Death By Sofa Bed

I’ve been cleaning the apartment a lot lately. It’s just little things here and there: sorting through empty wine bottles (keep some for crafts, toss some); getting rid of the ridiculous amount of cardboard boxes Bowser has been hoarding; sorting through old linens and bath products. I’ve found a few things here and there that I had forgot about, including a small box of cat treats and toys that were a housewarming gift for Bowser from his “fuzzy brother” Sketch.

I pulled out that box today to sort through, and tossed a few toys on the floor for Bowser to explore. He could still smell Sketch on some of them I think, because he went nuts over them. One in particular, a small fuzzy blue ball, he claimed as he new favourite. He ran around the apartment all day with that thing, following me with the little ball hanging out of his mouth. He followed me to the bathroom with it, watched me cook with it, and even brought it into his carrier to nap with.

But then, it was suddenly gone. I looked all over where he had been playing with it, and couldn’t find it. He laid down next to the sofa bed and just started yowling. He would stretch his little paws out under the sofa, yowl a bit, and then look up at me with these big sad eyes.

So I did what any cat mom would do. I grabbed a flashlight and a broom and tried to look under the couch for it. Problem is this couch is at least 20 years old, and the bed part is sagging to the floor in the middle. He was yowling even more, so I decided to move the table, pull out the bed, pull back the mattress, and look under it.

That’s where the problem started.

I got everything moved away from the couch with minimal problems, just a frantic Bowser Kitten running around my feet. I pulled out the bed just fine. It was when I reached forward to pull the matress back, that’s when I slipped just a little bit. I fell into the partially open sofa bed…… and it started to close with me inside it.

I didn’t realize what was going on at first. I figured that I would hit the matress, stop falling, and just get back up. But instead as my elbows hit the matress, my legs came up and the matress started folding in on me. I was pinned from mid-calf up, with my arms bent so that my hands were up near my boobs. I tried to push forward, but the matress wouldn’t move. I tried to shove the matress up with my butt, and it wouldn’t move. I was legit trapped inside a sofa bed.

To add insult to injury, Bowser sat on the arm of the sofa at one point and licked my ankle. Little fuzzy bastard.

I was trapped for at least 20 minutes. I had been watching old episodes of Unsolved Mysteries while I cleaned, and could hear Robert Stack droning on about King Tut’s curse and some old-timey robbery. I tried pushing the matress, and nothing happened. I tried moving my head, and it was completely stuck. I couldn’t reach the floor to make a racket and maybe alert my downstairs neighbour that I was in trouble. And at the angle I was at, I could barely breath, let alone scream.

Then the panic started setting in. I was sure that I was going to be trapped in that sofa bed, and die there, and Bowser was going to eat my feet. I cried, and I started squirming around. I couldn’t move the mattress, but I managed to twist my legs a bit. Little by little, i was able to pull my legs up against my body. I still don’t know how, but I managed to use the force of a twist to move the mattress just a tiny bit, enough to get my legs in a slightly better position, and was able to use my legs to push the mattress open again.

So there I am, still in tears, glasses laying inside the matress, hair all over the palce. I wiped my face, put my glasses back on, and saw Bowser sitting there next to my shoes, looking at me like I was crazy. And what does the little fuzzy bastard do?

He shoves his face into my shoe, and pulls out the toy I had been looking for.

I need some damn wine right now.

Thoughts From A Dye Job

Took a sadness bath the other day to mope and feel too much of my feelings. Towards the end, the ever concerned Bowser Kitten hopped up on the very tiny side of the tub and just start meowing at me. We sat there, him meowing at me, me meowing back, for a few minutes before I started wondering if I was insulting him.

That’s when I realized I had just wasted prime bathtub thinking time moping because a boy was mean to me.

So today, when I woke up entirely too early for how late I stay up most nights, I thought “well a bath isn’t in order. But I do need a little something to get the old brain-words flowing…….”

So purple it is!

So in the grand tradition of Jenna Marbles’ “Thoughts from a Bathtub” and “Thoughts from a Couch”, I bring you the random-ass crap that enters my mind on my Beauty-Making Thursday.

-certain music just works better depending on what colour you’re dying your hair. Metal obviously works for black hair. Throwing lemon in your hair, sitting in the sun, and calling that “highlights” is more of a Greatful Dead kinda vibe. Green, no matter the shade, has to be the Buzzcocks for the full Ghost World feel of it. And apparently a mix of The Monkees, Killswitch Engage, and the soundtrack to Empire Records works best for purple.

-who decided that ducks would be the ideal bathtub companion for kids? You ever go down to the park and accidentally get between a mommy duck and her baby? I mean, you may as well have a Canadian Goose in the tub with your kids, and they have freakin teeth on their tongues!

-I think about the word “yeet” too much, yet I have yet to use “yeetable” to describe something I wanna yeet.

-of all the rooms in the house, why aren’t bathroom equipped with speakers and disco lighting? Random shower dance parties of one to Bjork would be so much more fun with rainbow lighting and enhanced bass.

-who decides state/country/city names are acceptable as people names? You see people named Washington, but never New Hampshire. I’ve seen Paris, but never Kalamazoo. What if I want a child named Litchenshtein? I could call her Litchy for short.

-I really need one of those waterproof writing pads and pens for my shower.

-on an unrealated note, I should put some sort of curtain up in my hall window so the neighbours don’t see me running naked and dripping wet through the house to grab a notebook and pen mid-shower

-why does everything have to be a phase? Goth phase? Emo phase? Cutting your own bangs in the bathroom while crying into a bottle of cheap whiskey phase? Can’t we just keeps parts of those times inside of us and let them out from time to time? Maybe sometimes I want to listen to Dashboard and drink whiskey in the bathroom while wearing a corset top and too much black eyeliner. We should just embrace the things that made us happy during these “phases” and keep them in our lives.

-does Tony Hawk ever listen to Goldfinger’s “Superman” and think “dammit bitches, I MADE YOU!”?

-sometimes it’s ok to cry. Sometimes it’s ok to let things go. And sometimes you just need to grab some purple hair dye and spend a day just doing random beauty shit to rejuvinate your soul.

-apparently when they test the building’s fire alarm while you’re in the shower washing out hair dye, your cat will jump into the tub to hide/make sure you’re ok.

-showering with a cat is REALLY not fun!

Well, apparently adding more purple dye to the purple dye I was already using does not make my hair extra purple. So in like 6 weeks time, I may have to resort to some somewhat-drastic measures to get my hair looking right.

Now, to go find something to quiet my overactive mind for the day. Maybe I’ll get a bag of burgers.

Healing in the Time of COVID

Hey there friendship. I’m just sitting here reading up on more ways to just totally fuck up my hair. Because if you don’t wind up with either fried hair or a shaved head, can you really say you survived isolation these days?

Honestly, things are a little weird here with me. Mi Casita still is without a name, and apparently, I speak random bits of Spanish while writing. The X and I are still trying this friendship thing, and it’s mentally draining. He’s in the middle of moving, and I just can’t take his move any more! I took one whole day off to get my move done. He’s on week FOUR of no work just for this move, and has to constantly talk about it and ask my advice.

Dude, if you want to talk just to feel self-important and heard, start a blog like the rest of us already!

The weirdest thing here is that my brain is totally against me. I was talking to a friend today about some guy she met on a dating site. I said that if things didn’t work out with them, at least she made a new friend. She told me that she has enough friends that she barely keeps in contact with, she doesn’t need any more. And I totally get that. My Facebook is primarily people I haven’t actually talked to in years. We make the odd comment on each other’s posts, or sent the occasional “haven’t talked to you in forever, what’s up” message. But that’s about it. During things with The X I pretty much cut myself off entirely from my friends, partially out of embarassment from having to bring him to events with me, partially because I just didn’t have the time for friends when I was constantly trying to take care of him.

And man, has that ever fucked me up!

After a few hours of random drunken messages from a man (who in my mind is) far too beautiful to ever be talking to me, I had to take a step back and wonder why I had never just messaged him to hang out. I had to actually sit down last night and use everything I have here that forces me to look inside myself to try and figure out why I never just opened messenger and said hi. And the real reason is…… well, it’s complicated. It’s trauma, it’s recovering from my past, it’s the hit my self-esteem has taken from trying to evaluate my life up to this point. I’ve never really been good at keeping in touch with people, and I’ve never been one to feel comfortable just inviting myself over to see someone. But my need to have someone else make that move to socialize just grew deeper and darker in the last four years.

I always just saw myself as something like a phoenix over the years. Shit happens, some part of you dies; that’s trauma. Fuck the trauma, be reborn, become stronger than before. There may be a lot of things I don’t do right in my life, but I’ve always been a survivor, and I’ve always bounced back harder and stronger than before. So seeing that a part of me that I need hasn’t bounced back at all, well that just scared me shitless. And, it’s made me take a much harder look at how I see myself and why.

So the flat out honest truth about me? I think I’m just too boring and dull for someone to want to spend time with. I know, there are people who actually know me who are reading this and thinking “you’re shittin me, right?”. (Yes Sam, that’s pretty much directed right at you) Thing is I put off doing pretty much anything I really wanted to do for years, either due to work or because of The X. I skipped ever concert, every movie, every random night out. Hell, I didn’t even go to the petting zoo as much as I wanted to so I could hug every single goat there! There were times walking with coworkers from my book job when they would invite me out for a quick drink at one of my favourite bars, and I’d have to turn them down to rush home to The X or else I knew he’d take a fit about me not appreciating him slaving over a hot stove to make boxed mashed potatoes and bagged chicken yet again for dinner. I blew off having a life for years, and when I was finally able to have a life again the world shut down for COVID.

So when I look at myself, I really don’t see anything exciting. When I look at someone I want to spend time with, someone I’m comfortable around, all I can see is them getting bored of me real fast and ghosting me. I can’t for the life of me figure out what I could bring to the table when it comes to…. well… anything. When I look at someone who had such a full, interesting life before all this I can’t help but think that they’re going to figure out really quick that there’s really nothing much to me. Sure, there were a tonne of things I had planned on doing before everything shut down. I was even going to go to a concert for the first time in years, on my damn birthday, with a friend who had won tickets. But I never got to do any of this stuff, and now I feel like just wanting to do these things isn’t enough.

So now I’m at this weird crossroads in my life. It’s like I have interests, I have things I wanted to try, I had like this whole “life” thing ready to go, and then everything shut down. So this “life” thing is basically just some little blip in the back of my mind, and I feel like what I was before this is just….. nothing special. And now I feel like I just keep rehashing the same thing over and over again, but it’s the thing that jumps to the front of my mind every time I want to message someone or hang out with someone. But then I catch shit for not messaging, even though I’m sure that if I did they wouldn’t want me to message them again because I’d bore them…….

Yeah, so TL:DR my brain is all kinds of fucked up at the moment. I guess I didn’t realize just how much this whole COVID/isolation thing was impacting my healing.

And now on top of figuring out all the stuff going on inside my own head that’s been alluding me thus far, I also need to figure out how to momentarily get past it long enough to gift an absolutely beautiful man a glow-in-the-dark football for reasons.

Life Needs More Switches

I’m blogging from the phone tonight because I have no laptop,  and I’m obsessively marathoning old episodes of Unsolved Mysteries on the desktop tonight. So this will be short and have horrible grammar, most likely.

I think our brains should have more switches inside them. I really think we should have evolved by this point to be able to just flip something in our heads and turn off an emotion or a memory for a while.

I know we all have to deal with whatever the hell we’re going through. Its not healthy to just bottle things up, push them into the back of your mind, and drink until they just stop mattering. Believe me, I minored in Emotionally Induced Binge Drinking in university and have been am avid practitioner ever since.

But every now and then, wouldn’t it be nice to just turn off a stupid feeling? The ability to just turn off crushes or attractions or intrigue at the drop of a hat? I mean, if the switch is in your head you probably would have to remove your hat to get to it anyway.

You could just hit a switch and not have any sort of feelings for someone. You wouldn’t forget how to talk momentarily when they look at you. When you try to message them, you wouldn’t get to nervous that you’d scare them off or they’d ghost you again that you just never message. You would never have to tell yourself over and over again that you’re so over a crush on someone, just to see them come into your store and start thinking “wanting to just cuddle with him is still being over him, right? Like I can want to just spend a whole lot of time with him and stop my thoughts just at cuddling, and that’s still fine”. Angry drunk messages in the middle of the night that come off as strangely jealous would have no affect on you.

And you’d never again try to make a vague blog entry and have it come out way to damn specific. I blame the bag of tacos, and the bottle of rosé I’m working on.

I Think I Sprained My Butt

For reals, I think I pulled a us le in my left butt cheek. No matter where I sit, how I stand, how much I stretch or move or relax, it’s just really tight and sore.

Luckily, I have plenty of time to work on this. I was set to start my new day job today, and have been internally freaking out for weeks about it. My friend in the office got word last night that only essential staff were being let into the building for the next few weeks thanks to COVID-19. Apparently, I am NOT essential staff. 

On the plus side, I am still getting paid a bit even though I’m not in the office, and I. Have time to get extra hours at the booze job. I also have the luxury of having a little time off to myself. Today I cleaned ALL the things in the apartment. Like wall as have been washed, blinds have been cleaned, Bowser had his nails trimmed.  It also meant that my fantabulous baby brother was able to come over with a bookcase and a lot of bread loafs so that he could see my new place and come hang out for a bit. We’re like 7 years apart, but have so much in common it’s crazy. He even went to high school with the magical space octopus I’m friends with (and have a strange attraction to at at time when I’m not attracted to anyonereally) and had a crush on him way back in the day!

This also means that will have more time available to pick up shifts at the booze job. I am a horrible trash human being when it comes to taking time for myself. I shouldn’t be taking a shift tomorrow afternoon, but I did. I should the taking extra hours onfriday,a but I am. I had to write down a reminder “don’t take any more fucking shifts!!!!!!” And stick it on the fridge for myself. I need to take time for myself right now.

So this Voluntary Hermitide things is a good thing for me right now, in light of recent events. Trying to find one or two people to come hang out this week so I don’t go too stir crazy.  I am even willing to bake or cook for people! These are crazy crazy times, even for nine raccoons in a people suit.

**insert Charlie Brown scream here**

So I’m going through some things AND stuff right now. I had some things planned to help calm my brain and my aura, but everything just fell to shit. Between having to try and plan around inspiration striking an artist friend, my artistic motivation just fucking all the way off, this whole “the world is ending because of this pandemic” thing going on, and still waiting for a few key things to help organize the new place, nothing worked out. Also, I start my new day job at 9am tomorrow. So let’s welcome my next mental episode to the stage! I’ve been trying to plan out some good, healthy coping mechanisms for my psyche and none of that is working. With the two jobs (9-5 Monday to Friday at one, weekend and Wednesday evenings at the other) I don’t exactly have the luxury of just going on a bender for a day or two like back in the good old days. I won’t have the time to go out and do something fun and reckless. And the whole “get back into the dating world” thing has been an epic failure. So….. what should I do now? Should I bleach the red out of my hair and go back to blonde for a while? Should I hit the bar for like one whole night and just get stupid? Should I isolate myself more, maybe buy a microwave and toaster and live off my depressed “popcorn, tea, and toast” diet for a while? New tattoo? Piercing? Haircut? Books? Boys? I’m just so done right now, and shit is just getting started. I’m sitting here alone in the new apartment watching hair fail compilations on YouTube and trying to work on the story I was writing (but with zero success because my motivation is in the negatives). So, what should my next move be?

Life in Customer Service, OR How I Slowly Lose My Faith in Humanity on a Daily Basis: A Rant

Our store doesn’t have a difficult layout when it comes to coming and going. If you walk in the main door and keep heading straight to the door marked “IN”, you’ll wind up inside the store via the automatic door. If you turn towards the door marked “DO NOT ENTER”, you’ll slam your damn face into the glass. Alternatively, if you pay for your booze at the checkout counter and then logically keep walking forward to the door marked “EXIT”, you’ll exit the store.

This isn’t rocket science. Small childs come into our store with their parents and even they can figure this out even though they can’t read yet. It’s logic so simple three-year-olds can manage it, and they’re still trying to eat gum they find on the sidewalk.

So why do so many people just turn off the logical part of their brains the second they hit our property? Why do so many people walk in that first door and think “let’s make this totally illogical left turn here towards the door marked “DO NOT ENTER” and then stand here with our thumbs up our asses wondering why the door doesn’t swing open for us!”

Ok, I guess entering the store can be a bit confusing, with the logical flow patterns and clearly marked doors and all. But in what world do you pay for your stuff, then push back through a line of customers to leave through a door clearly marked “ENTRANCE ONLY, NOT AN EXIT”? Why would any store be set up that way? Who in their right mind thinks “Well, there’s a door at the end of this counter that would be perfectly logically for me to exit through, so that can’t possibly be the exit. I better turn around, push my way through this crowd of people waiting to pay, even though not a single person did this in line before me, and then stand in front of that door that won’t open for me. Yeppers, that makes perfect fucking sense!”

Of course, these are some of the same fucking people who can’t follow basic ID laws either. If you touch it, talk about, exchange money with each other, say shit like “I’ll Venmo you $15 for this later”, or anything like that that makes us think you’re part of the purchase, you need your damn ID. It’s pretty damn simple.

“I’m only paying for it because I owe him money. None of this is for me.” If you walked into a car dealership and wanted to buy a car, but didn’t have a lisence, do you think they’ll let you drive off the lot? If you walked into a gun shop with a friend and tried to buy a gun without a lisence, and told the people behind the counter “it’s ok, I’m not buying it for me, I just owe someone money”, do you really think you’d be walking out of there with anything but a fresh load of embarassment from being laughed at hysterically in your face?

One time I watched a group of like 8 guys walk around the store with a shopping cart. Every single person was grabbing things off the shelves and putting it in the cart. They stood there arguing over what brand of vodka to buy, and what kinds of coolers to get. They stood at the end of my counter and all passed money to the guy in the front of the line. Then, seven of them tried to leave. When I tried to stop them for ID the stupid little shit holding the money took an attitude with me and was all, “I’m the only one buying this. None of them even drink! This is all for me, you can’t ID them because they’re leaving now anyway, so just sell me my stuff.”

You ever see those cartoons where someone gets mad and you can see the steam pouring out of their ears while their face turns red and they start vibrating before they explode. Buddy got the live-action version of that image that day, and you better fucking believe he left without his booze.

And while we’re talking about ID, why the hell do so many people come into the store with a picture of their ID on their phones and insist that we have to take it as valid ID? We’re not just checking the birthday on your ID, there’s a whole little list of things that need to be on there for us to take it. One of those things requires us to touch the damn ID to make sure it’s fucking real, you empty headed twat waffle!!! Telling us it’s all you have with you doesn’t change the ID laws, and it’s not changing our minds either. Yelling at us, getting an damn attitude with us, telling us you’ll leave and just get someone else to buy for you (and then like 90% of the time being fucking dumb enough to stand outside the store right under the fucking security cameras and giving your friend money to buy for you, who we then have to refuse because you’re too stupid to go home and either get your ID or have someone come back for your stuff), threatening us, or crying are not going to get you anything either.

Sugar, a picture of your ID will get you a picture of the booze, and unfortunately we don’t even allow you to take pictures in the store so you’re just fucked either way.

Even if you have what you think is ID it doesn’t mean we can take it. Show me where your birthday is on your student card. Where is the expiration date? What government issued this? Like I said, there are like half a dozen things we have to look for on your ID. If it doesn’t have these things, then we can’t take it. Doesn’t matter how much you pout, how much you beg, and much you threaten to tell my manager that I refuse to serve you when I legally fucking can’t.

Which makes me wonder why people argue with me anyway. Look fart knocker, I’m going my damn job. I get paid to make sure things are done legally, and we totally get checked on by mystery shoppers and stuff. Do you really think I’m going to risk my job because you give me sad eyes? There are like 4 people in this world with eyes beautiful enough for that to work on me, and three of them are celebrities. No random Kyle from Pennsylvania who came here to study and, like, totally has real ID back on campus but, like, mom said to never carry it around because Canadians are so, like, weird and stuff and might take it away or something: you still ain’t getting served.

Like more than half the time when I refuse someone they either give me attitude or just flat out get loud and yell at me for it. I get it, I come off as a complete bitch and don’t give a damn if I ruined your good time. Also, you are childs with overgroan child brains that are still growing. That’s why we have to check your ID, to see if you’re even old enough to buy this stuff that you’re totally going to find a way to get your hands on anyway. A tleast your alternative nefarious means of alcohol attainment leave my hands clean in the eyes of the law. You want to scream at me like a child, because you still have a child brain. That’s cool, come back at me once your prefrontal cortex has fully formed.

What gets me is grown-ass adults who feel the need to get all yelly at me for simple shit. Sorry Susan, I don’t know off the top of my head what red wine has some red in the label and your friend bought two bottles of last month. No Matt, I don’t know the price of every single can, bottle, box, multi-pack, and tetra pack in the entire store off the top of my head. I don’t know our exact stock numbers without looking them up, or what other stores have in stock. I can’t recommend a wine that bold and flavour forward, but subtle and fruity, with a high alcohol content but low sugars but doesn’t taste too dry, without looking that shit up somehow. And I cannot magically pull a spare cash register and counter out of my ass and start ringing people through in the middle of the aisle because you don’t feel like waiting for the 3 people ahead of you to buy their beers.

And why do people seem to think that because I’m standing somewhere in the store, I can just magically ring them up? Like I can be walking through the aisle with my arms full of cardboard and someone will come up to me and say, “are you open”. Open to what, exactly? Open to dropping everything at that exact moment to serve you? Open to conjuring up a magical register out of nowhere to ring you out on? Open to running off into the sunset together hand-in-hand?

And that doesn’t even get into the people who come up to a cash register that is close and ask “are you open?”. Like we put out a sign, there is a barricade-type strip pulled across the lane. Once, we had the receipt printer pulled apart on the counter while who of us dicked around with flashlights and a multitool to try and unfuck it, and still people wanted us to cash them out right then and there! Usually a “closed” sign means something is fucking closed!

This is all just random customer service shit that boils up inside of me and randomly comes out behind people’s backs. But the boss says I’m not allowed to flip people off when they’re not looking, because it looks bad on camera, so I need another outlet to vent my frustrations.

Let’s Abolish Guilty Pleasures

There are a few things that really piss me off in life. Bizarre, uneccessary censorship. The way the reindeer (and Santa) treated Rudolph, and then Rudolph was all “of course I’ll help you! Hooray for being used and accepted!”. People who will argue to the death about whether certain toppings “belong” on pizza, regardless of the personal tastes of others. The fact that one management company owns like 75% of the damn rentals available in this city right now, and all I ever hear about them are complaints (and they keep cancelling and changing my appointments).

But one thing that really irks me to no end is the idea of having “guilty pleasures”. For those of you not in the know, a “guilty pleaseure” is something that you honestly, truly enjoy that just isn’t deemed cool enough for you to be enjoying it. Therefore, you sould somehow hide this enjoyment away and only indulge when you are alone and no one will ever find out about it. The only time you can talk about said pleasure is if you flat out label it as a “guilty pleasure” and admit that, while you like it, you know that it’s jsut not that cool to like it and somehow you feel guilty about liking said thing.

What I would like to know is what the hell is pleasurable about enjoying something but feeling so guilty about it that you can’t indulge in it whenever you want to? I mean, there are a few things I can imagine a person would and should feel completely guilty for enjoying: murder, rape, abuse of any kind, child porn, crimes against children and animals and the eldery, pulling out their wangs in public and waving them around for everyone to see. But none of those things are ever labelled “guilty pleasures”. They’re just straight-up crimes.

I’ve been accused of having certain “guilty pleasures” that I had no idea I should feel guilty about. As someone with a wide range of musical taste, I was told that my singing along to Lizzo at work is a “guilty pleasure”. Apparently I can’t listen to Holy Diver and be 100% that bitch in the same day? Dammit, Lizzo is a goddess who puts on a high energy show, sings, dances, plays the goddam flute, AND isn’t having any of your shit when it comes to criticizing her lyrics or her body. And I’m supposed to feel guilty for getting on board with that?

I say that if you have something that brings you pleasure, that puts a smile on your face, something that just gets you moving whether in your brain or your booty, then fucking own that shit! I don’t care if you’re almost 40 and still like to skateboard, are a metalhead who likes Post Malone, or are a gourmet chef and foodie who could exist solely on McDoubles. If something out there like that brings you happiness, why feel guilty?

So here is a short list of things that I absolutely love, things that people have deemed my “guilty pleasures”, which I in no way feel guilty about enjoying:

  • Billy Joel. I grew up on his music, I can sing along to the bulk of his songs, and I will never turn off the radio when he is telling me to go ahead with my own life and leave him alone. That shit is my old-school jam and I will belt it out like my life depends on it.
  • My teenaged angsty metal. Rammstein, Manson, Korn, Deftones. These are all the things that calm my brain, that pump me up, that lead me to and got me through some of the most difficult times in my life.
  • Being basic. I flat out love the book Next Level Basic, and will defend it with my dying breath. I honestly enjoy pumpkin spiced lattes. Plaid is life. The fact that people will rage over women enjoying things like a coffee drink, a boot style, a hair colour, a choice in TV shows, makes me want to smash things. If you want to call me basic, go ahead. I will own that shit, and I will love it.
  • Almost anything 90’s. I still wear flannel shirts and combat boots. Empire Records is my favourite movie of all time. My sister and I can probably recite all the words to both Clueless and Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. The day I stop listening to old STP, Alice in Chains, Blind Melon, and bands like that is the day of my funeral (and only if my ghost haunting the liquor store has no control over the music there). If I live to be 90, I will still be rocking the plaid skirts and combat boots.
  • Make-up. I don’t know why I’m supposed to feel guilty about this. If you’re attracted to me and can’t tell that my eyelids aren’t naturally purple and that I don’t naturally have a black winged line on my eyes, that says more about you than it does about me. I have fun with make-up. I can cover flaws (because yes, I still get adult acne and my eyebrows never fully grew back from my goth days), I can make my eyes look bluer, I can look dramatic or playful or natural or just plain bizarre. It’s fun for me to play with, and I actually enjoy it all.
  • My bag of burgers. It’s not like I’m existing on McDonald’s. When I’m short on time, in a horrid mood, my world is crumbling and I can’t bring myself to cook, or I have just been running myself ragged for days or weeks, I like to grab a bag of cheap McDonald’s burgers. I give some away to my homeless friends, or have used them in hopeless attempts at flirting in the past. It’s food. Cheap food, at that, that I can make last more than a day if I don’t give too much away. What the hell is wrong with feeding myself crap sometimes?
  • Reading and writing. I have honestly had people in my life mock me for spending time on this blog. More than once, The X brought it up in fights saying he wished he had time for “a crappy, pointless hobby that will get [me] nowhere in life”. I’ve had supposed friends laugh at my book choices, actually crumple up pieces of work I asked them to read over, or just flat out ignore things I’ve sent them that they claimed to want to read. This is something that totally and completely brings joy into my life when I let myself do it, and do it on my own terms.
  • Doodling. I am not an artist in any way, but I doodle constantly. Every notebook I have (and as a writer, I have about 400 of them) has pages full of eyes, weird spirals, trees, little cartoon people, and random forays into pastels and water colours. But people who claim to be artists in my life have shamed me over and over again, telling me that I need to focus my energy elsewhere because my stuff isn’t actually good. But it keeps my mind focused, or helps me quiet it, or just gives me something to do when the words won’t come out right.

What is the common thread in all of these things? Aside from the fact that they’re all things I like, they’re all things that are hurting absolutely zero people. No one is harmed when I fill in my eyebrows, or pick up yet another memoire of a female author with a fucked up past, or jam some old Velvet Acid Christ in my headphones while I make dinner. These are all things that bring joy into my life and harm no one.

So why should I feel guilty about them?

I say we do away with the idea of a “guilty pleasure” and just enjoy doing the things that make us feel alive. You want to jam out to Brittany Spears while you do Buns of Steel? Go for it! Collect cacti and drink whiskey? Hell yeah! Acutally enjoy the music of Nickleback? If it’s good enough for my mother, then it’s good enough for you!

Let’s shed these chains that have been holding us back from being our complete authentic selves. Let’s make 2020 the year when we stop feeling guilty for enjoying things and instead just fully be ourselves.

Now, if you need me, I’m pretty sure there’s a radio station out there playing some Lizzo that I need to sing along with. If not, I’ll be in the shower with a Monster while I sing along to Holy Diver. Because it’s entirely possible to enjoy both of those equally.

Just More of The Unsual Crap: More Roommates, More Moving, More Showing, and More Cats.

Hey there Sunshine, my last ray of sanity. Now that school is back and people are scrambling for last minute accommodations, things at Castle Dumpster Fire are a real treat! We are up to FOUR people in this damn house, and FIVE pets (three of which the landlord wasn’t told about, but we’ll get to that in a bit). There is still one room left, and the X and I are still showing it.

Which brings me to a very important point: not enough people are reading my damn blog! I’ve covered EVERYTHING that’s pissing me off right now in past posts, and this shit STILL keeps happening!

First off, to help alleviate some of the stress showing the rooms has put on the X and I, the landlord asked our newest roommate to show the house a few times. Mind you, the Kid had been living there 3 days the first time he showed it, but he answered all the questions he was asked. Only problem was, he didn’t know all the answers, and he didn’t know what information to throw out there to prospective renters. Why, you ask? Because he didn’t read the damn lease through!

Now, if he had read my previously published post Reading and Understanding Your Lease, then he would have known a few things that he really should have brought up: there is no cable or internet included with the house; there is a pet deposit and all pets have to be approved beforehand by the landlord; you can’t have hot plates or bring fridges into your room, and the like. So what happens? The Camouflage Cowboy shows up and moves in, with his two budgies and his super adorable, sweet, soft, fluffy kitten Max (please don’t tell Bowser and Sketch I said any of that)! Now I’ve got a super playful kitten trying to play with Bowser and Sketch, and Sketch is not having it! Poor little floppy butt has made a nest under my bed and hardly ever comes out, and Bowser has gone into full defense mode to protect his brother. The birds were left out on the porch overnight and attacked by a stray cat, so I now have two birds with three legs between them, their cage hanging from out roof overhang, and they never shut up! And CC still owes me 2/3 of the monthly internet cost, btw.

Of course, we’re still showing rooms, and a good 90% of the people responding to the ad have never read about how NOT to be a Colossal Douche when looking for somewhere to rent. Some very basic things like “if you make an appointment to see a place, actually show up” and “don’t track mud through the house by refusing to take your shoes off in the middle of a damn typhoon” seem so simple, but there’s so damn hard for some people!

But the thing that really ruffles my goats is the people who can’t read the damn ad OR the email they get from the landlord about the place. We have one kitchen, 2 bathrooms, 2 common area/living rooms, a dining room, and 5 bedrooms. Each room holds one renter. Rent includes basic utilities, but not cable or internet. Pets need to be pre-approved and there’s a pet deposit. No smoking indoors, no illegal drugs in the house, and it is listed as a “Quiet, Mature House” for serious students and working young adults. Pretty damn simple, eh?

Well two freaking guys show up on my doorstep today, out of the blue. They had emailed the landlord, got the whole basic spiel, and then decided that they knew what house it was by looking at the pictures of the front of it in the ad so they should just show up. Fine, I’m home anyway, may as well show it. I show them the living room upstairs and they start asking “is this our room?”. No dammit, shut up and listen to me! They took issue with there only being one kitchen, having to share a bathroom, there being pets there, and there being a woman living in the house. Then, when I showed them the room they kept saying that “their” room seemed small, and then were trying to decide where the bunk beds would go. They wants 4 freaking people PLUS a fridge, microwave, hot plates, crockpots, and the downstairs bathroom to themselves.

Ya, they’re not moving in. Pretty sure the landlord has lost all hope for humanity after some of the responses to the ad he’s gotten. People try to negotiate the price, or want to move themselves and 3 kids into a small bedroom, or want 6 people in one room. Read the damn ad! And read the info the landlord gives you!

Then there’s the things that should just be common sense when people move in, which they would know if they read my damn blog. Seriously, I’m a treasure trove of crap advice that fucking works. Somehow, after a week of having new roommates, we as a household have forgotten how garbages and recycling work. After working a 13 hour day on Monday, I had the pleasure of pulling bags of rotting food out of the recycling bin so I could sort out the massive pile junk that hadn’t been sorted one bit when it was haphazardly thrown off the back porch and into whatever receptacle was closest. There have been dishes left in the dish rack for days at a time, or left in the sink for days. Counters are sticky, floors are dirty, and I’m apparently the only one who can master the fine art of wielding a toilet brush.

There’s also the issue of people not knowing when to pipe the fuck down. Sunday I got a text message from the landlord that someone was moving in that day. Buddy hadn’t met the X or I at that point, and neither one of us was at home. The Kid let him in, told him I’d be home after 6pm, and left. So there I am on Sunday night, a bit after 6:30pm, sitting on the toilet when I hear the front door slam open and what sounds like Xena Warrior Princess’s battle cry. I come flying out of the bathroom because I never heard that door close and my kitties are in the house, only to be greeted by at least half a dozen strange men. Some douche nozzle in a camouflage cowboy hat comes walking over to me, yammering on about how his friends are all there to help him, and I have no clue who he is. I try to tell him to close the door so the cats don’t get out, and the douche just talks over me and tells me to calm my ass down!

Luckily the little floppy butt Sketch was freaked out and hid under my bed, and the ever protective Bowser Kitten was guarding him, because if those kitties had gotten out I would’ve dropped the Camouflage Cowboy right then and there! The funny thing is, I’m not the only one in this house whose first meeting with CC resulted in nothing but yelling at him to close the door before cats get out. When he came to see the house in the first place, he marched out onto the back porch while the X was out there and just kept talking while X while X was yelling at him to close the goddamn door. What a great first impression, eh? It’s like the guy has never listened to Panic! At The Disco before or something.

I can see all of this going very, very badly. I’ve already had to say some ridiculous things to my grown-ass adult roomates over the years, things that no one should really have to say to a grown-ass adult. I really don’t want to be cleaning food out of the bathtub drain, hunting down my dishes, wipe spilled food off the floor hours after it spilled, and have to teach people that leaving a pot of noodles on the stove for an hour on high usually results in a fire. I’m done, man. I’m tired, I’m stressed, and this is all totally draining. I’m stressed, the cats are stressed, and we’re still going to eventually get one more roommate to add to all this fun.

Maybe it’s time I start looking for my own place.

Too exhausted to title this one

I am more than a little exhausted today. After that 13 day stretch of work, I took one whole day off to help out at my parents’ Christmas in July (but in August) party that was also somehow a 30th birthday party for my brother. Then I had to drag my tired ass in to work at the booze job yesterday just to hear “I can’t believe they make you work on a holiday” a hundred times. I passed out on the couch after giving my fuzzy babies tuna (and some whitefish from my parents), and was curled up in bed with Bowser watching over me by 9pm.

And here I am again, sitting at a desk at the book job. I was passed over for a permanent position here and am still doing the supply thing, so I got called in last minute for a full day shift. If I wasn’t on-call this week with only one pre-scheduled shift, I totally would’ve turned this shift down.

I am just drained. And as much as I love my family, and as much as I love their obsession with Christmas and feeding people, spending my one day off helping with that party just did not help me relax myself at all.

As you all know, I have a lot going on right now. Living with X is really draining me mentally, and it’s to the point that it’s starting to take a physical toll. Saturday night, he started in on his whole “the reason we broke up is because you never ever bothered to make time for us” spiel that he likes to throw at me every week or two. Basically, I had to start working Sundays when out collective agreement was renegotiated at the booze job. I did take time off when he needed me to, for things like weddings and his birthday. But I chose to be at work on my birthday, because that’s where I wanted to be.

I have a long list of things that I’ve wanted to do, and I’ve made brief mention of them in the past. But according to X, I’ve never ever wanted to do any of these things, and have certainly never mentioned them. I’m a horrible person, a complete bitch, for taking a day to go help my family with their party, or to want to take an hour after work to have coffee with a friend, and the entire reason for our relationship falling apart is because of this.

I’m trying to come to terms with what he’s saying to me is doing to my mind. I actually went into my parents’ party feeling guilty for being there. Never mind all the times I did take off, or all the time I spent trying to spend time with him. I let him get into my head like a cockroach and noodle around in there, rearranging things so I just couldn’t find anything happy inside.

Maybe that is why everything seemed to get to me so much. Of course, everyone asks for updates on life when we only see each other twice a year, but my updates were the only ones that people laughed out loud at. My living situation, my stories from work, the condition of my car even were enough to make people laugh. Normally people telling me I should write a book about my life makes me laugh, and sometimes even makes me want to write more. But with the frame of mind I was in already, it just grated on my nerves. By the time people began to trickle out of the yard, internally I was a mess.

Why do we let people get into our heads so much? I know X’s argument inside and out by this point. We’ve argued about it a hundred times over. “We used to have Sundays together. I know it’s not your fault that you have to work them now, but……..”; “You didn’t even take time off for your birthday like I wanted you to……”; “Well of course I took a few hours to myself after work to myself. That’s my me time. You just need to work around that if you want to spend time together”. And we’ve been over the replies to these a thousand times. “………I can take the odd Sunday off for us, but not every week. If I have to constantly give up hours to make time for us, would you be willing to give up a Tuesday and we could both take the day off?”; “………….it was my birthday, I wanted to be at work with my friends, and I didn’t want to do anything to celebrate. I didn’t even want a gift. I just wanted to treat it like any other day.”; “…….. and you have your ‘me time’ every single day. Sometimes you’ll get home from work at 4pm and still haven’t taken a shower yet when I come home at 10:30pm because that was all your ‘me time’. If I have to constantly give up my time to make time for us, then it’s only fair that you give up some of your time for us, especially when I don’t have to work late and get home around the same time as you.”

You see, each argument had a counter-argument with some reasoning behind it. We’ve had that exact argument so many times that I have all of my responses to his basic arguments memorized. I don’t even have to think anymore. I may as well just have them on cue cards and pull out the appropriate one when he starts talking. But every time I counter, he comes up with something new. How dare I even think about making plans with other people, when I never made enough time for us; why do I suddenly want to do things and stuff, even though I’ve been making a list of things and stuff I’ve wanted to do all year.

How do you not let someone into your head? How do you stay strong? It always seems like no matter what we have ever argued about, somehow it has all come back to being my fault and I’m the cause of things.

A few coworkers keep bringing up the term “gaslighting” when I talk about this. I remember hearing the term back in school, but don’t know much about it. Maybe it’s time for a little re-education, see if learning a little more helps me regain a slight bit of sanity. For now, though, I’m sitting at the Kid’s Desk at my book job, trying my hardest not to let my anxiety completely overwhelm me.