Full Bougie

It’s always a little surprising what you’ve got leftover in your copy and paste on your computer. Mine was the Magnolia Square url, the resort-like apartment I’ll be moving into in Naples, Florida on December 1st: pool, hot tub, sauna, steam room, massage room, multiple game rooms, “wine library,” whatever that is. I had failed to copy the portmanteau Bobo which essentially describes someone who is bourgeoisie (me) and who supposedly espouse bohemian values (also me). However, now that I’m officially moving to Florida, I’ve decided to go full bougie. Although, I suppose I won’t entirely lay my creative ambitions to rest. I’ll just take full comfort in conspicuous consumption because why not.

I’ve got a few months to kill before I move into my new apartment so I’ve landed in Astoria, Queens again at my special friend Hoa’s place. To prepare for my arrival in New York, I watched Moonstruck on the airplane, Nicolas Cage at his best…and worst. I had a horrific hangover, or the “hate-me’s” as my friend Andy refers to them as, and decided on some hair of the dog (or hair of the booze as my brother and I like to call it). I had said a few weeks back that I was finished with flying but what can you do, Amtrak is far too expensive. I arrived, was early to bed, and had extraordinary nightmares. I fell asleep around 10pm and woke, also extraordinarily thirsty, and walked to the kitchen for some water. The clock on the oven said 11:30pm. Only seven more hours of this bullshit.

The next day, I changed the furniture around to feng shui the place and to, let’s be honest, make it feel a bit like mine since I’ll be here for the next two months. I’ve got her L-shaped sectional nearer the window, the armchair the same. I brought the giant TV out in the living room from the bedroom which I’ve not even touched since I pushed it out here. God bless those who tolerate visitors like me in their homes who go about changing the order of things. In retrospect, probably a bit of a dick move. I felt a little guilty for it so I did a surface (is that the opposite of deep?) cleaning of counters and floors with my favorite cleaning device: the Swiffer. That thing almost makes it a treat to clean.

I remember the first time I encountered the Swiffer. It was in the monastery in New Mexico. A resident who I was close to, who was as obsessively clean as I am, broke it out one morning after breakfast and showed me the ways. And I had been using a broom. Ha. I’ve not gone back since. The best really is that lavender wet pad. Nothing says clean like lavender. And rosemary, any herb really. I’m a sucker for all of those dish and hand soaps too with blends like lemon verbena, olive oil, and aloe vera, or basil, shea butter, and almond oil (both Meyer’s). I really deplore those chemical smelling cleaners.

There is one in particular though that triggers some nostalgic and slightly melancholic feelings: that all-purpose cleaner Fabuloso. I’ve just read that it’s “lavender scented.” I don’t believe it. It smells like grape formaldehyde to me. However, the Muay Thai gym I used to go to in West Oakland used it to clean, well, practically everything. So now whenever I catch a faint smell of Fabuloso, I remember the days of Muay Thai and specifically, those very first days when I didn’t know how to jump rope and I was a little terrified of most members and especially of wearing those—what I would now consider—wonderfully short shorts. There is nothing sexier nor uglier than the Muay Thai short. At first glance, they’re atrocious looking, and yet, when you begin to get into the sport, if nothing else, there begins an appreciation for the short short notwithstanding its extravagantly bright and lurid appearance. It’s not all in the short but how your legs begin to look in them: vigorously robust and a little beat up. Now, all I wear is short shorts. With my new found love of sunbathing, my legs are both robust and tawny looking (these blog posts are becoming excessively preoccupied with my appearance…but fuck it).

Something of a heat wave is upon us here in New York. I’ve got a fan going, the AC unit all prepped, and already a small collection of sweat stained t-shirts ready for a washing. On the way back from CrossFit this morning (I’m now one of those guys), I popped into a bodega for a Topo Chico, which supposedly has a “softer mouthfeel than other sparkling waters.” All I know is that it’s a hell of a lot better than La Croix but not quite as expensive as Lauquen Artes or Aqua Deco. I’ve not gone full bougie yet.