That "oh-shit!" moment

You've seen it in the movies; that precise moment when the protagonist comes to a startling discovery, and the camera starts zooming in on said character, a stunned look on his/her face, as the background seems to fall farther into the distance and the score erupts in a crescendo of doom. Well, I shall describe exactly what that feels like in real life.

I had recently moved into my apartment. Shiny new apartment: yay! Typical first-time move-in issues like water pressure, heater problems, and such: boo. So, I call the landlord to send the handyman over. We don't have an apartment manager, so all maintenance requests go through the landlord.

Now, it seems the typical maintenance procedure is this: call landlord's answering service, landlord calls back to discuss the problem, sets up a time, leaves a key in a coded lock box on the door handle early in the A.M., handyman (who happens to be a close personal friend of the landlord) comes over, retrieves spare key from coded lockbox, does his handyman thing, leaves key in lockbox, landlord picks up lockbox early next A.M. Simple as can be.

We discussed my need for a new wall heater unit, as well as new earthquake brackets for the water heater. (Each unit has its own heater; hurrah for almost never running out of hot water). Anyway, it is settled that the handyman will come to take care of it all the next day. This gives me less than 2 hours to make my apartment presentable before bedtime. Slight panic.

A mad flurry ensues. Hide the porn DVDs and their cases sitting on the console. Stash the bong and skull-shaped lighter deep in closet. Fish cat out of closet. Change the cat litter. Empty the trash. Recycle the fifty empty Corona bottles. Fish cat out of overturned recycling bin. Hide the roach clip. Clean cat hair off the couch. Spray carpet cleaner on that neglected spot of the carpet where the cat had thrown up the day before. Vacuum up all the visible cat hair (the invisible hairballs and dustbunnies can go fuck themselves). Wash the goddamn dishes in the goddamn sink. Clean cat hair off the couch. Straighten the rug and throw pillows. Make the bed. Repeatedly extract cat from sheets while attempting to make bed. Take down and hide thickly-framed photographic triptych of close-ups of male genitalia hanging on wall. Neatly stack magazines hastily removed from their home in the bathroom. Hide Mapplethorpe coffee table book with the teabagging naked guy on the cover. Clean cat hair off the couch. Clean bathroom sink. Rescue water-shy cat from shower-curtain purgatory with wet hands. Bathe wounds in first-aid disinfectant and dress them with multiple band-aids.

Happy that everything is in place and properly giving off an air of sophisticated refinement, I leave in the morning, assured that the maintenance guy wouldn't think I was a total slob unfit to reside there, what with the immaculate digs. Note the presence of the lockbox containing the spare key on the door handle. I head home later in the evening, and am thrilled to see the new wall heater. Neglect to check the water heater, assuming that job is done too. Satisfied, I drop my guard and languishingly indulge in some evening's solo entertainment. Bliss.

As I leave the next morning, I note that the landlord has yet to pick up the lockbox, and make a mental note to follow up when I come home later that evening.

So I get home and notice the lockbox is still there. Great. Will now have to contact landlord with gentle reminder. Then, notice note from handyman, taped to front door, stating that all work had been completed that day, and that spare bolts for the water heater's earthquake straps had been stashed next to the washer and dryer. The tasks had apparently been spread over 2 days, not 1.

Holy fucking shit.

Cheeks burning, I open the front door. The first sight that greets me, sitting poised in a somewhat regal manner exactly where I'd left it the night before? My bright purple vibrator. On the coffee table. The one with the remote control, rip cord, kick stand, and heavy-duty extension cord. The one that, were it to short out, could produce a power surge strong enough to blacken the Eastern seaboard. The one so big that it practically has a fucking elbow joint. The one with the "Ultra-Realistic Look!", complete with thick veins (but no balls, thank Jeebus!). And sitting smugly beside it? On the coffee table? A small, travel-size bottle of Astroglide lube. With the pour spout up, just as I'd left it.

Holy fucking shit.

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