With the sweat always dripping
And you get burned gripping your car’s steering wheel
With your legs stuck to leather
You’ll feel like you’re dying
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.
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.
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.
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!
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
The Snarky Spinster
…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
The Unfriendly Spinster
I Hate All Of You
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.
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:
I Wasn’t Finished With That.
Because, Of Course.
The Perpetual June Bug (or some variation on the June Bug Theory).
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.
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?
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.
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.
This post is about periods, so here’s your first and only warning.
When does menopause happen? Like when, though? Seriously. First one was at 11, and I just turned 43. Since mine are closer together than they’re supposed to be, I’m guessing I’ve had around 450+ periods by now, and I’m done. I’m just effing done.
I hate them. I hate you. I hate everything. I hate being a girl. I hate cramps. I hate period-induced IBS. I hate bloating. I hate feeling as if I have never slept ever in my life yet. I hate men for not having them and for generally just existing. I hate everyone who doesn’t have a period. I hate everyone who has a period and doesn’t have cramps.
I hate being overheated and starving like every meal is Chinese takeout because I’m hungry every hour on the hour like clockwork. I hate the sound of people talking/breathing/chewing/existing and the sound of cars driving by and all of the music I didn’t pick. I hate the way people park and walk and ride bikes in the road while I’m driving on it.
I hate tampons and pads and bleeding for 3-5 days and then followed by one day of nothing so I think it’s over and then Mother Nature is a shady bitch and decides to wring out my uterus one last time but not enough for any sanitary products after that, so then you have the dry tampon scenario which is painful in an overzealous-gyno-with-a-speculum kind of way.
“A little closer to the edge, hon. A little more…” Bitch, you have no idea how close to the edge I am.
My uterus has no purpose whatsoever. It never did. Why do I have to go through this? How many more? I am 43 now. I feel like I should get a countdown for my birthday. I want a construction paper chain for how many periods I have left before its all over and I can finally just not.
The pain is stupid. STUPID. Why? Why does it hurt like this? Oh, are we gonna talk about Eve? Okay, sure. The Bible said that she was going to have painful childbirth. NOT painful every month you aren’t about to give birth or every month you’re not pregnant or anything else. ChildBIRTH. Having your period is the OPPOSITE of giving birth. It is, by its very nature, the ABSENCE of even the possibility of a birth.
I want answers. And a paper chain.
My head hurts. I feel nauseated. My lower abdomen feels like someone has taken hold of my fallopian tubes and tied them into knots, and is pulling at each end. Then they’re kicking it, while sword-fighting with my ovaries. Meanwhile, my useless uterus is feeling stabby because its angry that for the 456th time, it doesn’t get to make a baby. So that sucker is tearing down the “inside nursery” like Mommy Dearest on a tangent.
My useless, angry uterus shall now and forever be known as Joan Crawford. The right ovary is pretty quiet, so that one’s gonna be Kristen Stewart – awkward, slightly difficult and wears a resting bitch face so she’s a little frightening. The left one is definitely 2007 Britney Spears. Crazy fits of rage are her legacy.
There. I just named my reproductive-less organs.
My ankles and feet are swollen. My tummy is bloated. My boobs hurt. I have to pee every five minutes, even when I don’t (it just feels like it, so it’s uncomfortable). I have the bad potties (you can figure that one out). My back hurts. I’m exhausted – and I mean full-on fatigue from head to toe. I can’t concentrate on anything and my memory sucks, along with my attitude.
I faked being human for work, but I’m home now and I hate everything.
How. Many. Are. Left.
That’s all I want to know.
I’ve done my time. I deserve to not feel this awful every damned month. Imagine (assuming you’re still reading and you’re a guy) that you’re knocked down with the flu for roughly 5 days every month. And also bleeding.
The ONLY exception is if you’re growing a person – at the end of which, you have to push it out of THERE. And then you have to bleed for another month and a half… STRAIGHT.
So look, I’m just going to tell you right now that if I decide I hate your guts just because you have the ability to pee standing up, let it go, man. Just back away slowly. You laugh about it and get grossed out, but we have to deal with this shit every month for like 40 years. FORTY YEARS. You better suck it up and be sweet, because if God ever granted wishes, I’m betting the vast majority of women would wish this on you at least once.
You couldn’t handle this. Shut your face hole and go cut some construction paper into strips.
One of my dream jobs would be to write a blog and get paid for it. Unfortunately, there are far too many shiny things that need my immediate attention at any given time. I’ve written countless journal entries, online and in books only half-filled with my ramblings. Distraction takes over until I lose focus entirely on the goal of completion.
I’m not sure how to choose a topic and stick with it. What could hold my interest long enough to continue finding new things to say about it? Even more importantly, what could hold an audience’s attention long enough to carry regular followers?
The answer lies somewhere in my background, I’m sure. The potential for becoming stagnant always stops me from choosing. Shall I write about my mother? Her life? Her death? How would I write of her without each entry ending up sad, and how do I keep that sadness from overwhelming me?
I could write about being overweight in this life of mine. What its like to live in this body I’m not supposed to love. Unfortunately, that’s a subject that will also become depressing and could turn sour and “complainy”. The silver lining to that is that I’m really good at complaining and self-deprecation. I still think no one wants to hear it, and that there are too many blogs already beating that dead horse.
I could write about religion, but my view is narrow and a little bitter. Enough blogs about that, too.
How about my dogs? Being a childless spinster? Nah.
There is nothing under the sun that is new and interesting enough for me to write about… only my perspective of all the things. Well, some of the things.
The next dilemma comes when I think about how I could just write about all the things anyway, and forget about sticking to a topic – because, let’s face it, I’m funny. If I don’t stick to a particular subject, therefore garnering an audience interested in said topic, how would I find companies willing to place ads (this is where getting paid comes in)? You have to narrow down your market for that.
AND… what about the number of followers you have to have before that’s even a possibility?
A friend suggested I fictionalize some of my own experiences. For example, changing the outcome a little or the details to make my weird stories even funnier. I may try my hand at that, but will most likely keep those to myself until I have a decent collection going.
I don’t know. I’m working all this out in my head right now, and need to process before I can move forward.
The same friend also gave me some sage advice from an author friend of hers…
“If you want to be a writer, write.”
Every year, my birthday looms on a murky cloud of regret. It approaches slowly until around June first, then it seems to gain momentum until the final ten days, like a countdown to an unknown wave of emotions.
Will I be okay with the new age in numbers? Nope. I usually don’t come down from panic mode for about a month or so, and even then, it takes some convincing. It’s okay, 43 isn’t really THAT old. You’re still in your EARLY forties. There’s a lot of that conversation playing out in my head, starting around TODAY, and ending sometime in August.
Just a little while ago, I was on the phone with a friend, discussing my decision to go to college. Yes, you read that right. Well, let me back up a little. I’m meeting with a counselor at the college next week, to discuss my options. But hey, that’s one step I’ve never taken. So yeah, if that goes well, I’ll be starting college in the fall.
Anyhoo, I’m talking to my friend and she asked what prompted that decision.
“Well, I’m bored. I mean, bored with where my life is. I’m in that weird place in life where you can start fresh (exciting!) but you feel old (depressing!), and you know the plans you had twenty years ago didn’t pan out, but you’re not too old to make new plans….but you’re not sure about trying to make new plans, but you have a birthday coming up and it makes you reevaluate all the things and the stuff and finally you realize that you’re in the “What now?” phase of your life and you just have to do SOMETHING to break the monotony.”
That was my answer. Have you ever said something aloud and then realized you’ve just said something incredibly poignant? Happens to me ALL. THE. TIME. “Oooh, that was good. I like that. I should write that down.” – Me, 45 minutes ago. Also me, about once or twice a week.
So there it is. I’m in the “What Now?” phase in life. I’ve walked up the see-saw and I’m standing precariously in the center, tottering back and forth, wondering if I should keep going – because that’s downhill – or go back the way I came, which, as it turns out, is also downhill.
I feel like I’m choosing option three. I’m going to balance in the middle for juuuuuust a little bit longer. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m standing still, though. It means I’m keeping one foot on each life – young and old. It means I’m practicing my balance (which will come in handy when I am actually old). It means I’m going to teeter-totter…stretch my legs and strengthen my core.
It means I’m on that pretty blank page between Part One and Part Two of a great novel. The place where you take a deep breath, switch the laundry over and grab a drink before you settle back in for the long haul and see how it all turns out.
It can be a good place, if I want it to be.
–They’re stupid. Studies have shown that obesity literally damages your brain, and I find that very easy to accept, since fat people say some of the dumbest shit I have ever heard. This is actually good in a way, because it makes their lies utterly transparent.
–They’re quitters. They have no willpower at all, which is one of the main reasons why they remain fat. Becoming healthy requires a lifestyle change, but they are completely unwilling to do anything beyond some short term crazy fad diet, or take some pills, or get a gastric bypass so that overeating becomes harder for them to do. They look for the easiest laziest way out, and they act like it’s not their fault when they inevitably fail.
-They’re a burden. They take handicap spots and mobility scooters away from people with legitimate disabilities. They drain the healthcare system. They make waiting times for emergency care take longer for people with real problems. They take up too much space on buses and airplanes, often to the point that they are nearly suffocating the people unfortunate enough to have to sit next to them. The worst part is that being fat is avoidable, since being fat is the result of all the choices you make on a daily basis. And yet fat people like to claim that their weight doesn’t affect other people.
-They’re destroying the environment and causing unnecessary suffering….”
I could post more from this post, as this wasn’t even half of it, but I can’t stand to read any more. But the funnest part is the comments. Here are just a few of the kudos this guy received in the hundreds of like-minded commenters: