She So Funny

By Rhonda Hansome

Despite the fact that obsessive compulsive disorder behavior is frequently associated with above average intelligence, I don’t have OCD.  After I lock my door, I push it to check that it’s securely locked.  While at my door I check my bag for my wallet, water, tablet and cell phone.   Noticing my cell absent from its designated purse pocket; I unlock the door, trudge to the bedroom and unplug my elusive phone from the wall outlet, where I charge it nightly.  On the trudge back to the door, I dismiss irrational thoughts about the possible negative side- effects of regular exposure to the radio frequency radiation emanating from the multiple electrical devices that surround my bed in an orderly arc.  I make a mental note* to google the radiation blocking properties of silver mesh curtains as I lock the door and push it to check that it’s securely locked. 

I pause before the locked door just long enough to confirm that I did indeed make a pre-travel bathroom visit.  Satisfied I’ve preempted a race between my bladder and the erratic MTA schedule, I quickly unlock the door to confirm that the bathroom light is off and securely lock the door again.  Don’t get it twisted.  My electric bill is no joke!  Two months ago my bill did an Olympic style $10.00 jump that was supernatural in timing.  How could my bill from the previous month, two weeks of which I’d spent trolling for guest spots in the comedy clubs of LA, be so high?  My letters, 22 in all, to Con Edison board members, vice –presidents, several CEO’s and the Consumer (non) Protection Agency demanding an explanation of how with a two week absence from home my bill was higher than ever, elicited the same response; which coincidentally echoed the reply of the utility representative I harangued for an hour and a half: “You were notified in writing of the scheduled rate increase.  To save on your bill always unplug your appliances when not in use to prevent costly vampire electrical loss.”

Dear Reader** I eat by candle light not for romance, but to save on my bill.  I sweat through non-air conditioned New York summers to save on my bill.  I say I don’t have a microwave because, much like a long gone heart throb, it warms while stealing your soul.  Truth is I don’t have a microwave, say it with me now: to save on my bill!  Con Edison raised my electric rate to legitimate rape and consoles me with vampire tales??!!  Did I digress?   I say all that to say I don’t have OCD.  I do have a helpful routine around locking my door, in which I engaged just before leaving for Israel almost two weeks ago.      

Much to my delight, the September 19^th performance of The Rhonda Hansome Comedy Divorced & Bitter Tour in Tel Aviv was a tremendous success!   The post-performance reception lingered way into the night as I was showered with congratulations and duo-cheek kisses.  I rubbed elbows and took photos with the (English speaking) audience whose diversity included the struggling owner of a three table restaurant, doctors, the Israeli predecessor of Madonna, “security” specialist, a vineyard owner, artists, actors, musicians of every type and the Israeli successor to Martha Stewart – a handsomely flamboyant  tall drink of water.  Delicious details of my first trip to Israel lurk in a future Thursday blog. 

Suffice it say I returned home safe and as sound as you can be after rising at 4:00AM for an 11 hour flight and a transcontinental time change.  I gathered my mail, lugged my suitcase up three flights of stairs and addressed my door.  “Hello Door!”   What’s this?  The door looks (almost) closed…  Hmmm.     I touch the door and the engaged lock grins mockingly as the door swings open.   How could the lock be closed without the door being locked?  Am I hallucinating from jet lag and dehydration?   OMG, have I been robbed?   Since the brownstone in which I abide changed owners (two months ago when I was the only tenant left in the building) my clean organized apartment has been denied any and all storage space in which she previously luxuriated.  She now appears to be auditioning for the TV show Hoarders.

Stifling a rising sense of WTF, my tired eyes probe every room, seeking signs of tampering among my islands of clutter.   My TV and other non-portable radiation emitting devices are in place.  I check my closet.  No one has absconded with my clothes.  Maybe they noticed the patches and repairs needed and went for my jewelry.   A quick perusal of my dusty box (insert your own dirty joke here) revealed that all that glittered was the gaudy oversize costume jewelry I’d left there.

Then it hit me.  My new landlord - make that landlady, when informed I was leaving for a trip abroad, requested my key, in case of emergency.  I thought, in spite of my nit picking boundary issues, don’t antagonize the broad.  So I gave her the emergency key to help establish rapport.   Now with zero signs of emergency - two texts and a phone call later, I had shredded bits of rapport whirling through my brain.  I spoke to her without yelling “Were you in my apartment and left the door unlocked?”  In my head that last sentence was in bold all cap letters followed by several exclamation points.   Yes, she’d opened my door for some reason that sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher talking and was surprised the door wasn’t locked.  Yeah, tell me about being surprised the door wasn’t locked.

*I love making mental notes because they don’t have the guilt inducing staying power of an actual hard copy “to do” list.

**BTW I thank all three of you for your support and insightful comments on my blog.