Fuzzy Skull Anxiety

I have been more anxiety-ridden in the last month than I have in a few years. My head feels tingly and buzzing and I just cannot fucking even. I’m livid and scared and so utterly disappointed that I just cannot describe it.

New owner buys property. Says he’s going to fix what’s broken.

Nope.

We’re slapping paint on, re-staining floors, putting up new fixtures and buying ceiling fans. We need new wiring so badly that if the fire marshal saw what’s in the walls, we’d get shut down. I hope those pretty ceiling fans and knobs are useful in putting out fires.

Now there’s mold.

Because of course there is.

The EPA is going to hear about it, and what does he do? Threatens an attorney if the report gets made. No expression of concern. No remark about getting the mold tested to see if its really the dangerous kind.

Nope.

Not one word about getting a second opinion, even.

Just spitting nails about covering it all up.

Its bad enough that the meth head brother moved in and walks around in his silk boxers outside, has his dealer friends meeting other customers here regularly, and has parked not one, but two, hideous jalopy cars (one of which is a camper) here for over a month. Now, the tenants don’t give a shit about the parking lot rules I set in place, because why should they?

I’m rambling. I know. I don’t care.

It’s all fine when you talk like a salesman about how great everything is going, because you get to go home.

We all have to live HERE.

With dangerous wiring.

With a meth head in his skivvies, and his dealer and their disgusting meth head friends constantly coming here.

And now with mold.

My head is going to explode.

I am over the intrusions on my privacy, the absolute disregard for any boundary that any normal human being would have.

I’m over the fact that I lost a third of my income just to put up with more bullshit.

I’m over people taking a shit in my bathroom once a week like that’s totally normal to come into your employee’s house and crap and make jokes about it.

I’m over it all. What the actual hell?

And now what?

Am I supposed to pretend I don’t know about this mold? Am I supposed to help cover this up? Show the apartments to potential tenants and pretend everything’s fine?

What if someone gets sick? I’m not going to get pulled into a lawsuit for some jackass who refuses to do the RIGHT THING.

I’m having even more trouble sleeping.

I’ve been having nightmares almost every night.

Headaches more frequently.

Smoking more than ever in my life.

I had such incredibly high hopes when this all happened, and now I’m mad and sad and pissed off and nervous and just waiting for a drive by or an explosion and now this.

I have begun to really hate this place.

 

 

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Plugged Up.

Whilst attempting to distance myself from social media, I got bored and decided that my blog should connect with Twitter. Obviously, that meant subsequently connecting to Instagram, so that all three could be connected. Then I realized that if I wanted more followers, I still had to connect those to Facebook as well.

So here we are, more connected than ever.

That escalated quickly.

I don’t understand it all, and I totally know I ‘m not doing it right. What I do know is that I can’t handle any more. What is this Tumblr business? Nevermind. Don’t tell me. I can’t.

Failing at unplugging. That’s the name of the game.

However, to balance this move in the opposite direction, I have started another group on Facebook. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. I’ve started four groups and two separate pages linked to my original profile page.

And yes, I still hate being so reachable.

My point is that I started a Facebook group for unplugging. Again, I know how ridiculous that sounds…but try to work with me here. The group is just for women, and its sole purpose is for planning monthly get-togethers (hosted at my apartment) with wine and various wine-related foods and activities and also wine – and putting down our phones, so that we connect face-to-face. With wine. And each other. While drinking wine.

My plan was originally to have everyone put their phones in a basket when they walk in the door, but cooler heads (my friend, Rachel) prevailed, and convinced me that we’d have to have at least a half-hour of show & tell time. Many of these women, from all different areas of my life, have never met. So it stands to reason that when the subjects of  kids, husbands, jobs, gardening, crafts, etc. come up, there will be an endless supply of photos that must be shown off, since we live in the age of carrying the equivalent of all our grandma’s leather-bound, sticky-paged photo albums AND all the framed photos on the walls of her hallway, guest room and refrigerator. Also Mom’s. And Auntie’s.

So, we agreed that the first hour will be “Show and Tell”. THEN, the phones go into the basket, and we will have speaking conversations right to each other’s faces.

It shall be reminiscent of the old days where the church ladies got together and made casseroles and stuff and cackled in the kitchen for hours on end.

I’m so looking forward to it.

And there shall be no tweeting, instagramming or posting about any of it while its happening!

YAY!

*I also just had a vision of a filtered picture of a casserole in my head.

The Mob.

I wish I knew how to quit you…Facebook!

I’m taking a break. People are pissing me off. Again. Yeah, I know. I’m always pissed off. Whatever. Occasionally, I have to drag that little icon off of my home screen and uninstall it completely from my phone, lest I alienate all of the people.

Well, most of them.

Sometimes the rage at ignorance gets the best of me and my thoughts get darker and more brutal as they begin to flow out of my fingers. When I’m starting to cuss on Facebook because I literally cannot think of a way to make my point without doing so, I know I need a break.

This is also about the time I realize that I absolutely cannot change minds and hearts to see my point of view.

Which sends me into a rage spiral, because obviously “I’m smart and you’re dumb” crosses my mind and it dawns on me (again) that literally no one responds well to that sentiment.

I’m also refusing to watch the news on live tv, because the subject matter is the same, but now I have no outlet, as me and Facebook are “on a break”.

So I’m reading books and blogs, doing worky things and playing with my dogs. Also, its Shark Week.

I’m pretty sure Shark Week is directly related to my inability to control my WTF face.

Fine.

I’m 100% positive it is directly related.

Especially considering that I literally yelled out to no one in the parking lot “OH MY GOD JUST CUT OUT MY OVARIES, ALREADY!”, mid-convo with my next door Mexican gaybor (neighbor who is gay – hey, that’s how he introduced himself when he paraded into my apartment the day I moved in. It stuck.)

He was busy looking at his phone, anyway. No big.

Anyhoo…

The property where I work/live is in escrow. I’m not entirely sure what that word means, I just know that Bossman is selling the property and they close at the end of this month.

The new Bossmen (plural – THAT doesn’t sound “mobby” at all, right?) swear I’ll keep my job & apartment status quo… but until I see it in writing, my brain is in overdrive.

P.S. Last week, my dad said he was pretty sure that health insurance companies were run by the mob. “Think about it. You’re paying for ‘protection’.”

“Dad, do you really think that, or…”

“Well, I can’t prove it. Yet.”

Okay, that’s all my stories. I have to get ready for job #2.

Summer Song

Been sitting on this one for a while now… Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s the most miserable time of the year
With the sweat always dripping
And you get burned gripping your car’s steering wheel
It’s the most miserable time of the year
~
It’s the stick-stickiest season of all
With your legs stuck to leather
I hate this damned weather. When will it be fall?
It’s the stick-stickiest season of all
~
There’ll be stinging bugs flying
You’ll feel like you’re dying
The a/c will break, and not blow!
You’ll compare it to Hell
This heat will make you yell
Because summer is going too slow…
~
It’s the most hideous time of the year
There’ll be plenty of griping
Because we’re all wiping the sweat mixed with tears
It’s the most hideous time of the year
~
There’ll be third degree burns
Meanwhile everyone yearns
For the heat wave to finally go!
Oh my God it’s so hot and I hate it a lot
What I wouldn’t give for some snow!
~
It’s the most horrible time of the year
You’ll beg for a cool breeze
And wish for a long freeze. When’s winter get here?
It’s the most horrible time of the year.

The Power Of Coffee.

For those of you still on the fence about the power of coffee, I now have proof positive that coffee does, in fact, make me less of an asshole.

I went through the Starbucks drive-through on the way to work. I’d had no coffee, and didn’t even run a brush through my hair this morning. I remembered deodorant and brushing my teeth, and thankfully put on real shoes, so there’s that.

Anyhoo, I’d gotten a gift card for my birthday and decided today was the day I’d splurge (because it isn’t splurging when its a gift card). On my brain whilst waiting in the drive through line were the ants infiltrating my kitchen through an electrical outlet (and whether a fire could be caused by that), the fact that I’d forgotten my make up and may actually still have mascara smudges about an inch or so below my eyes, the fact that I didn’t care, how my nails were badly chipping and I’d forgotten to fix them yesterday, frustration at the contractor for letting me know via text this morning at 7 am that it would be tomorrow (his favorite word) before they get started on the plumbing problem beneath one of my buildings and therefore made me a liar to my tenants, whether to get a blueberry scone, and hoping that Hobby Lobby isn’t too crowded this afternoon when I go to exchange a handle on a chest I’d recently painted…among other things.

I ordered a regular coffee instead of anything fancy (because I can’t think when I’ve had no coffee), insisting on using the word “large”, even when the girl asked me a third time what size. *She knew. She just wanted me to say it, and I wasn’t gonna. At the last second, I asked for a blueberry scone, because I was hungry and, again, couldn’t think of a single other food item they offered, in spite of the fact they were all in pictures on the board in front of me.

I get up to the window and reach out with the gift card. She tells me “The guy before you paid for your order. Kind of an ‘act of kindness’ thing”.

My mouth dropped like a large mouth bass and I stuttered, “Oh. Wow. Okay. How sweet.”

That’s it. I got my coffee and scone and drove away thinking, “Gee, that was nice. How weird. People still do nice things for strangers. That’s cool.

It wasn’t until I reached the stoplight after exiting the Starbucks that it occurred to me to pass it on to the car behind me.

Why?

Because I’d had about three swigs of coffee by then…which was clearly too late. Then, I realized why the Starbucks girl looked at me expectantly for about a second too long. She thinks I’m an asshole.

She’s not wrong.

I just hadn’t had my coffee yet, and I stand by my proclamation that coffee makes me have human feelings that could instinctively be put into action.

Nectar of the gods, I tell you.

I Don’t Know Why They Did That Like That.

Today, boys & girls, we’re going to talk about the maintenance department in the place I live and work as a property manager for a privately owned apartment complex. I won’t dare say the name of it, because internet, and I don’t want to get fired/homeless.

So here’s the scoop:

In December 2015, I was still recuperating from a car accident the year before, and living with my sister and her husband, their 5 kids, my other adult nephew and 5 dogs (two of which are mine). I got a call from an old friend, saying that her boss (83 year old widower) owned an apartment complex, and needed a manager to live on site. It doesn’t pay much, but it comes with a free apartment.

SIGN. ME. UP.

Right?

Okay, so I meet the owner (forevermore known as Bossman, because, internet) here at the apartment on January 2nd, 2016, and he basically says “When can you move in?” rather than interview me. I was a little unsure, because the buildings are really old (circa 1930) and have a kind of weird layout (2 walk-in closets in the living room, but the one in the bedroom isn’t big enough for adult sized hangers…also the toilet is diagonal, for example. More on that nonsense later). My sister (and benefactor, for all intents and purposes) is with me, and she keeps saying “I think it’s really cute!“, but I’m pretty sure she is just really ready to get SOMEONE – anyone – out of her house.

Can’t say as I blame her. I’m not fun to live with.

I had a weird gut feeling, but I knew I didn’t have much choice. If I didn’t take it, who knew when something like this might come along? My job and living opportunities were slim since the accident.

So, 48 hours later, I’m standing in this place with the realization that it is infested with German roaches, the floor is soggy (both the carpet AND the tile) and the promise that it had been cleaned really meant that the tiny, 65 year old Hispanic maintenance man, Felix, and his even tinier wife had sort of swept and vacuumed a little at some point during the unit’s vacancy. At least up to about 5 feet up the walls. Kind of.

Fast forward to: I’m crying to my dad on the phone, saying “What have I gotten myself intoooooooo?“, on repeat, for the better part of a month. Exterminators came (a lot), and I eventually slept with the lights off, without fear of bugs crawling all over me.

Friends and family brought me things and help clean ‘for realsies’, and kept me alive with Netflix and food and supplies until I got my accident settlement and bought a used car. WooHoo!

That’s how and why I got here.

So, I’ve been here for a little over a year and a half now, and let me tell you how our maintenance department works…

My maintenance man (Felix) was a gardener for Bossman and his late wife in their posh home many years ago. The wife owned this property (inherited from her parents) and ran it with an iron fist. She apparently had Felix come here to the property to fix things now & then, and eventually it just kind of morphed into a regular maintenance job. He does a pretty good job with the yard work around here. But he should. He’s a gardener.

A gardener. NOT a handyman.

So you can understand why one of my first “fights” with Felix was about how it was, in fact, inappropriate to “fix” an air conditioner with duct tape. Variations of this argument still happen regularly, and when I ask about something done poorly, he shrugs his tiny shoulders and says, “I don’t know why they did that like that“.

It sounds way cuter with his accent, but not while he’s saying it. It’s actually quite annoying. I finally called him on his bullshit and said, “They, who, Felix? Who are THEY? Because YOU have been the maintenance guy here for 25 years. So I’m very curious as to who THEY are, that do the things for reasons you don’t understand. Who are THEY?“.

He smiled, shrugged one shoulder and walked away.

It took 6 months for me to finally get him to commit to a specific schedule, rather than stopping by unannounced and never letting me know he’s been on property. He actually would (and still does, on occasion) hide from me. Tenants have reported him ducking behind a building when he sees me on my back porch, then darting out when I go inside, or hiding in one of the 3 supply closets we have (only two of which I have keys to). So he’s supposed to work Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of each week. When he does actually show up, he arrives between 11 and 2, works for maybe an hour (doing I have no idea what), then takes lunch. Sometimes it’s an hour. Sometimes it’s three.

He’s out with the promptness by 5pm sharp.

On days he doesn’t show up, he doesn’t call or answer his phone. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times he has actually answered his phone since January 4th, 2016 – they day I moved in. He doesn’t check his voice mail, doesn’t text, and has called me back exactly 3 times since January 4th, 2016.

He does this with Bossman as well. I feel fairly certain that I have some job security, when taking this behavior into account. He once went 3 weeks without calling or showing up, and never answered his phone or returned a call. Nothing. Bossman and I genuinely wondered if he’d met his demise. He finally called Bossman back and as it turns out, he’d broken his glasses and needed new ones before he could work again.

To this day, I’ve still never seen glasses on his face.

I’m sure I sound like a screaming banshee when I finally do catch him and can tell him all of the things that have stacked up and now are urgent because no one’s seen or heard from him except darting glimpses in two week’s time.

Speaking of which, he just slinked past my window. I gotta go catch him!

 

More Name Ideas

Day 2 of trying to imagine a new name for this blog while at job #2 pretending like I’m not milking the clock. Feel free to comment with some ideas. Here are some as they come to me:

Milking The Clock

Quit Bein’ Ugly

Snarkasm

Snarkasm 101

The Snarky Spinster

Snark Week

…Or High Water

The Lollygagger’s Guide To The Universe

The Wet Hen (as in, “madder than a”)

Sugar Honey Iced Tea

Verbal Release Therapy

Leave Me Alone

Get Off My Lawn

Inappropriateness

The Unfriendly Spinster

I Hate All Of You

Ew, People.

I Can’t Even

Okay, this took a turn. Huh. I suppose I’d better slow my roll. Rolls. Biscuits. Biscuits & Gravy. I’m hungry. Oh, yay! It’s almost 1. I can shut it down and take off..

Fare thee well, peeps.

New Blog Title and Douche-Nuggetry.

The blog name.

I did it in a hurry and had a brain fart, so it’s pretty boring. I want to change it to something that more accurately describes its content: The ramblings of a chubby spinster just trying to lie down on the hammock of life with weird random things happening to her on a regular basis that almost makes you think she’s being followed by a film crew sometimes.

Here are my ideas so far:

Well, Crap.

I Wasn’t Finished With That.

Because, Of Course.

The Perpetual June Bug (or some variation on the June Bug Theory).

The Feels.

That Norene Girl (also happens to be my email, so yay for convenience?)

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m at job #2, and have literally had about 6 minutes of work to do. I printed out a receipt from a vendor and reorganized the white-erase job board. The boys haven’t even been here since I showed up.

I pulled in, and there’s suddenly a fleet of Cadillac suv’s filling our parking lot and the grassy area behind it. Whatever.

I come in, set down my stuff on my desk and go to the bathroom. After washing my hands, I reach for the paper towel roll (one of those giant brown ones, because this is a metal fabrication shop – the fanciest thing in here is me), and just as my hand touches the roll, I see a GIANT cockroach twitching its antennae INSIDE the roll.

So that’s how MY day started.

Then, my computer decided it need to do updates for the entire first hour I was here, so I caught up on my Facebook stalking, read a few “news” articles, then did the worky things.

Clearly, it was time for my break. Out in the shop, I asked one of the guys who works for the shop next door (we share warehouse space) about the douche-nugget’s new collection of Cadillacs outside “like he doesn’t take up enough space already!”, and he said they’re probably another set of cars from the dealer across the street….

Apparently, the guy on the other side of us (who owns a collision repair shop and constantly blocks the driveway and takes up all the parking spaces, and has even been cited by the city for this in the past) has some kind of contract with the dealership regarding cars for foreign diplomats.

So these Caddy’s that are about $150k each, are then outfitted with bulletproof EVERYTHING – like, you can’t even puncture a tire on those suckers – because they’re going to some prince in Dubai or some such nonsense. Like, $200k worth of work done on top of the already cray-cray price tag. So there’s literally SO MANY millions of dollars being a pain in my ass right now. The collision shop (douche-nugget) guy gets the contract to do touch-ups on the paint and body after all that extra work has been done. I’m sure its a huge contract for him.

I called the cops.

Then I emailed the owner of the property that we all rent from and let him know about douche-nugget’s douche-nuggetry.

Then I started thinking about blog names and how mine sucks and is totes unoriginal, and here we are.

 

 

 

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

Rambling thoughts today.

Do you ever just wonder how some people function? Wonder what it’s like to live in their heads? Who manages their lives? How they get dressed in the morning? I mean, does someone have to remind them to wear pants?

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How did this person manage to go their entire lives and not hear the word “chair”? How does that even happen?

In other news, I have found 4 pieces of furniture that I must paint and resell. Technically, I found about 20. Unfortunately, I cannot afford a storage unit in which to store them all, so I have to stick with very small things – and honestly, I don’t even know where I’m going to put these, but I HAVE TO DO IT.

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I mean seriously. Tell me this $25 pair of chairs doesn’t need me. CLEARLY they have been waiting their whole lives for me to find them for $25 and paint them some crazy ass color and recover their sad little seats and make them just too cute for words.

Excuse me, I mean these wood framed single sofas.

I don’t know where the hell they’re going to go. That’s actually not true. They’re going to be in my living room, blocking either the closet or the front door, until I can paint them and learn to reupholster. Whatever. They’re coming to live here so I can bring them back to life.

Along with the other 37 pieces of furniture I have no room for.

Between this compulsion, the constant repairs and my messiness, my apartment will never be guest-appropriate. It is what it is.

I do actually have nice things. You just have to look for them in the madness.