Saturday, August 13, 2011, 10:37 PM
I'm on Facebook.
... on Google+.
... and I still have the same e-mail address!
I'm still alive.
Still breathing and learning and fighting.
Whenever I miss Unhinged, I come back to read. It's an unexpected blessing.
I'm smiling big and wide and all dorky-like.
I used to organize my dishwasher like the Dewey Decimal system. All the small and lightweight stuff went up top. Dinner plates on the bottom, equally spaced. The smaller plates went in front of these plates. It didn't look right if they were at the back. Silverware was equally disbursed into the pockets, no more than two spoons to a pocket, dang it.
Before anything went into the dishwasher, though, it was rinsed clean. Lots of people think think this is supposed to be the dishwasher's job, but no. The dishwasher's purpose is to disinfect.
When it comes to the office dishwasher, though, I think it's a case of being chased away by the smell left over from unrinsed dishes. It gets trapped inside, you know, and it's really gross. It makes you want to only crack the door open an inch, toss your dishes inside, and make a run for it. Alllll the way back to your chair, yeah.
That's not the office's dishwasher's dog, by the way. Ours is a Scottish Terrier. His beard is always dirty.
Who ya gonna call?
What's the point of having a blog if I can't bitch and rant?
You know what stinks?
Being made to feel as if you are the bad guy when you have to complain about something.
At 5:20 p.m., there are repairmen outside my front door in a hallway that has a CEMENT slab floor. A bunch of plumbing/cutting tools (lots of stuff I can't identify by name) are stretched all along the front hall and the back hall in front of my apartment. There's a bunch of extension cords, too.
Can you say accident waiting to happen?
The asbestos ceiling was recently removed from the hallways, so I can see exposed metal in the ceiling. Which is fine, that's not what bothers me. What gets me is that it sounds like the repairmen alternate between hammering the cement floor, whacking metal with metal, and yelling at each other.
It's loud. It's annoying.
I'm told they are off at 6:00.
But they're not.
At 7:30, the foreman tells me, "I'm having issues with my wife."
And they're staying (he says maybe until 8:00).
I try to explain to him problems with his wife have nothing to do with the plumbing work, and that I'm going to call security if they are still working past 8:00.
So I call for help, because I have a feeling nothing is going to go right.
I call the apartment complex's answering service. They ask for my contact information and say I'll get a call back.
I call 20 minutes later because I still haven't received a call from anyone. The answering service says they "just" relayed my contact information to whomever, and would I like them to put in another call?
Um, no. I'm hoping just once will do it. And okay. I'll continue waiting. I just want to make sure the repairmen don't plan on camping out all night. The floor's awfully hard out there.
The repairmen are still here at 8:00.
No one's called.
The answering service sounds like they're getting tired of my calls. That's funny, I'm getting tired of having to call.
The answering service has spoken with the building's maintenance department, who has spoken to the repairmen. "Ma'am," I'm told, "They need to repair the plumbing so you can have water tonight."
Which is the first time I'm hearing of this because as of 7:30, the foreman said they were staying because he wasn't getting along with his wife.
And then no one bothered to call me back, even after I was told twice that someone would call me back.
So I'm skeptical with a capital S. I feel like I'm getting the run around and this is when I really start getting upset.
I'm told no one will be around to give me a call back until 9:00. I'll have to wait for Security, and place another call then. Meanwhile, the repairmen are supposed to be done at 8:59.
Yes, 8:59. For some freakin' crazy reason, it stood out as odd in my mind.
"That's nine o'clock," I say.
"Eight fifty-nine," the girl with the answering service corrects me.
It's 9:23 and guess what?
They are still here.
The water is still not working.
I just spoke with the answering service again. I know they don't want to hear from me any more than I want to call them, but I'm going to see this through. I ask if they've been able to speak to anyone on security. They say yes, and that they gave the person on security my information at 9:06.
I haven't received a call, though.
What's up with that?
It's 10 now.
Still no call. Still no water.
Well, I guess it's a good thing the water pipes aren't LEAKING. Or, that there's nothing that really does require immediate attention.
I want a break on next month's rent. Wish me luck.
How Not to be a Blog Writer
First, make sure you have a mostly-neglected blog/journal/website. If there's a post older than six months on the first page, you're off to a promising start. Five or more broken links and you're a slacker-stah!
Make up creative excuses. Like how the only good ideas come when you're in the shower, or busy fighting off a one-eyed green alien from trying to stick that thermometer up your butt, or too drunk to type. Th vwls n yr kybrd r stck. Your office chair exploded, Keanu Reeves wants to share a cupcake with you, your concentration is shot to hell because the washing machine ate one of your favorite fuzzy blue socks.
Rack up quarter-finished posts. Don't delete them. Keep them all. Maybe they'll be enough to make up a whole post one day. (Oops, wait. That's being counterproductive if you're working on not blogging. But still...there's definitely merit in seeing those unpublished posts that's good at squashing the start of a new one.) START AND STOP, START AND STOP, LOSE YOUR TRAIN OF THOUGHT, OH JUST GIVE UP ALREADY.
Don't comment at other blogs. If you respond to someone's blog post, chances are good that they're going to expect to find a new something-something on your blog. It's like when you're hiding in the linen closet during Timmy's birthday party, but you eventually have to pee, and your aunt catches you on the way to the bathroom. And then you have to go and sing to the kid because it's just rude if you don't.
Embrace your inner slug. You lead a boring life. Laundry piles and doggy doo on the sidewalk give you headaches. Your grocery store doesn't carry chocolate Cheerios anymore. You Google why Pepto Bismal is pink because of that stupid Target commercial, wonder how long a snail's life is, if spirits of the dead watch you in the bathroom, and when you'll ever win the DAMN LOTTERY. Nothing to write about, see?
Talk to imaginary people. You can do this internally, anytime, any where. Those people will think you're an intelligent riot no matter how many thoughts you don't fin
Read The Hunger Games. Two more books come after that one. A movie, too. Immerse yourself in a new world so you can forget the stress of a non-updated blog.
Eat spaghetti instead. That stuff's good. No typing required. Not much thought, either, beyond deciding how much pasta to boil. One finger? Two?
That's it! Repeat steps above as needed.
Boo from Smogland
My cell phone alarm still goes off 90 seconds before my clock alarm. I had to do that because of the dang power outtage that fried my hide and made me late to work that one day... It's amazing how deeply and quickly I can fall back to sleep in that tiny space of time.
I still hoof it to work in the morning because I hate dragging my bones out of bed. I don't want to go to bed, and I don't want to get up. What's a girl to do?
(Win the lottery. Win the lottery. Have bed mounted on springs.)
Los Angeles is still heavily populated by the uber skinny in tights and platforms, or short skirts and flip flops. The guys still smell good. The girls still smell like they walk in a cloud of aroma. (I heard a guy audibly sniff me last week as I passed him on the sidewalk. I thought it was funny because that was the day I FORGOT to put on perfume, so he was probably surprised by my non-existent stink cloud.)
Summer finally hit us last week--the upper 80s, I mean. Before that, it was wonderfully 70-ish and still cool in the morning and evenings, which was odd. But good.
There are a lot of doggies in WeHo. The itty-bitty ones smile at me if they're not peeing. And they'll always try and make eye-contact. Ever notice that about a dog before? However, if they happen to be taking care of bidness, I smile because it's friggen funny seeing them all hunched over like that. Sometimes I wonder what a dog is thinking when pooping in the midst of busy life (there's always a car or a person passing by). The dogs look so vulnerable.
I know I should wonder about other things.
Coffee and chocolate still go together like ramma-lamma-lamma-kuh-dinky-duh-dang-duh-donk. Just in case you weren't sure about that...
Christmas in July
I've been reading back through old blog posts on my AOL Journal and laughing about how naively wacky I came across. I covered everything from the abdominal/abominal/whatzit snowman:
"So how do you spell the uh-bomb-uh-duh-ble snowman?" I asked my mom, Oogie.
To locating Styrofoam balls for my Lifesaver's Men:
What you need: Lifesavers. Ping-Pong size Styrofoam balls (you can find these at a sewing supplies store--I found mine at WalMart). Yarn. A crochet hook. Multi-colored push pins. Star-shaped foil confetti. Patience.
To the year I made Oogie work for her presents (designer couch pillows) in a scavenger hunt.
...I forget all the hiding places and clues I left with each pillow on where she could find the next one, but I remember where I hid the last pillow. My clue told her that she'd find the last one in the dirtiest place in the house. She gasped and jumped up, then ran to the oven and pulled the door open with a creak. Voila!Some of my very best memories are Christmas-related. Which makes me want to celebrate Christmas again right now. Who says it's just for December? Who says it's just for kids?
Zombie dance: not just for Thriller anymore
What's not to like? (Plus, I think MJ would've gotten a kick out of this.) Check out the awesome:
Sadly, I can't move like this. Never could, although I had lots of fun trying. I ended up feeling sore, but enthusiastic and like I was on top of the frigging world. There's just something about making a fool out of myself next to 3,999 other people.
Meanwhile, I am exhausted as per usual lately. I have one of two theories:
My closest coworker left for a new job last week. It's almost like losing a family member and I don't think my head and heart have recovered yet. The other coworker is on vacation. How dare he?
Plus, there's the suspicion I was a night owl in a former life.
Whichever it is, I know tomorrow will be better, especially if I go to bed now.