Some things, let me tell you them

I lost my shit with (On? Towards?) an innocent woman the other day. I was stuck in my car at a stoplight after the distributor decided to up and die. You know, because I had a spare $410.68 in my pocket. While waiting for King V to arrive with a gas can (thinking I might've run out of gas, though the gas light really hadn’t been on long enough), three separate cars had pulled up behind me at the light. Despite having my flashers on, they’d inch closer and closer to my bumper when the light turned green, waitingwaitingnotpatientlywaiting for me to go, before finally careening around my car and zipping down the street. So rushed was the traffic that swarmed around me that I texted Vanessa and told her, were I to be creamed by an oncoming bus, to let King V, Queen S, and Mack Daddy Smooth know that I love them.

When Innocent Lady pulled up and started gesturing at me, I thought she was getting mad and telling me to GOOOOOOOOOO!!! I opened my door and screamed -- SCREAMED! -- that the car was dead and she needed to go around me. Chilluns, I punctuated every word as though my imaginary exclamation points were Chinese throwing stars. As I was yelling, she answered that she knew I was stuck and that she was signaling to the car behind her and something something “relax, baby.”

Oh.

I knew that.

I’d already slammed my door (on the seatbelt, of course) in a huff (while she was still talking) because OH MY GOD SOME PEOPLE WITH THE STUPID, so it was too late to save face. I just avoided eye contact when she got around me and I sat there, surprised at my heated reaction (see also: Apparent Desire To Get Into A Fistfight With Someone Driving A Minivan), and listened to the car ding its door ajar… door… ajar… chime.

OH.

*huff puff*

YOUSAWMYFLASHERSANDYOUWERETRYINGTOHELPANDI’MADICK.

*exhale*

.nevermindthen.

* * * * * * * * * *

I have experienced figurative and literal benefits with being unemployed. I’ve now paid off four debts that won’t reoccur, unlike utilities and cell phone bills. I’ve had the chance to sleep in a lot, take naps, reevaluate where I want my career to go (up, preferably), start cooking (I’ve made lasagna twice!), and chat with my MOTHER about my being FAT, which is DEFINITELY a formerly inflammatory topic and one I NEVER thought we’d be able to discuss without coming to BLOWS.

Heart-to-heart discussions and massive amounts of free time aside, I think I’m spending too much time with my folks. I love them and I certainly spend a good deal of time alone and with my friends, but King V is full of complaints about his gym (apparently the potties don’t get cleaned, like, ever) and he’s constantly fretting about money and taxes and the few clients he has left and how THIS guy won’t write him back and THAT company was interested in working together but has now, apparently, relocated to an email-free region of Bolivia and while I’m sitting in his office chatting, he’ll answer the phone and end up swearing at telemarketers who claim to be from AT&T but really aren’t and within two minutes he’s gone from answering the phone pleasantly to growling ‘FUCK YOU!’ and slamming the receiver down. I love him dearly but he’s definitely doing a good job of turning into a crotchety old man. He already yells at the mailman to get off his lawn and if you think I'm kidding, visualize the cement planters King V placed across the yard in an unfortunately failed attempt to get a civil servant out of his hostas. S-e-r-i-o-u-s-l-y.

So. I have developed an urge in the past 24 hours to move somewhere else (AGAIN), somewhere I can feel like a Real Adult instead of an almost-36-year-old woman who lives three miles away from her parents and sees them almost every day. (Yes, I could easily just not come over as often but then I wouldn’t have a blog entry and why do you want to squelch my abundance of creativity? Do you also hate puppies and freedom?)

Ever since Mack Daddy Smooth left River City some ten years ago and went to culinary school, he’s been romping around the country, cooking for people and traveling with friends during his down time. (The buttface, she says oh-so-lovingly, conveniently knows people whose relatives own timeshares in, say, the Caribbean, and so he lands these free or nearly free vacations that no average person could easily afford. My friends live in DETROIT. I’ve been dusted in irritation and jealousy that he ‘got out’ even though I could blow this popsicle stand* just as easily.

* What the hell does that mean anyway?

Unfortunately, every time I mention jetting off to some other state, Queen S gets visibly irritated and I feel trapped because Good Daughters Don’t Abandon Their Mothers. But you know what? I’ve been on the guilt trips (Cruise packages, now only $399 for a six-night, seven-day stay!) and I’d like to go somewhere else now please. Children are meant to grow up and leave because parents are supposed to retire and travel the country together and everyone is supposed to gather at Yulexmastice Chrismakwanzaakuh and talk about their adventures and isn’t it wonderful how cultured and awesome we all are now let me show you my 1,275 pictures from our visit to Scotlandaustraliadesmoines.

Being an all-or-nothing kind of gal, my sights are set on London. I know, I know. Every few weeks, it seems, I post an entry about The Next Amazing Thing I Want To Do, none of which seem to come to fruition. I’ve yet to go off to grad school for an MFA or occupational therapy or English or philanthropy. I haven’t made a film, written a screenplay, recorded my second CD, or saved the world. Whatever my Interest of the Day, it’s beyond clear that I need to do something – change apartments (more on that in a minute), leave River City, get a job with an overseas conglomerate, pick up a new hobby (shotgun juggling!), give acting, singing, dancing, or competitive sweater knitting a try – SOMETHING.

Despite getting out of the house more lately, going to artistic events, hanging with friends, eating good cheese and drinking fine wines, it’s not enough. Maybe it’s because I’ve now seen two of the Matt-Damon-as-Jason-Bourne movies (Bourne Free! Bourne in the USA! Bourne to Be Wild!), but THIS GIRL needs to renew her passport and get the hell away for a week or a year. Wanderlust is driving me out of my mind the city every weekend in October for visits with friends. If I can just get better at self-promotion, one of these trips could result in that Something Different that I am craving, like A Very Cool Job or at least A Job That Doesn’t Make Me Want to Choke a Man Just to Watch Him Die. Also known as retail or working for one’s father. Ahem.

My entire basis for wanting to move to London, by the way, is that I’ve been there and that I think it’s cool. I’m sure I can develop more reasons between now and maybepossiblywouldn’titbeneat?!? getting there. Or wherever I end up.

Something to add that will make this all a bit more realistic: I went to a networking event with King V this evening and had a really great time. I actually made a few contacts, talked to some nice people, handed out business cards, and made light of the fact that I'm a free agent. During the evening, someone mentioned winning a grant and how they'd gone overseas for a short time and a lightbulb, it doth illuminated over my head. A grant... of course! After the event, I told King V I was going to go to Spain for a month and that it was too bad that Frida Kahlo was from Mexico because I could write about some Frida for dayyyys. (To wit, Spain is my number one destination for my next overseas visit but I can see myself living in London.)

It is entirely possible, by the way, that I want to hightail it out of here just to get the hell away from my chain-smoking upstairs neighbor. At this point, my desire to move is practically tangible. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but smoke from the upstairs apartment creeps down the stairs, fills the foyer the two apartments share, and then comes into MY apartment. A towel under the door, foam padding in the door cracks, and Nag Champa incense help, but it’s the principle, damn it. I smoked for more than 10 years before jumping on the quit-start-quit-start-but-mostly-quit-but-let’s-start-again-to-quit merry-go-round. Ever since those four months that I was Officially A Nonsmoker, I've never able to ‘get back' to smoking the way I had before. Obviously that's a good thing, but I still miss smoking sometimes. Despite the reprieve I gave my lungs and taste buds (etc.), something, however temporarily, always brings me back. [insert cheesy Godfather quote/cliché here]

Now that I’ve spent the better part of the last 12 years as an ex-smoker, I’m especially sensitive to the smell of smoke and coming home has become fairly unpleasant. Whereas the former upstairs people only smoked occasionally, Miss Lying Liarpants smokes all. the. time. When she moved in, she told me she didn’t smoke and I believed her. She claims now that she only smokes when she's stressed. Clearly she needs a different job. Or shock therapy.

Though this new neighbor is quieter than the tools who used to live upstairs with their Riverdancing and boulder dropping, she’s also weirder. About six weeks ago, when it was still 90+ during the day, she came downstairs and asked if I was running my air conditioning. I answered in the affirmative and was told that the sound of the compressor running was "rattling the windows of her meditation room" and she was visibly disturbed. I didn’t know if she was looking for me to say I’d turn the air off (um, NO) but she softened me up by handing over a plate of fudge (Score!) and warned me that she’d be outside trying to muffle the sound with foam-filler-based ideas she found on the Internet. Ooooookay then. Thanks for the fudge, crazy. Have fun in the bushes.

A couple weeks ago, Quirky McMightwanttostabme came downstairs with cookies. Being a returning champion on The Nutjob Show, I knew she wanted something. She had a rather large, cocoa-skinned gentleman with her and asked, after she handed over a Tupperware that I have yet to return, if I was Samoan.

Uh, no. (Later, I thought to reply “Just fat and light brown” but she was gone and after-the-fact comebacks are useless.)

The guy asked what my nationality was. I smiled and answered, “Just black and white” and he explained that he was “looking for friends from the island.” Oh. Sorry. No. I’m just an above-average, café-au-lait-colored American. But I do like Girl Scout cookies – does that count for anything?

While interactions with Crazypants are weird, to say the least, I am enjoying the baked goods I’m getting out of it. It’s like entertaining visits from Betty Off Her Crocker.

* * * * * * * * * *

Remember the lady who hit my car? We agreed not to report the accident to our respective insurance companies. She explained she had a 19-year-old and I assumed she meant it was a boy because she kinda looked like she was going to faint. We traded info, I recorded some pertinent details like location and time of day, and off we went. It took me almost a week to get an estimate for the car and when I tried calling her, she didn't return my call.

Uh oh.

A few days later, I tried calling her again.

Again, no answer.

I started getting angry and berated myself for being so stupid as to believe she'd actually, you know, be decent and talk to me about getting my car fixed. I'm actually looking to leverage the cost of fixing a couple things on the car (~$250) into getting my windshield wipers fixed (~$400). I need the wipers more than I need a pretty piece of plastic on the back of the car.

Last Thursday, as I mentioned earlier, my car's distributor had its little swan song and pooped out. Though service was swift, it still took a few hours to get home and by the time I got there, I was tired and just furious after waiting two weeks for Crunchy McDentsmyride to return my calls. Spurred by my desire to not get fucked over, I logged onto my insurance company's website and filed a claim. Somehow my car was getting fixed; I didn't really care who paid for it.

The next morning, I spoke with a claims representative who took down the lady's number and gave her a call. I don't know how many times she was called (maybe just the once) or what they said, but my phone rang on Friday evening -- you might want to sit down since these next few words will be so shocking -- and it was her. Collision McJeepdriver. Excuses McNevercalls. Angry McSmackabitch. (Wait, that's me. Sorry.) Interesting, I thought, and smiled when I saw her number come up on my phone. Hello? Oh yes, it's you. Nice to hear from you. Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just want to get my car fixed. Soothe soothe blah lah la.

We talked for a few minutes and reiterated how she didn't want the accident to go on her insurance and said for me to fax my repair estimate, which I did on Monday. I forgot to check the mail when I got home from schmoozing. There MIGHT be a check, but I'm not holding my breath. In fact, I'm not going to entirely breathe until I'm holding the cash from her check in my hot little hands. I'm also not dropping the claim with my insurance company until she pays up. I'm not a litigious sort but I'm also not going to be screwed over. I do have random moments of joy where I remember getting out of my car and walking towards her, a tiny blonde woman, and relishing the fact that she probably thought I was going to kill her. Being tall and big has its advantages and not just for getting a job as a bouncer. I can also get things off overstock shelves in stores.