Sunday, September 22, 2013

Autumnal Equinox

Welp, it seems that we tilted again, and autumn is upon us here in the Northern Hemisphere.  I'm glad, summer wore me right the hell out.

I have a week of staff training at work, with a membership appreciation dinner in the middle, then a tie-dye party on Sunday, then a week off.  A week off!  Glorious!  I should spend the entire time working on my floor, but mostly I want to sleep like the dead.  If I work on my floor, I can have large sections of my house back, though.  And then I can think about the floor in my bedroom...

I am allergic to my carpet.  I have decided that my chronic headache is directly related to sleeping in a carpeted room.  Well, that, and the fact that Roommate is still here.  >drumming fingers<  I want my guest room and office back.

But my bedroom floor!  It will be pink and glittery, and I will paint my walls a bruised sort of pinky lavender, and it will just reek of girly shit in here.  The irony is that it always smells of sandalwood, which I don't consider very feminine, and there are animal bones in here.  Seriously.  My jewelry is hung up on deer antlers, and I can see at least 5 skulls from my bed, not to mention my gruesome little collection of bird feet.  And I have this ridiculous thing hanging over my bed.

It's a kite shaped like a bat.  He's wearing a scarf.

I'm trying to figure out how to make a French canopy that incorporates Mister Muffler Bat.  And isn't my wall color depressing?  I'm pretty sure it's "Navajo White."  Ugh, no, this isn't a prison.  And I need to replace my black bedspread, it's looking really shabby, and all my furniture is dark brown and it's overly cavelike in here.  Maybe a rose and plum and cherry red shibori coverlet?  And a blossom pink canopy?  Hmm.  

What else is going on?

While searching for the source of a bad smell, I made a discovery concerning my haircolor. 

In order to get this purple, I mix a bright pink and a bright blue, and my orange stripe is the same pink mixed with a bright yellow.


 It would seem that the pink is UV reactive, as is the yellow.

Teeth and eyeballs glow too, apparently. 

But only the real parts of my teeth- the parts made of acrylic bonding material go sort of grey.  This really highlights how huge my front teeth are compared to the rest of them.  If you squint at this picture, you can get a pretty good idea of what I'd look like without my little cosmetic enhancements.  My real laterals and incisors are very short and nubby compared to my enormous, rodentlike primaries.

Boris had to investigate this claim.
LOOKS LIKE HUMAN TEEF TO ME.  



Sunday, September 15, 2013

After the panic subsides

I realized on Friday that I've been having a full-blown panic attack for at least a week and a half.  This surprised me, because I have friends with anxiety disorders, but I didn't quite realize that I had one, too.

My poor little adrenal glands.  They're just confused as hell, they don't know what's a threat and what isn't.

I set about rectifying the situation by attempting to do absolutely NOTHING useful this weekend.  Well, except for keeping animals alive, that's a given.

Friday after work, I went to my folks' house to feed their cats, as they were out of town for a wedding.  I sat around, ate leftovers from their fridge, and attempted to watch TV.  Ugh, I am very glad I do not have TV, it was a hot mess.  NOTHING worthwhile.  Booo.

Saturday I had to go feed cats again, and then decided to pop by REI to try on shoes.  Nothing fit, alas, but I was out, and doing relatively frivolous things.  Had lunch by myself at Chili's, and ate chips and queso while reading the novelization of "Pacific Rim."  Do not get me started on "Pacific Rim," I love it in ways that are unreasonable.  It has overtaken "Independence Day" as my favorite end-of-the-world-triumphant-humans movie, which is saying something.

I then decided to go to Rogers Gardens, which is a huge sprawling nursery/lifestyle store in Newport Beach, where everything is super spendy but exceptionally beautiful.  They also do an impressive Halloween display, which makes me happy.  I rarely buy anything, as I am usually very poor this time of year, but I did allow myself a beaded spiderweb and a small Edward Gorey book that I didn't already own.  They have an astonishing number of pumpkins.  Really, it's over the top.  They're everywhere.


While I was there I sampled a hand cream that I found swoonworthy, but I'm not super into scented lotions.  I was delighted to discover that the company makes a solid perfume in the same lovely scent, and I intend to order some when I have a little money.  Simpatico Ambergris is delightful, and salty, and sweet, and musky, and everything that whale digestive systems should not be.

Today was the cast party for the Pageant, at Knott's Berry Farm.  I went for one reason and one reason only- Xcelerator.  It is my very favorite roller coaster, and I should know better than to ride it first.  It sorta ruins the rest of the park.

Xcelerator is a steel launched coaster, which means it doesn't drag you up an incline with a cable and then drop you- it basically fires you out of the starting gate.  It goes 0 to 82 in 2.3 seconds, and immediately shoots you up a 205-foot "top hat" element, which is apparently coaster-speak for "OH GOD ARE WE GOING INTO ORBIT?" and then "OH GOD IS THAT THE GROUND?"  It keeps going into a few overbanked turns from there, but that's basically so your heart rate can get down enough for your legs to work once you get back to the beginning.  They have a separate line for the front car.  You definitely need to be in that front car.  You need to see the track disappear on that first drop.


My dad had never ridden it before... it's a trip.  It'll definitely recalibrate your adrenal glands.  Panic about work, home, relationships?  Nah, because we haven't reached escape velocity today, so we're cool.  Rode Boomerang after that, and decided that my sinuses didn't need to be upside-down any more today.

I just ate sliced beef, sauteed kale, and a stuffed portobello mushroom.  I shall walk the dog soon, while listening to Welcome to Night Vale, and maybe have some ice cream.  Maybe shower, then lie in bed and continue to read about my precious Jaegers and my precious Kaiju.

I feel a little less freaked out about life.


Thursday, September 12, 2013

I'm not good at having emotions.

I feel like I am made of an incredibly thin glass shell filled with increasingly agitated metal bees.

I feel like they may burst out any day now.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Rivers in Italy

Today, while I was busy collapsing rabbit tunnels in the rabbitarium at work, my mother called.  I sat on a bale of hay, surrounded by dust and two very peeved bunnies, and chatted for a bit.  There was an event that she thought I would enjoy, but alas, I am working that day.  Pity.

Our conversation turned to recent events.  She asked me about emotional fallout.

Don't know, don't care.

She chuckled.

"It's interesting to see this happening again."

Again?

"Watching someone cross your Rubicon."

Hadn't thought of it that way, but she's right.  >she's usually right<

I will smile, and cheerlead, and help, and counsel, and do everything in my power to make sure someone is happy and comfortable.  I will do this even to my own detriment.  I will do this until I discover that someone's moral compass does not point in the same direction as my own.

alea iacta est

And then, I will spiral around in panic and disarray, in utter despair over the notion that this person for whom I have smiled and shown kindness and care for could DO SOMETHING that I would never DREAM of doing, could not BRING MYSELF TO DO.  I will stand in the shower, weeping for the world that I thought I understood.

My panic will turn to anger.  I will seethe with the heat of a dying star.  Some of this anger is self-loathing, for I will hate myself for not acknowledging this obvious and glaring character flaw.  How could I have deluded myself into thinking this person was worthy?

And then my heart, once squishy and safe for that person, will turn to stone.

Forever.

I don't know if you could call it a grudge, really- grudges seem active, like something you have to maintain.  This is more like someone ceasing to exist.

Don't care what they do.  Don't care what they think about me.  Don't care about their feelings.  Don't care about them at all beyond whether or not they hamper my daily life.

I can't ever predict when someone will cross my Rubicon.  99% of the people I interact with will never even see it.

I wonder what it will be like to live here now.  I don't know that most people have inner Rubicons- I know people who break up and get back together with lovers, friends, colleagues, family members.  I cannot imagine how they do this.

Maybe they are better able to warn others of their impending insurrection.

Maybe I do all my forgiving before we reach the river.

alea iacta est

Monday, September 9, 2013

Better out than in

He had no idea I was angry.

He had no idea I was angry.

HE HAD NO IDEA I WAS ANGRY.

More importantly, it never occurred to him that anything about the situation was amiss.

NEVER.

OCCURRED.

TO.

HIM.

That sentence genuinely made me angrier.

It never occurred to you that you have been living here for 10 months without paying rent?

You need to think long and hard about WHY it never occurred to you that something was amiss.

You need to think long and hard about WHY it never occurred to you that it might not be okay for a 33-year-old adult man to sponge off a woman earning $15.50 an hour.

You need to think long and hard about WHY it never occurred to you that this woman might find this situation unacceptable.

You need to think long and hard about WHY, with the going rate of rent in this neighborhood, this woman might be angry about it NEVER OCCURRING TO YOU TO PAY RENT.

You have basically been given the equivalent of $14,000, and it NEVER OCCURRED TO YOU.

NEVER OCCURRED TO YOU.

NEVER.

OCCURRED.

TO.

YOU.

I did not say my piece on paper.  I did it in person, and I didn't cry.  This is one of maybe five times in my life that I expressed anger without crying, and I'm pretty goddamn proud of myself.

I wore all black and white, and a terribly severe pair of eyebrows.

After I said my piece, I walked the dog for about two hours.  The dog is exhausted, and has no idea why we were out so long.  I had to clear the adrenaline from my system.

There were no lights on in the house when I returned.  I ate some ice cream and started the dishwasher. I pet the cat and folded some laundry.  I climbed into bed to noodle around on the internet.  I heard him emerge from his bedroom, exit the house, start his car, and drive off.

Hope your tank is full, because you have a lot of thinking to do.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Straws and camels

My decrepit old cat has been pissing everywhere again.  His favorite spot seems to be under the antique vanity in the dining room, right on the newly finished floor.  I dutifully mop up the pee.

I discover that, if the pee manages to hit a spot where furniture sits on the floor, that it will soak through the polyurethane and into the paper beneath.  I am livid, but resigned to my fate.

The peeing is now occurring several times a day.  I am going through paper towels at an astonishing rate.

I come home from work at six on Friday to an extremely hot house, and an extremely powerful cat-pee smell that I cannot locate.

I talk to the cat, and apologize for being late with dinner.

Viking Roommate says something from the back room, something along the lines of "I fed him at four."

You got fed early!  You terrible old liar.  Dinner is at five, not four, you old beggar!

"Wait, dinner is at five?  I thought it was at four."

Nooo, the cat gets fed at six and five, a small snack at nine, insulin at six and five.

"Oh.  Sorry bout that."

Viking Roommate leaves the house for whatever reason, and I search for the smell.

I find it.

It is underneath bookshelves and filing cabinets, an ocean of pee, soaked all the way down to the shitty linoleum tiles beneath my beautiful paper floor.  It is under the baseboards.

I am too angry to cry.  I cup the old cat's face in my hands, and remind him that I am the only living soul that loves him.  I ask him why he continues to punish me.

I move all my furniture, the now-ruined particleboard bookshelf, my filing cabinets, my rolltop desk, and my antique vanity.  This is done with some difficulty, as I have noplace to put anything.  My den is still in my living room, and my garage is in utter disarray, and my back porch is cluttered as well.

My anger begins to turn into rage as I begin to scrape the ruined paper and polyurethane off the floor.  Two feet by fifteen feet.  I text my mother.

She texts me back- Has his food changed?  He doesn't start peeing places unless his blood sugar is messed up.

Son.

Of.

A.

Bitch.

My rage shifts to a new target.

You've been feeding my diabetic cat early.  I've been feeding my diabetic cat on time, unaware that he has already eaten.

I don't care that you are trying to help.

You are killing my cat.

Viking Roommate returns home, sees me scraping away, silent and sweaty.  My rage is tangible.

If you do not have my prybar in your hands, you need to be somewhere else.

"What do you need the pry bar for?"

TO TAKE OFF THE GODDAMNED BASEBOARD.

"Oh."  There are shuffling, searching noises.  I cannot look up.  Scrape scrape scrape.

"Do you want me to go get you one?"

No.  You need to be somewhere else.  Scrape scrape scrape.

I hear a bedroom door shut.

In the last two weeks, you've lost my dog (left the gate open, didn't notice she was gone for four hours, got her back, but it involved animal control, the Humane Society, five phone calls, and finding the neighbor who had her all afternoon). You've poisoned my cat, which caused my cat to destroy my floor and furniture, which worsened his neuropathy and lessened his already-poor mobility.  You've only recently started kicking in for utilities, because you finally learned how little I actually earn.  Your bathroom (the guest bathroom) is horrifyingly filthy, and I won't let visitors use it.  Your sculpting shit is on my front porch, my back porch, and in my garage, in addition to being in the office and your bedroom.  You seem incapable of throwing away bottles, which have covered my picnic table like a shrine to hoarding.  I have no workspace, no guest room, no office, no guest bathroom, no porches, no garage, and I AM THE ONLY PERSON HERE WHO PAYS RENT.

You said you needed a month, maybe two.

It's been ten.

I am extraordinarily patient, and very very generous.  When you needed a place to stay, your friends told me that they thought I would "understand the art supply situation" better than his last roommate.

The situation has nothing to do with art supplies.

Viking Roommate has been holed up in his room whenever I have been home all weekend.  I have spent the entire weekend cleaning.  Cleaning cleaning cleaning.

"Anything I can do to help?"

I cannot say a word, because 60 different responses all leap to mind at once, and I cannot decide which one to verbalize.

No, I don't trust your help, as it usually ends up making more work for me.

You can clean your goddamn bathroom.

You can start paying rent.

I have a feeling that I cannot say any of this out loud.  I fear that if I start any of these sentences, the dam will burst and a tsunami of rage will stream from my mouth for hours and hours and hours.

Perhaps I should just write a note.

I cannot continue to subsidize your lifestyle.  You said you needed two months, it's been ten.  On November 1, the rent will be $600 a month, with the requirement that there is no sculpting shit on my porches or in my garage, and the bathroom is guest-ready at all times.  

I am an extraordinarily stoic camel.

One too many straws.