myself nine blissful minutes to wonder if the fog in my brain would have lifted more fully if my phone had an alert facsimile of the most jarring sound of all  — the watery retching of a beloved pet.

I am fully awake by the time the snooze feature resets and reminds me I will have to hustle if I want to shower, dress, and grab the essential caffeinated first-light cocktail that will accompany me on the road to my destination.

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“It’s going to be a great day,” I growl with the sarcastic enthusiasm of a breakfast cereal-slinging tiger.

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But I feel happy.

​Even though both kids are experiencing illness at their respective campuses.

And even though the dog hobbles around on three legs whenever he completes a round of “zoomies” and notices his right flank feels a certain unkindly way.

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And even though I also feel a little wonky in various places whenever I move in a certain way, too.

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Still, there’s hope regardless of the sprinkle of rain and the bright red sky warning of more to come. It’s all quite breathtaking if you look at it that way.

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As long as you don’t look at the news.  

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I feel happy because I have someplace to be where I can be of some help. I will be standing along a trail somewhere in Menands as more than 1,600 runners pass by our water stop. I (and about a dozen of my friends) will stand there balancing cups of water on our outstretched hands, intermittently dancing or jumping around when a song from our friendly volunteer DJ hits just the right note.

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During our four-hour shift, we will pour dozens of gallons of hydrating fluids into hundreds of little cups. We will yell out our favorite encouragement, hoping to hit a like-minded soul in just the right way. I try to stick with cheers that don’t really have words or advice.

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We notice the needs as we read faces. We feel their joy when they smile, and we empathize with their suffering if they seem on the verge of tears. Where we’ve landed — Miles 8 and 21 in their respective distances — are always tough markers.

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Mostly, we volunteers save the talk for ourselves:

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“I always hate when people tell me to keep going when I walk through a water stop. It makes me feel like I’ve been judged and found wanting.”

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We will gather all the good energy from the field of athletes who sprint past, whether they take us up on our carefully poured measures of electrolytes or not. We will talk ourselves into believing we’ve done something important. We’ve been hosting, and witnessing, and trying to ensure that when we leave, we take all evidence of our attendance with us.

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Leaving no trace.

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Maybe we can all sleep well tonight.

The Calculus of Calories

 “DIng-ding-ding.”

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I had been holding open the refrigerator door long enough to make it antsy.

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“DING-DING-DING.”

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I could almost hear my mother’s disapproval over the icebox’s sound of alarm. “You’re letting out all the cool air. Why don’t you just make a selection already!”

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What I can’t decide is what looks good here. Leftovers? Salad? Something requiring no small amount of preparation and a much larger portion of skill?

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I selected something from a box on the shelf before I sated the chimes.

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Something prepackaged.

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My teeth bear down on a corner of a hard-pressed bar of peanut-flavored protein. I will my teeth to cut slowly hoping to preserve my teeth, which may have reached the age of ​random chipping.

I chew slowly, digesting the reality that I care more about macros than about flavor, or texture, or joy.

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Does this really qualify as food?

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Who sold us this nonsense? Some hard brick of nutrients that may or may not be a relative of candy. It’s dressed up like a candy bar and touted as sustenance.

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I peel the wrapper downward, in three neat strips, as if this excuse for sustenance were a member of some family of natural fruit.

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Somehow we’ve accepted that this package of protein is not really “food” per say, but we embrace it as a convenient “fuel.”

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As if we want to think of ourselves as precision instruments. Just cogs in a machine, needing only the barest necessities to survive.

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The dog is at my feet, staring up at me, laser-focused on my mouth as I raise the bar again and take another timid bite. It has warmed up in my hand. The mouthful I’ve taken crumbles like wet sand. A thin layer sticks to my teeth, while a similar-sized piece above the wrapper, near my pinched fingers, falls to the floor.

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The dog pounces. But misses. His nose snuffling around my chair without finding the morsel.

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Truly, had I not been trying to streamline lunch, I might have taken the beige-colored nugget now on the carpet to be a shard of forgotten dog biscuit. Or something a little more indelicate.

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I tap the floor with my foot near the drop zone, and he cleans it up with one quick slurp.

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A few minutes later, I wad up the wrapper and pitch it into the trash. I open the refrigerator and stare inside. My hunger isn’t an immediate pang as much as it feels like a distant memory of fullness I’m trying to relive.

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Each shelf offers a choice I could process by reheating or by simple assembly.

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The bells alert me to the door left ajar too long. I shut it to make the noise go away.

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Who needs the joy of food when you have the necessities of nutrition?

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I wonder if I’ve bought into the convenience of supplements as staples because I don’t value real food as much as I value saving the time it takes to prepare?

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The calculus of calories. 

Autumn in New York

 Fall is such a fleeting, magical time.

Especially for those who partake in the communal culture of running. Colors blaze as the heat subsides. We get to mix long sleeves with short pants until the snow flies. 

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The conversation had been lively among the four of us, a small contingent of a larger group that has met at 8 a.m. almost every Wednesday morning since I don't know when.

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We jokingly refer to ourselves as The Retirement Run Club, despite the fact that most of us are gainfully employed and enjoying flexible hours.

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Our greetings last most of 500 feet, the distance between where we park and where we start to run. The same jokes flow about timeliness and the generosity of those who waited for the lolligaggers.

We dispense with the most pressing news by the time my knees stop screeching at me, around about the first half mile when I imagine sheets of rust melting away.

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I try not to focus on my lack-luster pace, or the fact that my watch barely acknowledges activity, and take note of the gossip as we pass each house. None of the news would make your hair stand on end; it feels more like an accounting: births, marriages, milestones, illnesses, passages and recoveries.

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Each block offers a history lesson: Who lived where, when, and what color the house used to be before it was clad in such a pitiful vinyl. The oldest members of the group have a keen memory, relating details with precision, including how the gigantic tree they used to swing on was once a spindly seedling. Now it’s gone.

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I feel a twinge of envy. I hadn’t even noticed the old apple tree that had been cut down since the last time we ran.

My stomach growls as we round the first corner of our course, past the orchards. I recognize the familiar yellow signs affixed to each row. If I squint I can read the names: Jonigold, Honeycrisp, Macintosh, Golden Delicious, Fuji, and Snapdragon.

The knee-jerk response was one of quizzical shock; How could a person even narrow it down to one? Not with all the varieties that seem to blossom into the world and the local farm stands for the first time as the new season gets underway. It’s always a shock when they turn out to be some heritage fruit resurrected by a twee millennial farmer. A bigger shock is when the fruit turns out to be as big as my head.

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The signs pass slowly as we savor the change in conversation prompted by the question: “What’s your favorite apple?”

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Are we talking about our favorite for eating? For baking? For turning into a sauce?

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We each select a different variety: Honeycrisp is one favorite, Fuji is another, Macintosh makes it onto the list as an afterthought. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m always partial to a lunch-boxed sized Pink Lady, I don’t even care if it’s been lounging about in cold storage.

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For the next two miles we discuss the delights and disappointments we’ve all felt from having to deal with an unexpectedly mealy mouthful. I still remember when Macintosh apples were my favorite … until a friend explained why they couldn’t stand them. “You know how you bite into the apple, and its skin immediately separates from the meat of the fruit, and gets stuck in your teeth? I hate that.

It hadn’t bothered me until that moment. My friends thank me for letting it bother them, too.

I don’t think I’m ready for “Ludacrisp,” a relative newcomer on the agricultural scene that boasts a flavor resembling Juicy Fruit gum.

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Four miles in, and the variety in this running apple conversation seems endless.

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It makes the run seem as easy as pie. Mmmmm pie.

Adaptation

Do I like that I can type a string of stream-of-consciousness thoughts into my computer’s internet browser, and, after a few moments of gazing at dancing stars, a plain-language paragraph I tend to think of as a bit of straightforward, almost grandmotherly advice will appear as if from the heavens? Yes, I have to admit, I do.

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Do I have full faith in the contents of this abstract oracle or discern where it came from within the wispy web? No, I do not.

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I use it as a starting point in a quest for further explanation, as I would whenever the wisdom of our elders includes dubious or dated advice.

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Which is how I found myself staring distractedly at my phone, slowly realizing the vast vacuum of time and space becoming clearer with the appearance of some silly little character.

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The zaftig creature – perhaps a second cousin once removed from the Pillsbury Dough Boy –  is donning sweatbands around his head and wrists. I reflect not on what or why he has appeared,  and focus instead on the possibility that his this creature’s sport accessories would be able to cut off his circulation if he were flesh and bone rather than ink and animation.

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He is visiting my phone, I can tell, because whoever sent him thinks I might happily pay a small monthly fee to take his virtual fitness class whenever my schedule permits.

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Another rabbit hole I needn’t have fallen into. I click the phone so its screen goes black and try to focus on something that actually needs my undivided attention, which I manage to do for the length of time network television once devoted to commercials.

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Why am I even considering this algorithmic new friend? Not when the ghost of a Wii fitness past still haunts me.  

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Of course, now that I’m looking for him, nothing appears. I can’t remember which app brought him to me. I can’t retrace my steps.

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It certainly feels like the phone and all its inputs are gaslighting me.

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A part of me hopes this bloom of AI is just an upgrade of the search engines we have come to rely on; a streamlining of ways to search for answers that fit better into the puzzle-shaped holes in our minds.

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A part of me believes that it’s just plugging up those holes with distractions that lessen our anxiety at best but fill us with harmful falsehoods … and even if it’s not catastrophic, it will always be just a little bit worse.

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Aside from misinformation and deepfakes, AI will also deliver snowballing biases. It will rob us of our ideas and the work products we used to call art. There will be breaches and break-ins, and the taking (not simply the assuming) of human identities. It will not only take more jobs, but it will consume our creativity and leave us toiling over the chores.

Then there’s the likelihood that these data centers’ gargantuan hunger for water and energy  not only bankrupts us financially, but also costs us the Earth.

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Maybe the people behind the machine think they can inherit what’s left. Or maybe they hope only some of us will be able to adapt to our new Artificially Intelligent Overlords.

All Day Breakfast

It’s the weekend, and my husband HAS to ask his inevitable question.

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“What do you want for breakfast?”

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It doesn’t matter that three out of four members of my household will undoubtedly tell him, ‘I’ll pass.’

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It also doesn’t matter that two of the three responders are answering via text — since they happen to be waking up in dorms a couple hundred miles south (and west) of their bedrooms down the hall.

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Our tone won’t exactly be pleasant, but it’s hard to decipher inside the blue bubbles. One of the kids will likely include a demand that he produce a simple calculation: “Take the number of times you’ve asked this question over the years and subtract the number of times my answer has been a big, fat goose egg - zilch.”

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The other will send nothing but a smiley face, which is secreting tears.

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He takes it in stride. If they were here, he’ll make enough bacon for everyone to snitch. Since no matter how much they hate breakfast, there’s always room for bacon.

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“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he’ll whistle and hum, juggling the ingredients he’s pulled from the refrigerator and the pots and pans he’s pulled from the cabinets.

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No matter who you consult, this could be a problem … maybe even THE problem with the grizzly bears he encounters on these otherwise glorious mornings.

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Our son has a favorite bodega order: Sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagel. Side of energy drink … SEVENTEEN BUCKS.

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“That is one FANCY bodega,” his sister responds in all caps. “My favorite bagel joint charges sixty cents less. I’ll swap the energy drink for a tea and the bill comes to $16.25.”

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I love that the two of them will argue for a scrolling distance of about four phone screen lengths before they ascertain which of them is a better tipper; but I am flabbergasted that neither of my kids has ordered a breakfast sandwich that costs fewer than twenty dollars.

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The lowly breakfast sandwich … the staple of college students everywhere … has become a dinner option.

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I’m not sure why that surprised me. Back in my college days, when groceries cost significantly less, I used to freeze my yogurt cups, then skim off inches at a time so that they would last longer.

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But I could get an omelette, hash browns, and a side of rye toast for $3.50 any time of day, but especially at 4 a.m. after the bars closed, which turned out to be a popular time to eat breakfast.

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Neither of my kids will divulge any late-night dining practices that would tend to make their parents nervous. But, then again, times have changed as my son is happy to share.

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“I was today years old when I learned there’s an economic indicator index for everything that goes into the cost of a breakfast sandwich and coffee … The price of eggs is down, but the cost of coffee is through the roof … and with energy and healthcare rising, I will probably never be getting change for that sawbuck. But then again, it’s not like we’re even going to have coins in the future, since they cost more to make than they are worth in spending power.”

I do not want to speak to your manager ​

I fully intended to stay calm. This was the kind of low-stakes errand that didn’t have to set my emotions aflame.  

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I was committed to returning a set of Amazon purchases that did not pass muster … and despite having a price point so low that I would normally absorb the cost as not worth the effort and gasoline required to drive to the Smiley-Arrow returns collection site.

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Of course … I was in Staples during the penultimate week of back-to-school shopping, and it was dawning on me that management had only supplied one associate to operate the till.

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And the register in question was not the one handling regular shipping, where a clerk who had just disengaged with a sale informed me it was not the register dedicated to Amazon returns, which the till employee had to toggle between, and where I needed to stand and wait.

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Potentially until Hell froze over.

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“Smile,” I told myself. “Breathe. It’s been a pleasant day. You have time to spare. Look at all the nice people who are ahead of you, and who look as if they are also committed to staying calm no matter what happens.”

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But then the clerk from the regular shipping department – which I could see from my vantage point beside the growing line of people pushing carts piled high with fresh school supplies, ensuring that the clerk would not be toggling our way any time soon – meandered over, stopped just feet away from our empty lane, and meandered back.

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I didn’t snap … exactly.

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But I did suck in my breath, say a silent “Hell No,” and left my place in line to march the 40 yards toward the shipping department where I asked the startled clerk if anyone would be available to accept the Amazon return items in the foreseeable future.

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“Someone will be coming. But they’re not ready yet.”

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I’m not sure what happened next … My head felt swimmy. I saw sparks, or strange specks of light, as the room closed in on me.

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“Can’t you work that register?” I managed to say, hopefully without malice seeping into my voice.

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Truly … I have no idea what employment protocols are in place in the big box office supply stores of this great nation. Maybe there is limited cross-training. Maybe the clerk was off the clock and at lunch. Maybe there is a dedicated hand-held computer for this purpose that only THAT PERSON has access to? There are infinite possibilities that I should have considered.

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I just didn’t want to leave if the line wasn’t going to last until closing time.

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The clerk said nothing, but began to walk toward the Amazon line, now several people deep.

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I followed, resolved to accept my new location at the back of the line.

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When we got there, the employee we had been waiting for met us at the till, so the clerk I had badgered turned around and silently retreated, but not before meeting my tight smile with another tight smile.

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The line would go quickly … so long as we all had our return codes ready.