Caterwauling

I’m kicking it Old Testament tonight. Spending my second and final night in Cape Coral. Loving it and celebrating my decision to discover this cute little town. 

Also, wishing I weren’t totally swamped with work and could enjoy Memorial Day here instead of driving home to work and lose sleep.

The landlord’s newest Robert Palmer fake backup babe has called and texted every day. I’m ignoring her. They want me on a lease. I think they also want to raise the rent. I think they need to go fuck themselves. 

I don’t want them to know I am away. But I will tell twuntzilla that I needed to get a hotel because Islamic Caitlyn Jenner destroyed my sleep all week. And lol no, I am 100% not in favor of committing to 12 more months of that shit. 

I have the power here. That lease was up two months ago and they have three months’ worth of my money. Funny how no one is in a hurry to fix things or return a call or even call the HOA when I ask. But damn they can stalk me when they need something. 

Enjoy the feeling, jagoffs. 

I’m trying not to panic. I didn’t sleep again last night because of this. Thanks fuckers. 

There is no inventory where I have to be. But there are thousands of vacancies here in Cape Coral. And the prices are very good here. I say we work out a deal. 

God has blown the doors open, after all. It would be stupid of me to panic because there are no apartments available on the Treasure Coast when there are nothing but nice places to live here. 

I think a year away from that horrible area will do my heart a world of good. I figured I’d end up in Orlando but, you know. Maybe the year after this one. 

My friend and I were having the “why everyone hates reviews” talk recently. He just got a raise and had to go through his annual “well you’re valuable but not all that valuable” that preceded the annual “cost of living” bump. Which, seems like that could have been doled out without all the drama. But, he figures it’s a fair exchange — a few moments of discomfort for the ability to buy an extra cup of coffee each week.

It reminds me of landlords. How even though I try to solve problems, I always have someone calling to tell me that I didn’t do it the way they would have done it. Even though I used my best judgment when surrounded with a crisis that wasn’t anyone else’s emergency.

Like, my landlord not only called to bitch me out, but he had one of his Robert Palmer girls call and lecture me on not solving my own problems. (Because my professional guy cost $150 and his not-bright brother-in-law cost $60.)

That reminds me of when, at my old place, *I* was the annoying upstairs neighbor. I mean sure I didn’t drag bodies across the floor all night and bang the sliding glass doors at every available opportunity because I was running out every five minutes to smoke cigarettes and dope like Islamic Caitlyn Jenner who lives upstairs from me now. But, fire alarms.

My one-time downstairs neighbor Lauranne ran upstairs after the smoke detector in my room was going off for an hour. The batteries were out of it and it was early morning and her baby was in hysterics. She ran into my house to find me on a ladder in my jammies, beating on the thing with a hammer.

She moved out right after that. But the point of the story is that I had called maintenance for help and no one cared. So I called the fire department. That visit cost the building $1,500. Suddenly everyone cared.

Not about me or Lauranne or her baby. But I sure got a lecture on handling things myself.

And the bottom line every time is that where everyone else wasn’t available, I did my thing. And I have a very hard time apologizing for having a working toilet or ending the very loud ringing in my ears that you could hear from six floors below. (And six feet under. Those were a BITCH.)

In any event, this is why I have phone anxiety. It’s why I have review anxiety. It’s why I have nothing but ANXIETY. I mean, it’s one thing if I were a total and complete moron trying to fumble my way through the world. But I’m educated and have a high IQ and I think I’m pretty OK when it comes to decision-making because I at least think out all the consequences.

Yet, in a world where other people get the last say on whether it’s “good enough,” I’d rather move to an island and crack coconuts with my thighs (because, I can) and never hear the thoughts of another living soul again.

Was out walking the ‘hood last night after a bottle or three of wine with friends down the street. 

Dump 2.0 is great at night when the asshole dogs and the assholier dog owners are nowhere to be found. 

Then you get home at 2 am and the jagoff upstairs is rolling oil drums at 3 and building metal aircraft at 5 and jazzercizing at 6:30. And the case is once again made to burn the morhetfucker to the ground. 

Found a new mechanic. He’s honest. Like brutally honest. Like, telling me about the $800 repair I need and saying the car isn’t even worth that much so let’s hold off as long as we can. 

See, I knew hitting resistance at my usual place meant to find somewhere better. He’s funny. And sarcastic. And from Pennsylvania and then Virginia.  It’s just like meeting myself. 

The place is in my current town that I’m so eager to leave. I can’t believe I finally found a redeeming quality for it. 

I might have found a redeeming quality for my apartment too. Some guy came out screaming at the door upstairs. He said the asshole in there is an “amateur” and he makes too goddamn much noise. 

Try living under him and THEN let’s talk about who could possibly have it worse. 

But I’ll tell ya. Punk ass didn’t open his door but I slept the last two nights with minimal interruptions. 

I have a copy of “Go the Fuck to Sleep” for that twit. I’m going to hang onto it for a little while longer. But I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who wants him to go quietly fly a kite. 

Rearranged my bedroom furniture today. Pretty sick of jerkoff’s massive dresser over my head. I hate the new layout. Next I’ll do the living room since he drops shit over where the couch is. Couch is going under his tv. 

I found a bunch of decor I was saving for this place. Tons of Paris rugs and trinkets and trunks. Do I hang on to it, use it or haul it to the curb?

I got some bad news this morning. It’s best I hide from the world. Which I’ve gotten pretty good at so that won’t be too hard. 

After you finish your work at 11 pm when the Democratic town hall ends on tv, you’d think you could get a few hours of sleep. 

Well when you live under the pipe-bomb-building fool who pees all night, you’d be wrong. 

And then during the daily huddle, you just want to say you have 99 things to do and a nap ain’t one. 

And without that nap, don’t set your expectations too high about the rest. 

Last time I got a good sleep was a year ago when I lived on the island and all I could see in every direction was the Intracoastal Waterway. 

This is the only photo I ever took of my bedroom, one week before the movers came. 

I miss it. 

  
That apartment is finally back on the market for $700 a month more than I paid. Which, I paid a lot. All they did was switch out the rails and put glass in its place. 

I’m not thinking of moving back. The problems were too big and so is the price tag. 

Here, I just wish someone would tell the twit above me that he can get help for his tiny bladder, as he flushes at least three times a night and wakes up my whole household. 

And he should keep his stash in his pocket so I don’t have to hear him open all 12 drawers at 11 pm and 4 am every goddamn day. 

And take off the high heels when you’re jazzercizing at 1 am over mom’s head please. 

In any event. Sleep.  I miss you so. But to say something positive, crackhead woke me up to see a pretty sky today …

  
We’ve been under tornado watch since this morning. My stairwell was flooded by 9 a.m. 

The turnpike is closed due to an overturned truck and the Intracoastal town where I love the cake-batter ice cream is totally underwater. 

I type all of this to say that if you think staying home is a luxury, it’s just a nice alternative to death. 

Construction upstairs all day. And I think those fools with jackhammers hit something vital. Because 32 minutes of fire alarms. 

Holy friggin’ hell. And I have to stay here and have my ears shredded since mom won’t do stairs. Or rain. 

Thunder just cracked. Bye bye Dish Network. Which blows out when a dog farts, so why should the apocalypse be any different?

So I have like five realtors working on my escape plan. And tomorrow is the day I have to tell that Putz of a landlord whether I can suck it up for another year or whether he can shove this prison up his ass sideways. 

Now there is construction upstairs. Nobody told me. But having the house rocking for the last week sort of gave it away. I finally called one of the useless HOA girls and she said they are gutting the place and it will be several weeks. 

Can a sista catch a break ever?!?!

It’s not even the moving that bugs me. It’s the loot. It’s the crap we bought to replace the crap that’s in storage. 

It’s also that limbo between saying you’re out and actually getting a place. I noticed a ton of inventory come out yesterday. Today 80% of it is already under contract. Tomorrow it will all be contingent. And I will await the next batch of homes on whatever day it hits. 

Mom said let’s stay here if Putz doesn’t raise the rent. But that was before Renovation Hell. Plus whoever is living up there still tromps around in high heels and throws marbles at the floor every two and a half hours. 

I try to be grateful I have a home. But I get the feeling the only reason I work is to pay for this dump. And that is just not OK. 

Jesus Christ on a fucking cracker. Pounding all day, every day. Blasting “Johnny B. Goode” and other bullshit music off the balcony. 

I told myself to only blog positive things this year. 

Maybe after Chinese New Year. 

Kadie is angry and wants to nap.  I would be happy to be able to think while I work. But I do feel the same way …