Sometimes, it feels like my life is taken straight from a movie scene. And today, that movie was a porn.
Don’t get too excited — I was just drinking the last of the milk straight out of its little Trader Joe’s jug, and I clearly overestimated my mouth’s capacity because it went streaming out of the sides of my mouth. I thought wow, what a perfect B-movie scene! But then I started laughing and sprayed it everywhere.
I just wish I’d done it AFTER I’d gotten showered/dressed. …
Dipshit (that’d be me) decided to put all her bags o’ crap for work in her trunk this morning. Said dipshit went into said vehicle and hit the button to pop the trunk, but the thing didn’t open, so she used her key to get in.
Said dipshit was flying up the interstate this morning when the hood of her car flew up. Apparently, dipshit had hit a lever all right — but the one that opened the hood, not the trunk.
This dipshit would like to just say that this scorching case of the Mondays may be contagious, and it might just burn on Tuesday as well. …
In my head, I swear I went to pick up breakfast today. But as I was sitting at my desk, I got mad and wanted to call the restaurant for forgetting to give me my order. Then I realized that they can’t GIVE it to me if I only MENTALLY bought it. Kee-rist — where is my MIND today?!?!
That same mind accidentally put 2008 on the top of a very time-sensitive document today. I’m just waiting for the complaints to roll in, ’cause they always do. Speaking of complaints rolling in, a customer returned an item to us this week, and I got the accompanying letter today. Why did she return a non-returnable item? I quote, “It’s not (something) that I can SPEAK to on the phone.”
*thunk*
For the cost of the item, I’d be willing to give her two hours on the phone. But, alas, I fear that even THAT amount of money isn’t enough to put up with such a challenging individual. She’s called six times already to ask where her refund is (um, she returned it YESTERDAY) — thank GOD she doesn’t have my direct line!
In other news, I mentioned to someone that my dental assistant injured me yesterday, but I guess it sounded like I’d said “entered.” Which, ponder THAT for a minute. Gives a whole new purpose to “dental dams,” doesn’t it now? 😉
Go see the movie with the same title as this post. Because you will be witnessing what is sure to become the next year of my life! I cried not because it was funny and cute (which it was) but because I will probably be able to write my own variation of that script. Mom always tells me to find a man with a dad (for her), and I swear to God, someone made that movie about us.
In any event, all that (s)mothering brings me to today’s rant.
Editor’s note: I was going to password-protect this entry, as those who should have better things to do than drive up my hits and see what I’m up to really don’t need to be privy to it. But then I remembered how that same person used to say how he LOVED to see me miserable, although I’ve never been happier since I realized there was no law obligating me to put up with HIS miserable ass. Just wanted to make that clear — thinking and typing doesn’t constitute anything other than coming to terms with situations. That’s what grown-ups do — reason things out. So, please navigate away from this page — maturity is required to frequent this joint. 🙂
Now, are we left with just grown-ups in the room?
Good.
That said, I went apartment-hunting today. Part 20, it seems, of the saga. I was so annoyed. I seriously didn’t see anything worth reviewing positively. I hate townhouses but I ended up touring one because I was so through with the apartment manager and her girlfriend who was hangin’ out with her (they were calling people on their cell phones and planning their weekend while I was fucking standing there) that she said we’d have to drive to see the apartments but could walk to the THs, so I said fine, show me the (what I knew was going to be ghetto) townhouse.
(CRACK) DEN MOTHER
Look, don’t tell me the floors are hardwood when they’re laminate. I can tell the difference. Nothing against laminate floors, when they’re in great shape. But scratched-up and fucked-up floors deserve to be covered. They beg for it, actually. That crack-den mother wanted $1,500 a month for that mess. Puh-leeze!
I hated it. I hated her. I hated the community and I felt sick in the car before I even got out.
The neat thing about it being icy is that you can see how these buildings/complexes take care of their residents. And if I’m there at NOON and I’m barely able to walk upright on your sidewalks, something’s amiss.
SO I APPLIED AT ‘PLACE A’ TODAY
In any event, I put in my application with an apartment company today (the one I liked best). I’ve heard they’re miserable about iffy credit and only take those with the best of the best. I also learned that their deposit is anywhere from $300 to $1,300 depending on said credit. Wondrous. Here’s to hoping the student loan company doesn’t seize my tax refund AGAIN this year, as that’s where it’s going.
Late tonight, I drove around said new complex, just hoping to get a sign. I didn’t get one. I was also looking for any kind of unusual activity and general upkeep, and at least that was fruitful.
The grounds were meticulous. It’s a very, uh, *populated* community (i.e., apartments on top of each other, all over the place), but attractive, if not a bit on the close-quarters side.
I walked to where the management indicated my unit could be. And it was a HIKE. Over the river, through the woods, up (and down) about a billion sets of stairs. I didn’t mind it, although I don’t know who I’m going to pay to lift my brick-shithouse of an entertainment center or the 32″ TV that sits in it. Then again, if I do all the “light” moving myself (boxes, textiles, et al), I can just pay a handful of people for the aggravation of heavy-lifting.
The problem with all the sidewalks and steps is wondering whether the furniture will survive it, as some of those corners are tight. But that’s not my main concern.
I’m wondering whether it would be too much for Mom.
A GODDESS ATOP HER EMPIRE
I’m going for a top-floor unit for the fireplace and for the fact that no rugrats will be tap-dancing on the floorboards (i.e., our ceilings). My ass can use the exercise, but I don’t know that she can hang to do all of that exertion.
Damn it. I hadn’t thought of that before. As I raced to the top floor of one of the buildings, I was pooped. But just for the smell of burning firewood alone, it was worth it.
Here’s the deal. I applied for the pricier place because, really, there ain’t nothin’ cheap in D.C. proper or in the surrounding areas. Finding a 2BR unit below $1,750/month is a gift from God, I kid you not. Nowhere is “cheap.” Nowhere is “perfect.” I just want something warm and safe and something that I would be happy to call home for a little while. I CANNOT move three springs in a row — this second one is going to kill me, no doubt.
Why did I do it, truly? Why apply to basically give up my firstborn in exchange for a roof over my head instead of just having my mom move into my current 1BR unit and just make do for awhile?
Because I just don’t want to become resentful.
There, I said it.
WHY IS MY ‘NORMAL’ SO FUCKED-UP?
More people than not tell me I’m strong, brave, a saint, a martyr, a hero or someone who needs to have her head examined because I not only offered to take in my mom in her time of need, but also because I want to. Well, “want” may be overstating the case, but I’m definitely willing, if that’s a better word choice.
I can’t look at it as personal sacrifice on my part. I can only view it as doing the right thing. She’s scared, she’s sad and she’s freaking the fuck out because her whole world crashed to a halt and now she’s going to crash into mine. She doesn’t want to be a burden but she’s got nowhere else to go.
I’ll be honest with you. I wish I were trying to find a bigger place so I can move in with a man. I should be setting up a wedding registry or buying a crib or doing whatever it is that people my age do. Not that I’m overly interested in either concept, and certainly not (maybe yet) with the current candidate pool, but if I start to wonder where it is that my life *should* be right now, I fear I would become resentful. And that’s the last thing I want to do.
So that’s why I want a nice apartment in a nice area. That’s why I want the one that I like — I’m paying for it dearly, and not just with money. I could be doing OK (financially) after my review in March. I could be doing better than OK. But I can’t think about what all that “extra” money could have bought (i.e., a couch, a computer that doesn’t conk out), or else I will feel sorry for myself. And I don’t do the self-pity thing, and even if I did, now isn’t the time.
BOTTOM LINE
I can always be counted on to do the right thing. No questions asked. This is just another one of those times.
I just wonder what apartments I possibly HAVEN’T seen yet, because I really do have to make more reasonable accommodations. She told me she can do whatever I need her to do, but I don’t know. I have to think more about this. I’ll see how amicable Place A is with the security deposit before I go sniffing elsewhere. But damn, it really is my favorite. …
I don’t need to sell myself on this idea, of throwing my life into this cosmic spin for the indefinite future. A girl needs her mommy, plain and simple. Maybe not in the same house, but whatever. Details. When my Mr. Right does show up with a white-gold ring (not yellow gold. Ick), I’ll figure out the logistics from there.
And God help me, I’m never going to stop praying that Mom meets a multimillionaire in the meantime, maybe even one with a son. … 😉
According to the fine folks at the Society for Human Resource Management:
“More than 60 percent of executives around the world believe workers who telecommute have a lesser chance of advancing in their career. But one-third of the executives said telecommuters are more productive than workers in traditional office settings.”
I’ve seen it in action and have always gotten the hint that telecommuting is perfectly acceptable, just as long as it’s done before or after business hours. It was never said to me directly, but I do get the impression that having a visible presence scores tremendous brownie points … even if you’re losing commuting time and/or closed-door time that would be better funneled into projects that require creativity and concentration.
At my last job, people blatantly napped at their desks and played Solitaire half the day, and that was perceived along the lines of, “Well, they are here if we need them.” Because you really need THAT bringing down the rest of your good workers’ morale. I personally think that if someone’s sitting around twiddling their thumbs but there’s a huge project coming up, they should be allowed to hang out at home and rest up for the late nights, and conversely, if they need to concentrate and just cannot do so with 40 irrelevant and not-time-sensitive interruptions, they can prioritize better and actually finish the projects they start.
I always suspected what SHRM wrote today, but it’s a good reminder that a day may feel like a waste of scandalous underwear, but in the long run, it’s really not!
This is tonight’s dinner. It took less than a half-hour to empty that botte o’ bloody. It was what we call “one of those days” at work, but given how many people there read this site, let’s just say that thanks to my friend Skyy, I’m better now. 😉
The good thing about my team being (formerly) all men was that when it was “a day” in my world, I could just shut off the lights and everyone knew to stay the hell away from me. But at the risk of TMI, I haven’t had a cycle in four months (stress!) and today, now that it started, I find that the now-predominantly-female team is all on the same cycle. Whee!
The other “red” thing in the hacienda, a box of cherry-flavored cigarettes I grabbed to reward myself, are NOT in view. I promised to start smoking again for New Year’s — again, it’s all about the obtainable goals!
Bloody HELL!!!
If what “they” say about how you ring in your new year holds true, then I’ll be surrounded by friends, love, happiness, vino and maybe even a little luck. We’re all overdue for a whopping dose of each.
Happy New Year, y’all! *kicks 2006 to the curb*
Wednesdays aren’t necessarily my favorite day at Ye Humble Employment Establishment. They’re not bad, but if I have to choose which day never goes according to plan, this has got to be it.
I’ve oft joked that I’d rather have a root canal than deal with my Wednesdays. And today, after visiting my new dentist and him promptly sending me across town with an X-ray and a referral to visit ANOTHER dentist, well, I got my wish — A FUCKING ROOT CANAL!!!
My second dentist (who was HAWTTT!!!!) had said how most people would rather be at work than seeing him. I said nope, not me — I’ve always posited that I’d rather be root-canalled than do my Wednesday work, and it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. And guess what? The dental work HURT LESS! HAH!
Of course, now trying to catch up on my work after my oral adventure is a pain in the ass, but trust me, I’ve had worse days! 😉
(And no, D., this dentist wouldn’t let me be on top. Although visions of it kept me from screaming in my not-altogether-numbed state!)
No, I don’t mean that bestseller wherein some chicks told you how to land a husband. I mean, after spending lots of time with my mom, I get to see where all my neuroses stem because she’s one of those “just so” people.
When you enter her domain, you are immediately informed of rules that you must follow to make your stay a pleasant one. These rules are subject to change on a moment’s notice and mostly only if she’s the one transgressing them. 😉
Rule No. 1: The bathroom wastebasket. Don’t use it. It is for decoration only. Use the wastebasket in my grandfather’s bedroom, except for when mom wants to put it in the hallway, so you can then throw your trash in there.
Rule No. 2: Bathroom rugs. They must be removed from the bathroom while you’re taking a shower. Only use the designated bathmat. When you are fixing your hair and makeup, you may put a towel on the floor. But it is one of a pile of towels designated solely for floor use. When everyone is done getting ready, the original rugs must be returned to their spots.
Rule No. 3: Purses. You may not leave your purse or car keys in the living room; they will be moved and you will freak out the next morning that they are lost. However, if you leave your purse and car keys in the dining room, you will awaken next morning to find them missing from there, too, as Mom will have put them in her room. The new rule is that you may not leave anything where you will actually FIND it the next day!
Rule No. 4: You cannot park in front of the house. Your car must be in the driveway — BACKED IN — for ease of escape. You can’t park on the street because the MORON across the way just plowed into her brand-new car and caused damage to the tune of $1,000 and refuses to pay for it. Before that, you were NOT allowed to park in the driveway because there’s a big hole in it and you could ONLY park on the street.
Ya with me so far? Welcome to my world!
Rule No. 5: All doors must be locked at all times. This includes the screen door when I go out to my car (she locks it, waits, and lets me back in. And when I come in to drop shit off, the door gets locked again) and the cellar door when washing clothes. See, when I would go to say move a load from the washer to the dryer, the door would be locked and you’d hear expletives echoing because the door was locked and I had run smack into it. Gah!
Rule No. 6: Underpants match bra. Both match shirt. All match shower curtain, bathroom rug and tea towel in kitchen. EVERYTHING MUST MATCH. CHAOS, DOOM AND APOCALYPSE ARE ON HORIZON if not. Open your umbrella, as it’s going to rain frogs if the gutchies clash with the decor. Seriously.
Rule No. 7: Placemats? TOTALLY FOR DECORATION. You must place a paper towel on top of the placemat so you don’t drop food on it.
Oh GAWD I could go on for months, but now I’m traumatized. 😉
Before I start today’s tirade, allow me to note that I’d rather have the cast of “Grey’s Anatomy” running a hospital. Sure, they’re actors, but they can’t be any less competent than what I’ve seen in the past few days.
I think there has got to be a note in my grandfather’s chart that when the granddaughter shows up, people need to act like they know what’s going on.
All they know is that I live in D.C. proper and that I can throw around medical terminology enough to seem like I know what the hell I’m talking about. All I know is that when I so much as approach the nurses’ station, I get a team of doctors dispatched to the bedside.
So my grandfather’s had this nasty, gurgly cough since Halloween. My mom had been asking for days about it, and when I arrived a few days later, I could hear it well. She went to ask a doctor about it and he said she’s hallucinating — he’s fine.
So “Harper Valley PTA” marched her ass up to the paging system and got someone sent to the room. I went off and said some asshole had told my mom he didn’t hear a cough and could you PLEASE take a listen because the wrong person was told they were hallucinating. The doc gave me a nasty look and snapped, “I’m that asshole who said he doesn’t have a cough because he doesn’t.”
Heh. He was right — he WAS an asshole. Because SUDDENLY he heard the cough. And even more suddenly? He realized the unclean hellhole had caused the poor man to contract PNEUMONIA.
SPEAKING OF ASSHOLES
Oh wait, I don’t have enough bandwidth to cover all the assholes in the world. (Although I do try. …) But then we got this other doctor the next day. Oh my GOD, I can see this idiot prancing around in his Superman Underoos and his lab coat — I’ll bet he wears that coat to bars to pick up chicks. Because that’d be the only way anyone would talk to him more than two minutes.
I think they versed him on the fact that I was going to give him a hard time. Snotty little punk-ass bitch. It ended up being Mom who got him good, but let me say this. “Meredith” gets “McDreamy” — we got “McDildo.”
So my grandfather was already gravely ill when we took him to the hospital. Now he’s contracted pneumonia, a bladder infection and a blood infection (they didn’t want to tell me they think it’s MRSA. They used a 14-syllable word and because I am well-versed in this shit and the hospital is filthy, I said, “Oh, MRSA.” And everyone looked scared and probably made another note in his chart to not answer pages when I’m around!
Anyway, they want to transfer my grandfather to another hospital, germs and all, because he really is getting sicker in that environment. We all agree on that. But he doesn’t want to go to the other place — he was there years ago and was absolutely terrorized by the experience.
BUT, McDildo pretty much threatened us to help talk him into it or he was going to order it without our blessing. *sigh*
My grandfather fought the transfer with his weak little voice, saying it’s a bunch of assholes running that place. McDildo said, “It’s been years — I’m sure it’s a whole ‘nother group of people.” And Mom chimed in, “Yeah, Dad — it’s a bunch of NEW assholes!”
And because McDildo was trying to win this argument, he had to admit, “Yeah, wouldn’t you rather deal with new assholes instead of the old ones?”
HAH!
GOOD THINGS DO HAPPEN FOR GOOD PEOPLE
With my grandfather’s last roommate, Mom was always buying him treats and talking to him and taking care of him. With his latest roommate, I’ve been bringing him meals and hanging out with him. Luckily, both guys were younger and very verbal, and the most recent one has been feeding my grandfather when those morons were leaving his tray four feet from him and also moving him in the bed, helping him to the bathroom and otherwise just being a friend.
Thank God. You know? What goes around comes around, as the latest one kept saying. And despite the doctors being McDipshits overall, the nursing staff (save for one or two) has really been good. The doctors (i.e., interns) are there for three-month stays (and are all on ego trips) but the nurses have been there for years. He had a lovely Korean woman from San Francisco last night — she calls my grandfather “Papa.” Her mother had told her to treat each of her patients like her own father, and she really does.
Anyway, it restores my faith in karma. It especially pleases me that, like my family, I refuse to become jaded by all the bullshit in life and I continue to want to be good to people because that’s not just my nature, but also my lineage.
So, I’ve been doing everyone’s errands and doing all the driving and giving Mom curbside service and making sure everyone gets fed and whatnot. I am truly the baby of the family and I know I have the most energy (although it’s dissipating) and need to take over for them whenever I can.
This makes me see the point of having kids — having a sane mind around when all the world is collapsing has been good for them. Not to mention, they both sparkle when I come into a room. I mean, most people do light up when they see me — I try to be enertaining or, at least, not annoying. But these people light up just for me. I love that. I miss that. I hated that as a kid, as I couldn’t stand being fussed over. But these days, I’ll take all the love I can get, and it’s there in bountiful supply, thank God.
ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?
I think we all know the answer to THAT question, but I have a funny story. First, I have to mention how hard it is to catch an elevator. There’s a bank of a dozen of them and not a goddamned one of them dings when they hit the floor. By the time you notice it, it’s gone.
I tell you that to share this story. There’s a robot wandering the floors. (It has more personality and probably more knowledge than the M.D.s.) It’s almost five feet tall and three feet wide, just a big cube that rolls around the floor.
Mom’s afraid of it. BIG TIME.
We went to a hidden restroom (it’s the only fairly clean one in the joint) in a back hallway. Wouldn’t you know, I’m in the room and the robot comes zooming down the hall, chasing Mom clear down it. (I think the thing carries files from floor to floor, but I really don’t know.)
I come out of the floor to find Mom collapsed in a heap, sobbing and laughing. I didn’t want to ask. The thing chased her all the way down to the elevators, where one opened and it got on, thus ending its pursuit of her.
She was so traumatized, she had to call her best friend, who’d been to the hospital before I came back. And the friend had said, “How the hell is it that we miss three elevators and yet that thing can catch one?”
I’m almost looking forward to this insane odyssey coming to a close and resuming my life — I’ve been living out of a suitcase for three out of the past four weeks, and I’d like a little bit of routine for a change. I just hope my grandfather is strong enough to make it through the next leg of this journey, because I think the next part is going to be the roughest. But like I always tell him, he’s stronger than they are stupid.
A higher power is giving them a chance to save him (and, therefore, themselves) and they’d all be wise to take it while they can. And if we’d all live by that motto, we will all turn out OK. …
