Please Don't Disturb the Natives

Well, as I have always suspected, I should never worry about running out of ways to embarrass myself in front of strangers. Yesterday afternoon there was a knock at my door. I found this odd because I don't really know anyone in Chicago, and the few people who have been invited to my humble abode have "real" jobs and don't usually have time for lengthy visits in the middle of the day. (At least, this is what they tell me whenever I make too long phone calls to share the idiocy I saw on "Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency" or what I learned from Dr. Phil about internet dating.) Plus, who of a relatively sane nature would take those stairs for any purpose, let alone in an attempt to sell me Cutco knives or talk about the lord? When I checked the peephole, I realized that one of my worst fears had come true. (By the use of "worst fear" I am obviously exaggerating since "fears" is a very long list that includes plane crashes, the dentist, tall places without adequate fencing and/or walls, and having to watch "Vanilla Sky" again.) A few weeks ago, a note was stuck in my door explaining that since my lease had not been renewed for the next year, the leasing company might be showing people around the apartment whenever they felt like it. And, yesterday was that demonstrative day. I yelled out "just a minute" so that I could take a few moments to pull a sweatshirt on and wipe some of the more obvious dirt off the floor. Unfortunately, I didn't really have time to change out of my pajamas, wipe the crusted food from the corners of my mouth (because I may have been eating over the sink when said knock occurred), turn off my Lifetime movie, make the bed (again with the semantics, "bed" is actually an exaggeration of air mattress), wash the dishes, get the clothes off the bathroom floor, or swiffer. All of which are tasks that are probably normally accomplished before 3:00 in the afternoon. And, when you add my very excited dog to the mix, you end up with the shortest apartment tour on record. Last time I checked, girls with pointy boots pulled over their skinny jeans just to check out apartments have higher expectations than my more "relaxed" standard of living. Thus: my living quarters + strangers on a tour = Laurel's sufficient embarrassment for the week. (And some have said that math isn't my strong suit...) (Also, as a side note, of the 20 second tour, I did catch the leasing guy saying, "What's really nice about this unit is the balcony." I can't speak to Chicago rental norms, but the last time I checked a small jutting out from the window does not a balcony make. If you can't even open a folding chair on it, it's not a balcony. If there's only room for a house plant, it's certainly not a balcony. And, putting sliding doors there instead of picture window isn't fooling anybody.)