I hate it that now that I’m a grown up, weekends just mean more work! Ugh.
This weekend we have to get our tiny hovel into ship-shape for prospective tenant viewing—even though no one is going to want to rent the place seeing it so jammed full of our stuff. Every nook and cranny is filled to capacity. We’re not pack rats, we simply have only three dinky closets and hardly any cupboards. If our landlord shows the place to anyone remotely claustrophobic, they will run screaming out the front door. The place is just not appropriate for double occupancy, you know? Every day when Hubby and I are home together we are continuously squeezing around each other like we’re sharing an airplane toilet.
I’m excited as hell to move, but damn it all, it’s so much work! Last time we moved it was a fucking disaster so we have to RE-pack so much of our shit that was packed poorly then. We have boxes stuffed with random papers, newspapers, even some garbage! Hubby was working a lot of overtime and I couldn’t get enough done on my own—the place was a mess and I was trying to clean as I packed but I was getting behind instead of ahead. Then we had read the lease agreement wrong: it stated that we needed to be out by noon on the day BEFORE the last day of the lease, and this bit I caught late in the day on the day we were supposed to have been out!
Well, we weren’t anywhere near finished, and I didn’t have any help so we were still there the next day. The caretaker showed up at ten a.m. to check us out, but we were only halfway done because we just had a pickup truck and no helpers. I called my friend and begged her to help us, so she begrudgingly came over and helped us clean, but complained the whole time—within earshot of the caretaker who ended up using it against us. Meanwhile the caretaker and the woman from the apartment next door (who was taking our apartment and was told she could move in early) decided to “help” us by chucking our shit, unpacked, out into the hall or down to the street. THIS is how we ended up with boxes full of junk.
Plus those assholes charged us two days of rent, and even though we cleaned, because my friend was bitching about the messiness, we were charged for TEN HOURS of cleaning by the new tenant! Are you kidding me?? Our damage deposit was already being withheld because we couldn’t afford the last month’s rent, so we were assessed a bill. When we paid it off, we celebrated and shouted, “Bye-bye Bebe you bitch!” several times. She was the building owner who lived in a four million dollar mansion just outside Boston, MA with her rich international business management husband and did absolutely NO upkeep in the buildings she owned. In fact, the caretakers only received a $300 dollar monthly discount on their rent, and that $300 was to go to monthly maintenance—for a 25 unit building! Anything extra came out of the caretaker’s pocket. We couldn’t afford the place so we paid in installments every payday, but we weren’t paying any other bills, using Hubby’s credit cards for necessities and getting food from Hubby’s parents.
From this shithole building we moved in with my ex-stepdad/friend of the family for the summer—and thank goodness for him! But during this time all our crap was in storage and we just dragged it with us to this place. Now it’s in the dark, dank, cobwebby basement. Who wants to spend a beautiful weekend in a cruddy basement storage locker?? I know you didn’t just tell me to bring it upstairs and sort through it in the living room! I just TOLD you there’s not even enough room for two people, much less for two people, stacks of boxes, and an organizational sorting project!! Man, I’m just going to take it out into the yard. I mean, the papers are going to just be recycled, and we need to sort out our books and stick the donations right into the van… I can get all my shit done and get a tan too!
Friday, July 13, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Man, I gotta Go!
I think New Year’s resolutions expire sometime in March, but I’m still trying to stick to mine. I decided that instead of joining a health club (which give me anxiety attacks) or some such other major undertaking, I decided it was more appropriate to take baby steps. I am chronically dehydrated, so I have been making an effort to drink more water. It’s SO BORING! It’s like torture.
The recommended daily amount of water a person needs is eight glasses, or 64 fl. oz. I’m pretty sure that if I drink that much I’m going to drown. Yesterday I maxed out at four cups and I had to get up three times during the night to pee. Today my guts feel completely waterlogged after drinking two cups and one coffee so far today. I feel like a damn buoy. MUST. KEEP. DRINKING WATER….GOOD FOR ME… aaack.
The recommended daily amount of water a person needs is eight glasses, or 64 fl. oz. I’m pretty sure that if I drink that much I’m going to drown. Yesterday I maxed out at four cups and I had to get up three times during the night to pee. Today my guts feel completely waterlogged after drinking two cups and one coffee so far today. I feel like a damn buoy. MUST. KEEP. DRINKING WATER….GOOD FOR ME… aaack.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Live and Let Leave
I’m getting pretty restless in my apartment. Like I’ve described before, it’s a really old house hacked into four tiny units. When we moved in last September, our landlord gave us his speech about keeping the peace in this quiet building, and gave us a very stern warning followed up with a threat about his policy on drug use on his property (imagine him giving this talk to US—can you believe it?!). Now here we are several months later, crazy Lindsay from Apt 1 has moved out, and our landlord has allowed some punk-ass little thug to move in. The landlord is friends with this thug’s parents and he was promised that little Justin won’t be a problem. Well, he is a BIG problem.
The landlord instructed us to be vigilant informants, but the other two tenants are both away for the summer so if we make any complaints, it’ll be obvious where they came from. I have no doubt that if this kid is reprimanded or evicted that our car would end up trashed or our apartment broken into because this is the kind of kid that is living in our house.
His apartment is about 320 square feet just like ours is, but he manages to cram three other people in there with him and they flop there all day, even when he’s not home. They just sit in there fishbowl-ing the living room all day long. When he first moved in, we came outside as Justin and his girlfriend were getting high on the front walkway so we left in the other direction. When we came back they were still at it, so we let them know that this is not ok under any circumstances, and that they could get evicted if the landlord even suspects drug use. He apparently didn’t get the same tough warning that we did—I guess Mr. Tough Landlord only feels safe preaching to the choir. So now Justin and his friends smoke it INside, and recently Hubby’s bicycle tires were found mysteriously flattened after the bike was in the basement overnight.
Besides being a total dirtbag, he’s loud. I am beginning to doubt whether this little shit even SAW the lease agreement, much less signed it. His parents must have taken care of the whole thing. How else does a person get in an apartment without knowing that they have to shut the fuck up at ten o’clock? Last night I woke up because he was blasting his stereo with full bass AT TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING! What the fuck is wrong with this kid??
We decided not to tell our landlord any of this because it’s simply not fair to make US solely responsible for keeping HIS friends’ kid in line, and leaving us vulnerable as the only possible source for complaints. We’re just going to let him sort it out with his law school tenants this fall. If they move out and leave him hanging with three empty units and one dumbass, too bad for him. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson about not practicing what he preaches!
The landlord instructed us to be vigilant informants, but the other two tenants are both away for the summer so if we make any complaints, it’ll be obvious where they came from. I have no doubt that if this kid is reprimanded or evicted that our car would end up trashed or our apartment broken into because this is the kind of kid that is living in our house.
His apartment is about 320 square feet just like ours is, but he manages to cram three other people in there with him and they flop there all day, even when he’s not home. They just sit in there fishbowl-ing the living room all day long. When he first moved in, we came outside as Justin and his girlfriend were getting high on the front walkway so we left in the other direction. When we came back they were still at it, so we let them know that this is not ok under any circumstances, and that they could get evicted if the landlord even suspects drug use. He apparently didn’t get the same tough warning that we did—I guess Mr. Tough Landlord only feels safe preaching to the choir. So now Justin and his friends smoke it INside, and recently Hubby’s bicycle tires were found mysteriously flattened after the bike was in the basement overnight.
Besides being a total dirtbag, he’s loud. I am beginning to doubt whether this little shit even SAW the lease agreement, much less signed it. His parents must have taken care of the whole thing. How else does a person get in an apartment without knowing that they have to shut the fuck up at ten o’clock? Last night I woke up because he was blasting his stereo with full bass AT TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING! What the fuck is wrong with this kid??
We decided not to tell our landlord any of this because it’s simply not fair to make US solely responsible for keeping HIS friends’ kid in line, and leaving us vulnerable as the only possible source for complaints. We’re just going to let him sort it out with his law school tenants this fall. If they move out and leave him hanging with three empty units and one dumbass, too bad for him. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson about not practicing what he preaches!
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Notorious Riot
Believe it or not, my life is kind of small. I'm not widely traveled, and for as many times as I've moved in my life (25 times, actually), I've always lived in the same area, give or take 2 miles. My home city is pretty big, but it somehow maintains a small-town feel. I've never been particularly "popular" in the 90210 sense of the word, but any day I step foot out of my house, I run into someone I know. I don't mean most of the time, this is a phenomenon that you can set your watch by. In fact, it has amazed and annoyed many a boyfriend. One in particular used to always say, "Gee, let's see if we can guess how many people you know we'll run into TODAY..." But never mind, he was a dick.
My relative notoriety sprung out of my life in a Catholic grade school where I inspired in others an irrepressible loathing and disgust. I was "big-boned" and my momma was on welfare and I had to drink powdered milk from the food shelf. I wasn't the only reject in my grade, but despite this, I was never out of their scope for more than a couple of hours at a time. My grade school years coincided with the apex of yuppy-ism and the "me generation," brat pack movies, Purple Rain, Max Headroom, and Reagan's trickle-down economic policy. I was the only kid in class not fully outfitted in Bennetton or Guess on no-uniform days. I didn't have Keds. I didn't have an expensive spiral perm. I certainly didn't have any real diamonds or pearls that my daddy gave me for Christmas. Shit, I didn't even have a daddy!
What I did have was a mom who was only sixteen years older than me, pretty hip, and kind of a partier. My theory about why my mom stopped going to conferences is that her appearance twisted the nuns' fire and brimstone panties up in a bunch. I digress. After a couple years, I adjusted to being the center of negative attention and I realized that no matter WHAT I do, I'm going to get spit on or hit, so I just started doing whatever the fuck I wanted.
I wore different earrings in each ear, I cut my hair super short and just let it grow back out all shaggy and tough-looking, like a primordial mullet. I starting riding a neon green BMX. My favorite shirt to wear on weekends was my late grandpa's Air Force mechanic's uniform. I paired it with a string of lavender "pop beads" and jelly shoes. I began blowing off major assignments and talking back to the nuns. Once I was sent to the principal's office and my mom was called because I wore one of her t-shirts to school on a free dress day. But I think the lesson was more for my mom: the shirt said, "My two best friends are Charlie and Jack Daniels" with a huge bottle of whiskey and a guitar on it.
By the end of sixth grade I was kinda starting to be notorious for being a little off my nut--oh, and for being a great artist because I could draw way better then all those rich Catholic bitches, and I could blend pastels like a motherfucker. And what's more, I kinda liked it. When seventh grade rolled around I had received a letter from the Catholic school asking me not to return because my mom didn't pay the tuition, so I went to public school.
I blossomed! Well, after I recovered from mononucleosis...
I talked to anyone and everyone and no one flinched or sneered. Turns out I was fairly normal all along. My shyness and insecurity went straight out the window, but I may have tossed the baby out with the bath water. I discovered HEAVY METAL! Iron Maiden, Ratt, Metallica, Megadeth, Guns 'N' fuckin' Roses!
Now I was known for my huge hair, tight jeans, and black eye makeup. Rumor had it that I was both a slut AND a vampire! If the Catholic school dicks could see me now! What's funny here is that I actually opened up the phone book and called some of them and asked them out. I made them VERY uncomfortable, and I loved it! I laughed my ass off. The scent of others' discomfort became addictive (something I still relish), and I became known as a bully. Who ME? Oh yes, the glaring, the threatening, the posturing while standing behind my 300 pound best gal friend, snickering like only a mean girl can--even better than those snotty lawyers' daughters.
But, alas, senior year was the end of an era. I looked around one day and realized I was one of the only people left in my huge high school still teasing their hair into metal vixen eternity, and I also learned from many verbal confrontations that the rap girls were WAY tougher than me. I suddenly felt really conspicuous.
I faded into post-high-school hippy stoner obscurity and dated a drummer.
Actually, I tired of this phase quickly so I got a job and moved the fuck out of my mom's house at 19. I enrolled in community college and got a pretty cool job in a trendy neighborhood. I started partying with art school kids and musicians, so I was always making the scene. I made about a zillion acquaintances, half of whom I totally alienated when I broke up with the drummer. Then I was only half as cool as I had been; I had badly misjudged how cool this drummer was.
I said to myself, "Damnit! I will be COOL AGAIN!!!" So I kept up on making the scene, except now I was arriving alone and leaving drunk with a new friend in tow--never the same friend twice, though. So, yeah, I was building a reputation for being pathetic and loose.
I nipped that in the bud at twenty-four and started an intense schedule of AA meetings--ninety in ninety days (the poor man's outpatient treatment). I also got a job at a natural foods store. If you want to meet a crapload of awesomely hip creative humanitarians, get a job cashiering or stocking dry goods at the organic store. Anyway, I was in conversation with about 200 people every day, and many of these conversations were continued during run-ins at local coffee shops, the Laundromat, the grocery store, the library, the mall, restaurants, restrooms.
Every date I went on was interrupted at least once. I didn't mind at all because this showed whatever jackass I was out with that people LOVE me, they think I'm awesome, they care how I'm doing and who I'm out with. It showed these guys that I'm not just some lonely pushover chubby chick with big ta-tas.
While I've grown out of a lot of phases, I never really caught on to becoming more refined because I still relish the thought of doing and saying and wearing whatever the fuck I want. I love that anyone who engages me in conversation is going to get the real me, I just put myself right out there. I look around at all the polished professionals downtown, and I can't imagine all the work that goes into grooming, outfitting, and maintenance, not to mention the self-editing and mindless grinning. I'll probably never be the president of anything, but you can bet your ass I'll have a great time!
My relative notoriety sprung out of my life in a Catholic grade school where I inspired in others an irrepressible loathing and disgust. I was "big-boned" and my momma was on welfare and I had to drink powdered milk from the food shelf. I wasn't the only reject in my grade, but despite this, I was never out of their scope for more than a couple of hours at a time. My grade school years coincided with the apex of yuppy-ism and the "me generation," brat pack movies, Purple Rain, Max Headroom, and Reagan's trickle-down economic policy. I was the only kid in class not fully outfitted in Bennetton or Guess on no-uniform days. I didn't have Keds. I didn't have an expensive spiral perm. I certainly didn't have any real diamonds or pearls that my daddy gave me for Christmas. Shit, I didn't even have a daddy!
What I did have was a mom who was only sixteen years older than me, pretty hip, and kind of a partier. My theory about why my mom stopped going to conferences is that her appearance twisted the nuns' fire and brimstone panties up in a bunch. I digress. After a couple years, I adjusted to being the center of negative attention and I realized that no matter WHAT I do, I'm going to get spit on or hit, so I just started doing whatever the fuck I wanted.
I wore different earrings in each ear, I cut my hair super short and just let it grow back out all shaggy and tough-looking, like a primordial mullet. I starting riding a neon green BMX. My favorite shirt to wear on weekends was my late grandpa's Air Force mechanic's uniform. I paired it with a string of lavender "pop beads" and jelly shoes. I began blowing off major assignments and talking back to the nuns. Once I was sent to the principal's office and my mom was called because I wore one of her t-shirts to school on a free dress day. But I think the lesson was more for my mom: the shirt said, "My two best friends are Charlie and Jack Daniels" with a huge bottle of whiskey and a guitar on it.
By the end of sixth grade I was kinda starting to be notorious for being a little off my nut--oh, and for being a great artist because I could draw way better then all those rich Catholic bitches, and I could blend pastels like a motherfucker. And what's more, I kinda liked it. When seventh grade rolled around I had received a letter from the Catholic school asking me not to return because my mom didn't pay the tuition, so I went to public school.
I blossomed! Well, after I recovered from mononucleosis...
I talked to anyone and everyone and no one flinched or sneered. Turns out I was fairly normal all along. My shyness and insecurity went straight out the window, but I may have tossed the baby out with the bath water. I discovered HEAVY METAL! Iron Maiden, Ratt, Metallica, Megadeth, Guns 'N' fuckin' Roses!
Now I was known for my huge hair, tight jeans, and black eye makeup. Rumor had it that I was both a slut AND a vampire! If the Catholic school dicks could see me now! What's funny here is that I actually opened up the phone book and called some of them and asked them out. I made them VERY uncomfortable, and I loved it! I laughed my ass off. The scent of others' discomfort became addictive (something I still relish), and I became known as a bully. Who ME? Oh yes, the glaring, the threatening, the posturing while standing behind my 300 pound best gal friend, snickering like only a mean girl can--even better than those snotty lawyers' daughters.
But, alas, senior year was the end of an era. I looked around one day and realized I was one of the only people left in my huge high school still teasing their hair into metal vixen eternity, and I also learned from many verbal confrontations that the rap girls were WAY tougher than me. I suddenly felt really conspicuous.
I faded into post-high-school hippy stoner obscurity and dated a drummer.
Actually, I tired of this phase quickly so I got a job and moved the fuck out of my mom's house at 19. I enrolled in community college and got a pretty cool job in a trendy neighborhood. I started partying with art school kids and musicians, so I was always making the scene. I made about a zillion acquaintances, half of whom I totally alienated when I broke up with the drummer. Then I was only half as cool as I had been; I had badly misjudged how cool this drummer was.
I said to myself, "Damnit! I will be COOL AGAIN!!!" So I kept up on making the scene, except now I was arriving alone and leaving drunk with a new friend in tow--never the same friend twice, though. So, yeah, I was building a reputation for being pathetic and loose.
I nipped that in the bud at twenty-four and started an intense schedule of AA meetings--ninety in ninety days (the poor man's outpatient treatment). I also got a job at a natural foods store. If you want to meet a crapload of awesomely hip creative humanitarians, get a job cashiering or stocking dry goods at the organic store. Anyway, I was in conversation with about 200 people every day, and many of these conversations were continued during run-ins at local coffee shops, the Laundromat, the grocery store, the library, the mall, restaurants, restrooms.
Every date I went on was interrupted at least once. I didn't mind at all because this showed whatever jackass I was out with that people LOVE me, they think I'm awesome, they care how I'm doing and who I'm out with. It showed these guys that I'm not just some lonely pushover chubby chick with big ta-tas.
While I've grown out of a lot of phases, I never really caught on to becoming more refined because I still relish the thought of doing and saying and wearing whatever the fuck I want. I love that anyone who engages me in conversation is going to get the real me, I just put myself right out there. I look around at all the polished professionals downtown, and I can't imagine all the work that goes into grooming, outfitting, and maintenance, not to mention the self-editing and mindless grinning. I'll probably never be the president of anything, but you can bet your ass I'll have a great time!
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