Goldie Hawn

I stood at the sink washing a dish and began to cry. Not a little teary eyed frustration, but a full out heaving sob. It was day three.

As a girl I always imagined I would be rich. When asked about my future profession I didn't mess around with the future doctors and firemen of the world. I stated I would be either a trophy wife or a whale tamer. When I realized majoring in Biology required I dissect the animals I hoped to work with it was too much for me so I majored in Finance. I could marry a wealthy stock broker then spend my days in philanthropic endeavors and lengthy vacations. Sure my ancient husband may cheat, but I'd have tennis instructors to keep me company.

The dish I was washing slumped into the sink as I sank to the ground grasping my knees in horror at my current life. I called my boyfriend. "Babe. When are you coming back?" I whimpered. "I'm on my way, it's ok, fifteen minutes." I eased the tears "I'm Goldie Hawn. This is Overboard." He didn't get my reference. One of the many times I wondered what rock my boyfriend lived under and why his parents didn't culture him. "Oh my gosh why do you know nothing." My tears stopped at the injustice of his ignorance. "Goldie Hawn played a rich woman on a yacht and she fell off and got amnesia and the contractor on the boat pretended they were married and she was his wife and she had to start cleaning his disgusting house and taking care of his messy children. It's a classic." I burst off in a single breath.

And that's what this was becoming. My life was the epitome of Goldie Hawn in Overboard. I did not belong where I was and my body and soul were beginning to reject being so far from where we knew was right for us.  I had cleaned caked on feces off of a toilet, vacuumed up pounds of sand and disintegrated rug glue, and scrubbed up twelve years of dust accumulation. Now I stood in a gutted trailer, my boyfriends new living arrangement, and I was alone at a sink. We had no bed, no hot water, no heat, and no TV. I had never considered myself high maintenance, but I was beginning to realize I wasn't as chill as I had portrayed myself. In fact I had always hoped to own a tiny house. I never needed much space, but when I imagined my tiny house, it always was a luxury tiny home. Coming face to face with the fact that most travel trailers include only a six gallon hot water tank which is enough for 3 minutes of showering, a mere eighth of my norm, I realized I may be the upper middle class of maintenance. I like to be clean. Sure I can hike and play in the mud, but I want to eventually be warm and comfortable again.



And maybe my tears weren't for the frustration of being so filthy and the grossness of knowing some dude from San Jose's grime was under my fingernails because he was too lazy to clean his former trailer. And maybe my tears weren't from exhaustion of cleaning and being alone. Maybe my tears fell from a dying dream. I know the trailer will look nice, and it will be livable, perhaps even cute. But at 29 you realize you're five years past the expiration date on being a trophy wife and if you want to have any semblance of cute life, it's probably going to include you scraping off some shit and washing up in a cold shower.

The filth

All the primer

The heaters (no electricity or heat in the trailer for a month)

The romantic microwave dinner