Henrietta kills me. She gets fed twice a day. When I enter the bathroom where her food is kept, she runs ahead of me and half-stands on top of her food container, caterwauling as though she didn't just eat a few hours before. I dish out her cup of pellets and *poof* I am The Forgotten. Beat it, human. I've kibble to consume.
I am enjoying having cable for a week. I watched a couple episodes of Intervention last night, marveling at just how fucked up some families can be. Last night's episodes included the story of a 21-year-old woman who had been addicted to heroin and cocaine for six years and her anorexic/bulimic mother. There were issues galore to deal with, including abandonment and sexual abuse. Being a food addict isn't always a picnic (pun both intended and not intended), but wow. I'll take food addiction over speedballs, meth, and a mother who weighs 89 pounds, the same who used to exercise six hours a day to keep her weight down.
It's also nice to be in a house with a human-sized shower. I'm enjoying the free range of motion instead of standing in the equivalent of a closet while performing my morning ablutions.
* * * * * * * * * *
I am considering once again purchasing a home (which, yay!, would include a human-sized shower). I've not yet contacted the realtor I was working with last time. I want to look at some houses online and do some neighborhood drive-bys so I can save everyone some time. The last few times I engaged the realtor, the following happened:
1. I found myself sitting in her Lexus outside a house that was within a block of a check cashing place, a liquor store, and some kind of Harley Davidson clubhouse (seriously - there was a sign on the door saying as much). I didn't even get out of the car and began to fiercely wish she would hit the gas and take us to the non-carjacking part of town.
2. I stood on the porch of a home that had a dead cat inside. Apparently the cat had slipped in during another realtor's showing of the home and gotten trapped. (Woe! Kitty!) The realtor had relayed this story to me between house visits, neglecting to mention that our next stop was The Dead Cat Domicile. I thought I was just hearing a horror story, but we got to the door, the realtor punched the code to let us in, and then I heard her say, "Oh, there's a cat." I peeked over her head because my brain automatically forgot the deceased feline monologue and thought, "Kitty for me to pet and snuggle!" and there it was ... a small, lifeless cat in the living room. At that point, it had been there for more than 10 days. The realtor asked if I wanted to tour the house anyway. I really did try to think of the politest way to say FUCK NO, CRACKNOSE, while high-tailing it back to the car.
3. I toured, albeit VERY briefly, this house.
So. I'm going to do some of my own detective work and scout some neighborhoods. I don't know why the realtor, who's known my family since we moved to town in 1985, would think I'd want to live next door to the Hell's Angels, tour a house knowing there's a dead animal inside, or ignore something as blatant as the never-fading Eau de Pee Pee. That said, the woman also routinely drives through intersections with clearly-posted stop signs, only to pause in the middle of the intersection, and then keep going, all while chattering away and rifling through print-outs of homes I'm likely to hate. Towards the end of our last home visits, I began to meet her at our various destinations. I suddenly developed a, uh, lot of, uh, errands I had to, uh, run after we were done. My life, I value it.
I talked to King V yesterday about down payments and all the grants the government allegedly throws at potential first home buyers. I mentioned a home I'm interested in that's twice what I can afford, but would be a perfect place to live and have a nice Wiccan store. It's a double with three bedrooms on each side. My friend Luckdragon found it online for me and every once in a while, I click the link and stare at the virtual home tour pictures with the pretty woodwork and vast, empty rooms, and imagine merchandise artfully arranged all around.
I drove Serena by the house on Saturday after we attended Sterling and Steele's wedding. Serena and I have often simultaneously worked crappy jobs. We were both administrative assistants at different colleges and would commiserate on instant messenger about uppity faculty who treated us like we were stupid. As the years have passed, we've progressed into bigger and better jobs, but still talk about working for ourselves someday. Enter my fantasy of owning a Wiccan/pagan store with all things incense, witchy, feng shui-y, etc. Serena mentioned wanting to have a store with a punk rock hair salon next door. She has her cosmetology license and her wildlytalented artist daughter is currently in cosmetology school. I could very easily see the store/salon idea come to fruition. I would love nothing more than catering to Wiccans and freaks and punks. And rocking a mohawk. Okay, just kidding about that last part.
* * * * * * * * * *
Serena and I had a lovely time at Sterling and Steele's wedding. Both brides were absolutely beautiful in complementary white dresses. The wedding was held outdoors in a gorgeous park and Serena and I spent the next couple hours talking about what we'd like our individual weddings to be. I never seem to get beyond my desire to get married barefoot while wearing a custom-made dress in the palest shade of some pastel color (choices have ranged from "something pink" to a pale shade of tangerine). Serena asked me what my colors were and I had no idea. That began to change on Saturday, however. I began envisioning the flowers I would likely carry (tulips) and where I might have the ceremony (Michfest). Who I'm going to marry? When this is supposed to happen? Bah, those things will work themselves out later.
After the wedding, Serena and I elected to go out for Greek food. As I've been off my thyroid medicine (which alleviates the symptoms of hypothyroidism, which I was diagnosed with in 2001) for nearly three weeks, I'm tired a lot of the time. I'm also dealing with low-grade sadness/depression and have some mild body aches. Mainly, I just want to sit down a lot. So we took ourselves out for a hearty dinner and had a great time. After dinner, we drove by the aforementioned house I can't afford and then I went home and crashed on the couch.
Early on Sunday morning, a little before 4:00 AM, I awoke and decided to go outside for a cigarette. My upstairs neighbor and a female friend of his had just arrived home, apparently from bar-hopping, and greeted me as they walked in. I mumbled a hello as I'd been asleep the last several hours. Neighbor and friend came back outside a few minutes later, carrying a bottle of white wine and three glasses. "I thought you might like a glass of wine," Neighbor said, and I was deeply touched. We ended up sitting on the porch, chatting and drinking wine, for more than an hour, during which time I found out his extremely chatty friend is a Gemini, a Wiccan, works as a bartender, used to live in Seattle, has a nursing degree, a bipolar mother, and prefers dogs to cats. It was a very surreal experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.
I like that I'm slowly getting to know and like my upstairs neighbors. I think I basically automatically got along with his girlfriend because of The Female Factor. (I complimented her hairstyle once and a conversation was born.) At some point in the conversation, I asked Neighbor what caused the floor scraping noises in his apartment (I said it nicer than that). Turns out his girlfriend is a painter and sits on a rolling office chair when she paints. (I've been invited to tour their apartment and "bring money.") They also have a closet door that doesn't close and have to keep a heavy chair in front of it. Neighbor offered to tell his girlfriend to "knock it off," but I love the visual of her creating while sitting on her chair. I also explained that I really was used to whatever noise they made; I was just curious as to what they were moving around. I think Neighbor was genuinely surprised to realize I can hear those noises. Uh, yeah. Hardwood floors, dude.
Neighbor told me he's a graphic designer looking for work and I had an email come to me today with all kinds of nonprofit job listings. One company is looking for a GD, so I printed out the info and I'm going to give it to him this evening when I stop by my place to see my kitties, check my mail, and leave a rent check for the landlord that was actually due Sunday (oops). Even if the job isn't up his alley, it feels nice to be on the lookout, however unconsciously, for one's fellows.
There must be something in the air with regard to befriending people I didn't previously like because I've begun becoming friends with a boy who often got on my nerves. Maybe I'm growing up or maybe I'm just picking the right battles to fight.
* * * * * * * * * *
I've been off my thyroid medicine because doctors suck. I last visited the doctor in March, at which point I found out the office had stopped taking my insurance due to the end of the company's contract with the hospital. Because it was hard enough to make the appointment, I'd already taken time off of work, and didn't want to postpone the visit any longer, I elected to stay and pay for the visit myself. $40 in co-pay later, I was told the rest of my visit would cost $45. I wasn't thrilled, but I was floored when I got a bill in the mail for $545. That was the cost of the office visit, plus lab fees. Luckily, I worked out a payment arrangement with the hospital, but can no longer visit that doctor because, well, my money tree done failed to sprout, despite all the nickels I threw into the dirt in the backyard.
I'd called in a refill of my thyroid meds and then found out my now-ex doctor wouldn't authorize the refill unless I came in and saw her. I'm not sure why the office visit was necessary -- like I said, I've known of the condition for seven years and regularly had my thyroid levels checked. Nothing, even thyroid meds, weren't worth another $500+ visit. (See also: Money, Lack Thereof.) After forgetting or stalling for a week, I eventually found another doctor and I have an appointment next week. In the meantime, I've called the old doc to try and get a temporary prescription. With all the moats, steel walls, and cauldrons of burning oil I seem to be dodging, one would think I was trying to score a bottle of Percoset or something.
* * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of doctor and health issues, Queen S went in for some routine tests a couple weeks ago to make sure she was still cancer-free. She'd been diagnosed with breast cancer in 2001 and underwent weeks of radiation treatments to eliminate the thankfully Stage 0 cancer. King V got ready to take her to the doctor, but was being extremely evasive about what was happening. He just kept saying he was taking QS to the doctor "for some tests." Long story and near-anxiety-attack later, I found out that during a recent mammogram, the doctors had found microscopic somethings (I forgot the word QS used) near the original cancer site. They sucked them out and biopsied them and found them to be benign. (Benign must be just about the best word ever.) I don't know if King V was trying to keep me from worrying, but his circumvent-the-issue strategy didn't work. When they returned from the doctor, Queen S came down to the office and explained what was going on, but not before I quite literally grabbed her around the waist and cried out like a little girl, "Are you gonna die??" True to her nature, Queen S said, "Someday." Wrong. Answer. Mom. YOUR IMMORTALITY, SHOW ME IT.
* * * * * * * * * *
The ending of all things has been plaguing my mind lately. Thoughts of King V's and Queen S' mortality led to my mortality which led to Mack Daddy Smooth's mortality. Then I began thinking of the people in my life who have passed away in recent years, including THREE of my former bosses and my beloved grandfather. Last weekend, I decided to re-watch Six Feet Under and, for a third time, lost my SHIT when the finale came on. And yesterday, Serena had to put her beloved 12-year-old dog to sleep because he had cancer and was having uncontrollable nosebleeds. I'm done with death. Maybe that's why I've been having baby urges again. I know that Scorpios tend to be obsessed with life and death. I'd rather be surrounded by pink booties, beginnings, and baby feets instead of the alternative.
I know my re-interest in having a baby is partially because I read Amalah (pregnant with her second child), Dooce (mom to a four-year-old and interested in having a second child), and Zoot (just had her third child a couple weeks ago). It seems The Big Three -- having a baby, buying a house, and buying a new (or new-to-me) car -- are all rearing their heads at the same time. If I logically ordered them, having a baby would likely have to go last. It's not like I can go to bed tonight with my husband or boyfriend and oops! get pregnant. Sometimes that's a good thing and sometimes, like now, it sucks ass. It would be nice to have a happy little accident happen and not have to go on the Internet looking for sperm, which is hella-convenient but sometimes just squicks me out. However, I was told by an older man at the gas station a week or so ago that I was "fine, fine, ver' [very] ver' fine," so getting sperm could potentially be a lot easier. Ew, I can't believe I just typed that.
Truth be told, I often feel like I'm barely taking care of myself and my cats; sure, let's dump a baby in the mix because that won't make things more difficult. I know, though, that I would be supported. King V and Queen S would have the grandchild they've wanted so desperately for years (I believe I got my first when-ya-gonna-spawn literal poke in the ribs from Queen S at a family gathering when I was 26 or so), I have family in the area, and I have friends, both local and Michfest (covers all manner of states) who would be available for me to at least wail at
* * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue-ly:
The performance review I had which led to this hiatus in the first place wasn't awful. Overall, I scored well -- probably a four out of five -- but I received some average scores where I expected higher, namely concerning how corporate I've been dressing. King V criticized my outfits without explaining in detail what he wants me to look like. I got very upset because I've been far more conscious of how I look, including maniacally removing cat hair from my clothing, and that wasn't even acknowledged in the review. I finally got King V to agree to include a dress code -- or, at the very least guidelines -- in the employee handbook, but not before I cried through the review and said of this job, "I can't not have a job, but I can't do this to myself anymore." I ended up talking to Serena for nearly an hour after the review and she helped me put everything in perspective. King V wrote me an apology a few days later and then the subject was dropped. I bought some new shoes, made sure they were acceptable to His Highness, and plan to incorporate some dresses and suit jackets into my wardrobe as finances allow.
* * * * * * * * * *
I've been reading quite a lot lately, including Possible Side Effects by Augusten Burroughs, and Look Me in the Eye by Burroughs' older brother, John Elder Robison. I highly recommend the latter. It's about Robison's lifelong acclimation to having Asperger's Syndrome, a condition he was not diagnosed with until he was 40 years old. The book is very well-written and is quite engaging.
Possible Side Effects is quite entertaining, although I did want Burroughs' writing to be a bit ... more ... in places. Some of the essays are quite touching. Definitely worth checking out from the library. The reading of PSE made me begin thinking about writing my own book of essays. After all, according to my friend Phoenix, I am allowed to have a baby after the publication of my first book. I don't suppose the 10-page mystery I wrote when I was eight counts, eh?
* * * * * * * * * *
I'm considering purchasing a Toyota Matrix as my next car, but plan/hope to run SuperCar completely into the ground before I have to take on another car payment. I passed 233K a few days ago. Is it too much to hope for 300K? I like the Matrix (ha) because it's a Toyota, it looks zippy, and has something of a station wagon feel without the wood-paneling-soccer-mom dorkiness that comes standard on said vehicles. Perfect for me and maybe eventually a car seat. Or two.
No comments:
Post a Comment