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….

Life in the Land of Meh

I recently came to the realization that I have lived in Reno now for nearly 10 years.  Although I made the choice to move here for the betterment of our family, I have been divorced for almost half that time.  This is, not surprisingly, an idea that sticks in my craw on many levels.

I often wish that I could say that my divorce doesn't affect me anymore, but I'd be lying.  Of course it does.  Even now, five years after the breakup, as I still deal with the frustration of inefficient communication with and limited cooperation from the ex, I am disappointed.  Regardless of how much I think I have emotionally moved on, it all still bugs me.  He still bugs me.

Add to that, of course, the constant struggle of making ends meet, the living in the same messy apartment, the insurance hassles and the single momhood (with so few romantic prospects I may as well be a nun), it is perhaps understandable that during this time of year in particular is when I often feel my divorce the most.  While certainly not the only time of year that I deal with the effects, after quasi-recuperating from the busyness of summer employment and costume making in my Halloween Sweatshop of One, November and December seem to be particularly challenging.  Maybe it's because November is the anniversary of the divorce or because of the holidays, but I often feel just so, well, meh.

As a means of alleviating or even simply understanding the doldrums, I decided to go through my older posts (and half posts yet to be finished).  Perhaps there was some clue among my previously written missives as to how to self-motivate, instigate change or, more importantly, recognize my path? What I discovered instead is that although the tone may be slightly different (less angry or overtly cheerful), the underlying themes of most of my posts are so much the same--especially those in the later part of the year (Now is the Winter of our discontent...ha ha).  This is, of course, partially the problem.

Over and over again, I have listed my wishes and goals.  I have pushed myself to try new things.  I have worked to be open to possibilities and grateful for what I have.  Perhaps because I believe that I am on the verge of Something Great, however, I find myself taking stock in how far I've come throughout the year--or haven't come as the case may be. I cannot help but feel impatient that there seems to be so little progress in my life since the divorce.  Internally, leaps and bounds perhaps.   Externally, not so much.  It's hard not to be disheartened.

In a recent discussion about this with my little sister from another mister, I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Although she is in her twenties (I am nearly twice her age!) and newly married, we each are battling a similar malaise, this sense of wanting to be something more...but not quite getting there.  We are each at a crossroads, each feeling that the path to even get to the fork in the road is winding and meandering.  Although she is just starting on her journey, while I feel like I am RE-starting, we are each craving change, preferably of a positive nature.  We have already been living in a quagmire.  We don't want to be stuck there, but, dear God, how do we get out of it?

As with anything, there is no easy answer, no quick-fix or miracle cure, no matter how much I wish there could be. I know that this is just a phase of my life, but, seriously, five years is more than enough time to be feeling like this, thanks.  It's getting to the point that I don't even know what other lesson I can glean from this experience.  Malaise and Apathy need not be permanent residents.  This ain't no pity party.  I refuse to believe that this is all there is to my life.

Gah.  Time to go travel or dye my hair or move or, well, something.  I hope I can break out of my chrysalis and spread my wings soon.  I'll keep you posted.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep....

Until next time, my Lovelies....