Loads of Fun

So I live in an apartment complex that isn’t in the worst part of town.  It’s not even the next to worst.  It’s not ghetto adjacent even.  For some reason, however, while the rent goes up, so does the crime.  Or maybe I am just noticing it more. 

I was trying to do my laundry the other day.  Although it was 10am on a Tuesday and there are five machines (well, currently four since one was broken),  I had to make three attempts to get an empty machine.  I often have as many as 4-8 loads come Laundry Day (who knew my daughter and I could generate so much laundry???) and not a lot of full days off, so, like all residents with a mission to finish their laundry quickly, I usually prefer to use as many of the machines as possible.  Keep in mind it’s also $2/wash and $1.75/dry, so Laundry Day is pursuant to when I have the money to actually do the laundry as well. 

My neighbor (a brassy, but seemingly cool woman in her mid-40s or so) was in the laundry room on my first attempt to get a load in the wash.  She had just finished filling the four working washers, so I returned to my apartment to wait the 30 minutes until she was through.  At 30 minutes I tried again.  The washers had just been re-started.  Damn!  Someone had snuck in while I was watching an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  Back to the couch. 

Another 30 minutes went by.  I tried again.  This time there were three washers free.  Success!  I loaded them up and returned to hang out with Mrs. Maisel. 

When my wash was ready to transfer to the dryer, I returned to the laundry room.  Another older woman was in there, transferring her clothes to the dryers.  She was talking to a younger man about the hike in rent (mine has been raised $150 in two years).  He was pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.  Upon indicating that I could use the one he’d freed,  I started to load my soggy garments into it.  The man offhandedly mentioned something about how he was supposed to have clothes in two separate dryers, but returned to his upstairs apartment.

Which is when all hell broke loose.  As I was loading my clothes, the brassy neighbor came screaming down the stairs.  Well, not screaming because she had laryngitis, but whispering furiously. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?”  She looked in two of the dryers (one of which I was currently filling).  My neighbor slammed the other dryer door shut.  “Someone took my fucking laundry!!!”  She opened it again in disbelief.  Still no laundry.  “Seriously, where are my fucking clothes?”

So let me explain something here.  In spite of liking to use all the machines at once, I am a super courteous resident when it comes to laundry room usage.  If someone comes to the laundry room at the same time, I will relinquish use of one (some) of the machines.  I set a timer so that I can be sure to clear my machines in a timely manner.  I clean out my lint screens.  I hold the laundry room door open for other residents.  And I absolutely cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would be motivated to steal another person’s laundry. 

Yes, I have heard stories of a woman who will throw people’s laundry in the trash if they leave it in the washer for too long.  I’ve even walked into the laundry room when it smelled like shit (literally) because someone disposed of their dog’s feces in the same trashcan.  I have even found vomit-covered clothing strewn about outside of the laundry room (not sure what happened there).  Apparently, though, this laundry theft is a semi-common occurrence.  The older woman confirmed it with her own story of having recently found a note in the laundry room that was written by another resident pleading for the return of her newly cleaned clothes. 

This, my friends, is fucking bullshit.  I mean, seriously?  This is where we’re headed?  Is it really necessary to go out of one’s way to enter the laundry room (with a key no less) and steal from one’s neighbors?  To clarify, no one here is wealthy.  We ain’t washing couture in the laundry room.  My own laundry is only a veritable cornucopia of Walmart T-Shirts and Thrift Store Cardigans.  Some of my underwear is so filled with holes, I don’t know that I should even wear them as period panties.    What on earth would someone want with another person’s laundry?  I get freaked out just finding someone else’s sock mixed in with mine.  I don’t care if it’s been washed.  It’s not my fucking sock. 

So I went to the office to complain.  I told them I would happily write up a formal complaint.  Of course they did nothing.  They can’t (won’t) do anything, “management” said.  We’re supposed to stay with our laundry, I was told. So I responded (jokingly?), “Then don’t be surprised if you hear of a lavender-haired women in Laundry Room #5 beating up one of the other residents.” 

And so I went to sit in the fucking laundry room to babysit my clothes, writing this blog entry and throwing shade at anyone walking past.  It wasn’t even my laundry that was stolen, but now it’s my mission to make sure that it won’t be.  No one is to be trusted. 

What a waste of time.  Sigh. 

Until next time, my lovelies….

On the Tenth Day of Christmas....

ON THE TENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME...MY CRAZY CAT!

OMG, my cat scared the hell out of me today.  Prone to sleeping on my pillow, she had curled up in such a way I didn’t realize she was there until I shifted my arm slightly and felt her fur.  Her fur was so cold and she didn’t seem as if she were breathing.  I shook her, trying to rouse her.  She didn’t move.  I shook her harder, starting to panic.  It wasn’t until she raised her head and gave me the biggest stink eye that I realized that no, she hadn’t just died on my pillow.  She was just sleeping very deeply.  The asshole. 

For those of you who have never met my cat, she is old, grumpy, deaf and fat…and like all cats, is indeed an asshole.  Originally owned by a friend of mine, I acquired her about 2-3 years ago when my friend moved to Colorado.  She couldn’t take the cat with her due to her heightened travel anxiety (the cat allegedly almost died when they tried to tranquilize her on a previous trip across state lines), and so she came to live with me. 

Shadow (her given name) is a 14 or 15 year old, grey, short-haired American Tabby.  I originally thought she was named Shadow because of her color, but only found out semi-recently it is because she instead likes to follow her owner around the house.  Although, she is not on my heels at all times, she is definitely much happier when she can be in the same room.  In fact, my daughter tried to get her to hang out with her in her bedroom this morning.  Shadow was having none of it, howling at my daughter’s door until she was released. 

And oh, yes, the howling.  Although some vets think howling is a sign of dementia, my cat actually does it because she is deaf.  At first we thought she was just ignoring us (asshole cat, remember), but she doesn’t react to any noise whatsoever, not even her own.  So unless she is part sphynx….  Anyway, I am convinced she clearly has no idea of how loud she really is due to said deafness. She still has something to say, however…usually “Where is my food?”  or “Where are you?” or “Clean out the cat box already, woman.”

But let’s talk about the elephant in the room.  And by elephant, I mean my cat.  When I first acquired Shadow, we went to visit the vet.  Upon weighing her, the vet said she was only 11 pounds.  Considering I have bruises from her climbing on me with her tiny little paws, I don’t see how this is possible.  They had to have been off by at least, I don’t know, 6, 10 or even 50 pounds.  She is short with stubby legs and a veritable cat loaf.  She has therefore ceased to be but a walking Shadow and has instead been renamed Princess Tubbergut.  Yes, this is likely on par with fat-shaming my cat, but my chubby little diva comes by her name honestly.  This is her world, she only deigns for us to live in it. 

And yet, I love the little punk.  Sure, she exhibits some pretty obnoxious or quirky traits (like patting my mouth when I am asleep…is she checking to see if I am still breathing or trying to smother me?  Maybe both.), but she has become a pretty good companion for this single gal.  Due to joint custody, my daughter is only home every other week.  How lovely to have another tempestuous, outspoken teen in the house with whom to watch Netflix.  No, I have no plans on becoming a crazy cat lady, but sometimes, I really do much prefer Tubbers’ company. 

Now you’ll excuse me as I go poke my cat and give her a snuggle.

Until Next Time, Lovelies….

On the Ninth Day of Christmas....

ON THE NINTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME...THE VALUE OF REST!

It’s only the second day of the New Year, and I am already so freaking weary! 

OK, to be fair, there is no actual personal reset when the year rolls over (and if you read my last blog entry, you know I think we put too much pressure on the date change anyway), but seriously.   So.  Freaking.  Weary.  I just want to lie in bed with my laptop and write…or surf the web…or hang out on Facebook. 

Oh wait, I’m already doing that.  Lol. 

So here’s what I’ve learned for today:  Sometimes we need to appreciate the value of rest.  For the last few weeks, I have been battling what I call the Irish Croup (so named after my 2014 trip to Ireland where everyone seemed to have the same lingering cough fostered by the damp, cold air), creaky joints and girly stuff besides.  My body is apparently physically rebelling against me in an effort to force me to slow the eff down.  Which is funny, because I feel like I have slowed down.  She says because she is only working on two shows, reading one book, raising a kid and trying to work.  I am hardly busy.  Ha ha. 

And yet my mind never stops.  Not even when I am asleep!  Even late at night, my brain is filled with super bizarre imagery and random situations (like the dream I had about Chris Evans last night…although that was probably brought on by watching What’s Your Number? before falling asleep…and could have been way worse.).  Won’t it be useful, then, when I am able to master Jedi-style telekinesis?  My body will rest, while my brain causes the action. 

Oh dear, but I am rambling.  Hey, not all of these blog entries can be winners. 

Sigh. 

Until Next Time, Lovelies…

On the Eighth Day of Christmas...

ON THE EIGHTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME...A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

It’s the first day of 2019 and my Facebook feed is (not surprisingly) filled with reflections of the past year.  So many people hoping for a better year than the last.  

The realist in me, however, wonders whether we aren’t putting too much pressure on ourselves—and on the end of the year.  Although it is a convenient, seemingly monumental changing of the date, there really is no reason to wait for the rollover of the year.  Change can happen any day. 

I am a big proponent of making change happen.  Although there is always the question of whether certain things are meant to happen (i.e. destiny), I still like to believe that we have control over our futures.  Even amidst the chaos in which we sometimes find ourselves, we can still better our lives and our situations.  Maybe we have to wait a little longer to see the results, but don’t we at least have to try?

That’s not to say I haven’t been struck down mid-stride with what seems like a pile of shitty situations.  Of course I have.  If I know one thing about myself, however, it’s I am a fighter.  I know I’ve survived before.  I will do so again.  And yes, I am writing that as a reminder to myself as well. 

And so, here we are at the start of the New Year.  Although the pragmatist knows there may be rough times ahead, the optimist knows we will all get through whatever is thrown our way.  She also wishes everyone the best as they strive for what they deem as “better”.  We’ll be OK, my darlings. 

Until Next Time, Lovelies…