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….

The Ballad of Crazy No-Pants

So at 4:30 this morning I was awakened by the sound of someone banging on the front door of an upstairs apartment in the building across the way from me. She was crying and screaming what sounded like "Jim" over and over. Readying myself with my best "Girl, he ain't worth it" speech, I went outside to see if there was someone I could call for her. The young woman (Late teens? Early 20's?) wore only a coat and a tank top. She appeared to be putting on her underwear. I asked her if there was someone I could call. She insisted she was fine and didn't need help. I told her that clearly wasn't true if she was outside screaming at 4:30am. She refused my help again so I went inside.

Five minutes later, she resumed screaming. Turns out she was actually screaming, "Mom" (which was way worse. I had, in fact, initially thought she was one of the neighbor children who had been locked out). She'd already been banging on the door for half an hour and thus far only the neighbors in other buildings (mine, mostly, since it faced hers) had gone to check on her (or maybe just to watch). I grabbed a pair of sweatpants for her and went back outside. The neighbor directly across the hall from her had finally come out to see what was going on. Again, I asked her if she was OK and how I could help. I told her, "Please stop being embarrassed. Let me help you. I have some pants for you if you need them." She refused, cowering up against the door. I started back to my apartment. One upstairs neighbor told me she had called 911. The other was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk between the two buildings. We waited outside for the cops to come.

The police arrived within ten minutes. The conversation between the girl and the officers was convoluted. She seemed disoriented and altered. They wrapped a blanket around her and walked her to their vehicle. My neighbor and I had been watching to make sure she was OK (well, I had been...he might have just been waiting to see what the officers would do). Upon seeing us, she said, "I hope you enjoyed yourselves." Before I could respond, my neighbor, who has a temper, said, "Oh f*ck you." Unfortunately, I can't say as I blame him.

I wish I could say this was the first time I'd been awakened by my crazy neighbors, but, sadly, no. My complex is rather large and allegedly one of the least expensive in Reno (tell that to my checking account). Apparently, it is also rife with domestic disputes waiting to happen. In the year and a half-ish amount of time I have lived here I have heard several screaming matches (because they were all outside) and even witnessed a car chase motivated by jealousy and baby mama drama. One of the other upstairs apartment units once had a broken window (from something being thrown out of it) and one could also see through said window what looked like smashed-in drywall in that unit's interior. I have also seen a few sobbing women fleeing their apartments, carrying their paltry belongings in garbage bags. Couple all this with rumours of drug dealers, meth labs, racists, car thieves and a women who allegedly throws out your laundry if you leave it in the washing machine too long, this apartment complex is the stuff of legends. Maybe I should write a sitcom about it.

And yet, as is common for most people living at the poverty level (because, yes, I am), I cannot afford to leave right now. Also, it's not as if I even live in the worst part of the city. For the most part, I live in a relatively safe neighborhood--it's just that some of my neighbors in the immediate vicinity are effing nuts. I guess I have to just keep to myself and hope I can get out of here as soon as my lease is up. Guess I'd best start purging again. Sigh.

Until next time, Lovelies....

The Perils of Adulthood

(OR:  It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Bashed in the Eye)

I used to be fearless.  Sometime in the last few years, however, I realized this wasn’t the case anymore.  Perhaps fear set in because of garnered experience or from knowing too much about the dangers of this world—or because I have my own child and therefore must think about my mortality as it would affect her.  Whatever the reason, I think this fearlessness is what I miss most about my childhood. 

In 2010, I went to France with my now ex-husband.  We were on a tour of a quaint little church/clock tower in Northern France.  Part of the tour included a walk around the outside of the steeple, allowing a 360-degree view of the city below.  Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered me, but as we made our way around the very narrow walkway, separated from certain death by only a chest high glass partition (I’m 5’2”), the wind whipping violently past, I discovered my very real fear of heights.  I shamefully admit that I freaked out.  Clutching the side of the building in terror, I scuttled sideways like a crab, my heart thudding and my breathing shallow, barely making it back inside to safety.  I couldn’t even fully enjoy the glorious view. 

I honestly don’t know where this fear of heights came from.  I’d been dealing with some bouts of vertigo (perhaps brought on by and preventing further skating of roller derby), but had never quite experienced the panic I’d had that afternoon. 

I have since challenged this fear of heights multiple times in the last few years:  exploring the rain-soaked Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney Stone (which one must hang both backward and upside down to reach), zip-lining, a trapeze lesson…

Each time, I experienced heart-pounding terror, self-doubt and a tarnished self-image.  In most cases, however, I managed to escape without physical injury. 

Until an obstacle course at a trampoline park recently got the better of me. 

Let me set the scene:  I was at my daughter’s twelfth birthday party.  Already awkward because I do not particularly care to be in the same room as the ex-husband, I am also not overly fond of bounce houses or trampolines (due to an ill-fated special event in which I got trapped in one while dressed as a chipmunk…but that’s a story for another time).  In an effort to join in on the festivities, I decided I would attempt the obstacle course.  Because it was positioned along the ceiling, all the obstacles were to be completed over an open net (under which the other patrons and the employees could walk). 

I will spare you most of the details, but suffice it to say, I only made it a quarter of the way through.  After climbing between platforms almost too far apart for my stubby legs, balancing on a tightrope and moving across a staggered, moving balance beam, I was faced with four Wooden Swings of Doom.  Made up of large square posts (8” x 8” and about 5’ long I think?) fastened to the ceiling with large eye screws, the swings had wooden pegs as footholds.  The goal was to clutch onto the post (think monkey style) and swing to the next, using the footholds for balance.  Already panicked from the height, I could not figure out how to get past this part of the course.  I watched as countless kids (including my daughter) did it, but I just couldn’t get my body to do what it needed to do.  Finally, I pulled the post toward me and grabbed on.  As I was reaching for the second post, however, I fell into the net below—at which point the post swung back and bashed me in the face, right above my brow. 

I could feel the goose egg forming immediately.  Lying face down in the net, sobbing, I saw my daughter walking under me.  I called out to her, telling her that I had fallen and that I needed some ice.  She (in her typical 12-year-old way) argued with me about where to get the ice.  I told her, “I don’t care where you get it.  Just get me some ice.”

I then had to figure out how to get out of the obstacle course.  Because it was suspended from the ceiling, there was no way out except to complete the course or to go back.  There was no way in hell I was completing it.  With my eyebrow swollen and tears streaming down my face, I had to go back to the beginning, still terrified and now injured.  I made it to the start (joking with the people I passed, “Watch out for the swings.  They’re doozies!”), where my daughter was waiting with the ice.

I spent the rest of the birthday party sitting at the table with an ice pack on my head.  My eye didn’t start to blacken until later that night.  I hadn’t had a black eye since I was six years old (obtained from an equally clumsy incident with playground equipment), not even while playing roller derby.    

Sadly, my lack of physical prowess and ability to participate in birthday parties are not the only indications that I am no longer fearless.  As I sat bemoaning my idiocy, I started thinking about how fear has affected me.  Often plagued with indecision, it is much harder for me to jump into anything without worrying it to death. I sometimes find it difficult to plan, because my brain immediately goes to several contingency plans—even though they rarely work out.  I am frequently exhausted before I even begin anything.  Although I try to trust that everything will be as it is “should”, I also know that my failures, emotional and otherwise, are often more difficult to handle.  It takes me longer to heal.  I am not as resilient.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying.  I am nothing, if not stubborn.  Although I doubt I’ll be back on that obstacle course any time soon.  I’ve already told my daughter her next birthday party is going to be a tea party.  Unless I suddenly develop an aversion to cucumber sandwiches and teacups, that is.  Ha ha. 

Until next time, my Lovelies….

Out With The Old, In With The New

At the end of 2016, I purchased a new car.  I really couldn't afford it, having gone back to school earlier in the year, but it was time.  It had gotten to the point that my previous vehicle (a 2001 VW Beetle) was starting to cost me, as Volkswagens are wont to do, too much to maintain.  Each trip to the auto repair was often several hundred dollars, sometimes more.  Although the visits to the shop were only every couple of months, my bank account or my credit cards were always overworked during those visits.  Ultimately, I was paying more in repairs than what the car was worth.  It seemed more viable to pay a bit each month on a new car instead, regardless of the potential financial strain.

So, a new car I obtained.  It was relatively non-descript and semi-inexpensive and not at all top of the line.  It didn't have some of the basic features of my Beetle (power locks, 6 CD changer, car alarm), but it was new and it was mine.  No one financially helped me to buy it (although a friend at the dealership did assist in garnering a discount).  I handled the paper work, registered it...all of it, my doing.  It was almost like a rite of passage.

Because my Beetle was so, shall we say "loved", however, the dealer wouldn't give me any trade-in money for it, so into the carport it went until I could find a buyer.  I removed the license plates when I transferred my registration to my new vehicle and there the Beetle stayed.  This, of course, did not sit well with the H.O.A. of my housing complex, who promptly stickered the car with a warning that it needed to be registered or removed.  Sure, they couldn't be bothered to fix the siding on the building or convince my neighbors not to let their dog poop in the communal grass without cleaning it up or tell my other neighbors that three large trucks are two too many to park in the communal carport, but my recently unregistered car was offensive to their housing management sensibilities.

I tried to sell the damned thing.  I tried to give it away.  One attempt after another kept falling through.  Finally, today it all worked out and my well-worn Beetle was adopted by its new owner.

As I watched my little green car being driven away by someone who was not me, I felt a twinge of melancholy.  Sure there was relief to just be done with the whole thing, but sadness as well.  I realized as the car left my driveway that it had been the last vestige of my marriage.  The last thing my ex and I had ever shared (except our daughter of course).  We'd bought that car together.  Hell, his name had been on the original title for it.

And yet, most of my good times in that car had had nothing to do with him.  He'd so rarely ridden in it, in fact.  Whenever we'd taken road trips, he generally drove us in his vehicle.  Instead my Kermit (as I'd affectionately called it) had been host to long solitary drives, raucous laughter and inane conversations with friends, adventures with my daughter, various trunks full of costumes--even a few, exhilarating post-divorce snogs.  Other than the initial purchase, he'd really had no actual stake in that car, yet there I was mourning its passing from my hands to another's.

It felt like the end of an era.

And so it was.  Gone was the car that would incite children everywhere to point and laughingly punch their friends ("SLUG BUG!").  Gone was the car that distinguished me from other local drivers.  Gone was the remaining shared tie to my ex-husband.

Then, just as quickly as it struck me, the melancholy left.  What remained was a sense of calm and relief...until, that is, I had to park my new car in the carport next to the neighbor's overly large truck.

But that's a story for another day.

Until next time, my Lovelies....

Remember, Remember the Suck of November

In the past few years, November has become a rough month for me emotionally.  No, this is not in reaction to the wackadoo election or a mysterious neck injury I had earlier this month.  Not at all.  

Once filled with happy memories of readying myself for the holidays, eating too much at Thanksgiving and the final change of the seasons from Fall to Winter, November is now more often fraught with feelings of loss, frustration and overall crankiness.  I quite often have this sense that the more things supposedly change, the more they really just stay the same.  That somehow I am just…stuck.

I know, of course, this isn’t true.  I have been making valiant efforts to instigate changes in my life:  returning to school, spending time with new friends, purchasing a new car (despite being low on funds, but out of necessity).  There is one thing, however, that remains constant.  Ever present, it is the one thing of which I cannot rid myself and seemingly cannot change, no matter how hard I try.  That one thing, unfortunately, is Dealing with the Ex. 

So why does it seem so much harder in November?  Honestly?  Well, November is the anniversary of the divorce.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  It’s been 5 years since the divorce was finalized.  Get over it already. 

Ha.  Like I haven’t tried.

In April of 2012 I wrote about the Joint Custody Conundrum.  I hadn’t even been divorced for 6 months, but I'd perfectly outlined my frustration about having to form a haphazard partnership with someone who clearly had no respect for me or my role as the mother of his child.  Flash forward to Present Day.  I am still dealing with the exact same shit. I guess there is no time limit on working through douchebaggery, though I wish there were.

Yup, I am still struggling. Not only to be financially stable as a single parent, but to survive even the simplest communications with the Ex.  To not be emotionally affected when he picks fights or bullies me (and he does, contrary to what he may claim).  To just finally once and for all realize that my hope for an efficient, pleasant joint custody of our daughter really isn’t possible and to move on from there.   Not that I necessarily had dreams of us all sitting around the table at family Thanksgivings, but it’d be nice to be able to occupy the same space –and not feel so goddamned uncomfortable because he has just blown up my phone with passive aggressive, narcissistic bullshit, while pretending to be nice in person.  I. Am. Still. Just. So. Tired. Of. It.  Weary, even. 

So, yeah.  November is a tough month.  It’s the anniversary of the Divorce and a reminder of how little has changed with the Ex since then, despite my endeavor to make myself (and my reactions to him) better.

But, hey, now it’s December 1st.  Almost Christmas.  And New Year’s.  Time to combat his every effort to spoil our daughter.  And to make resolutions to raise the best little human I can, in spite of him.  And to be the best human I can, in spite of me.

 Bring it on.