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I sometimes want to make fun of people who don't know the basics of cooking. Two people I know in particular, both of whom are 45 years old. One, Jesse's ex-roommate, who only recently learned how to brown meat. Another, a mutual friend of Jesse's and I's, who only recently learned a bowl of cereal can, indeed, be used as a full meal anytime during the day.

Both of these men are learning how to cook in exactly the same way I did: by finding themselves living alone for the first time in their lives.

This is the situation I found myself in at the age of 32 when I broke up with David. I had no idea how to do anything BUT brown meat and have cereal for dinner. I lived off cereal and pizza for the first entire three months after the breakup. I did eventually come to the conclusion that a grown woman should be able to make a meal that involves more than two ingredients.

But even now, at 35, I'm only a cook un novice. I can work magic with tortilla dishes, make a wicked cheeseburger pie, and know how to get creative with tuna. Anything else? I leave it untouched, terrified and annoyed that I'll likely burn it, undercook it, not realize its gone bad, ruin dishes with terrible combinations of spices, etc etc.

Still, the gaps in learning are sometimes dumbfounding. Jesse's ex-roommate, ever the annoying weasley man, once exclaimed "I had no idea cooking could save money! I'm only spending $140 a week on fast food now!"

Dude, if you're spending 140 dollars a week on fast food - and that is a REDUCTION of money you've been spending on fast food - you're doing something wrong. This is the same guy who has said to Jesse more than once and deadpan, (after 20 YEARS of them living together) that I'm going to die and he will not be able to help Jesse at all.

The man pays no bills but his own, has absolutely NO debt, pays the same rent and utilities that we do, has a functional vehicle that he's not pouring money into, makes over 30 thousand a year, and has an empty living room that could easily fit a single air mattress for a friend to sleep in for a while. (At least if the man bothered to take out his trash once in a while, which he does not.)

And somehow he can't "help" his "best friend" of 20 fucking years, refusing Jesse even a place to stay for a week should something horrible happen to me. All this WHILE ALSO feeling constantly compelled to tell Jesse that I will die soon and that Jesse will be alone.

Seriously, what a dick. There are just not enough dicks in the world to describe how dickish this man is.

David also had a moment that utterly befuddled me. The man had been cooking for MONTHS at the time, making steaks and burgers and chili and whatnot. He did not know how to cook before dating me but discovered he liked to cook and dove into the art enthusiastically. One dinner, however, he asked me how to boil water.

I was like, uhhhhh whaaat? Even I had mastered the art of boiling water by my 30's. I still don't get how he had gotten to be a good cook without knowing how to boil water. I'm also still grateful that he cooked for me, faithfully and daily, every day for the entire 5 years we were together.

Still a dick, but less of a dick. Concerning cooking and pep talks, at least. David never said anything like what Jesse's "friend" said and NEVER would say something like that to anyone, abusive and dickish as he was.

In the end, mocking them would be mocking MYSELF. (Except for Jesse's ex-roommate. He's a jerk and I'll mock him long and loud.) And while I try to stick to the saying of "If you're not laughing at yourself, you're missing out on the biggest joke in the world", there's only so much self-deprecation I'm willing to dance in.

The other friend is less afraid of learning how to cook, I think, and simply more afraid of living alone. That I can understand, having felt that terror for years, even while in a relationship where no amount of food could make up for the abuse dished out. Jesse and I, having both lived (and am currently living) well below the poverty line many, many times in our lives, give him resources, tips, and offers to accompany me to various food pantries.

Though he, too, is befuddled on how to live of the $800 a month AFTER all his bills are paid, which befuddles me, because jesus, if you have 800 left a month left over AFTER aaaalll your obligations are taken care of (bills, medication, rent, utilities, debts, taking care of others, etc)....I guess that just shows how poor I've been in my life.

He is much, much kinder to Jesse than his ex-roommate, however, and that goes a great way in our patience with him. Jesse will cook and offer dinner to this friend and our friend is happy to give away any extra food he has to us. I think the poor, or those who have had loved ones in poverty, understand the power of sharing more than anyone else.

(Not to say that poverty makes one noble. It doesn't. It makes us bitter and hungry. But there is the occasional gratitude - both given and taken - to be learned in poverty.)

I'd planned on writing something funnier, but at least this post isn't all lupus bitching and whining. So, here's to cereal for dinner, Hamburger Helper with well-browned hamburger, and tortillas.
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This is one of my favorite things about living alone:

Yes indeedie folks, I like my house to smell like one great big Bath and Body Works store. Or a Yankee Candles store. Or the laundry detergent aisle in a grocery store.

Luckily for visitors (who are generally non-smokers and haven't destroyed their sense of smell), I often don't have the resources to do much more than sprinkle some carpet deodorizer and vacuum it back up. I've run into a startling number of people who say they prefer the smell of cigarette smoke to perfumed scents.

I dislike inflicting the smell of cigarettes on other people, so when I can, I try to make sure my house is as aired out as possible. This is another reason why I'm so hell-bent on controlling who and when a person is allowed to cross my threshold.

The cats rarely smell at all, outside of the lightly deodorized scent of loose cat litter. I keep on up that shit. (Like, literally). It baffles but pleases me when people are surprised that I have four cats, since they say they can hardly smell them. It's amazing what daily scooping and weekly scrubbing of the litterboxes will do for ammonia-free house.

So in terms of ranked smells, the only one I have to contend with is the cigarette smell. Along with my small army of scented household soldiers, I try to leave my window open as much as I can during the amenable year. That helps a great deal.

What brings this to my mind today is a comment that Radium left last night, which is that I can be sure he won't show up on my doorstep. That made me giggle, because outside of bafflement and a worry of anyone finding my particular address, I think what I'd immediately be worried about is how my apartment smells.

Well, that and a desperate wish that I'd been wearing makeup. I'm just vain that way.
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All summer, there had been wasps crawling in and out of the exterior piece of my AC. It is a window unit (shoved into cut out hole in the wall). I knew they were building a nest there but didn't want to fuck with it till the weather got colder and they would be sluggish.

So today, being chill outside, I went outside to pull off the grate and clear them out. The screws were painted in and pretty much required destroying to remove. Okay, no big deal, I've got five million screws laying around anyways. Well, turns out the grate itself was also painted into the unit, so I had to struggle with that.

Three things happened at once.

1) The metal grate came snapping off, bending wildly and digging into my shin.

2) The wasps, of which there were only a handful but were less than happy, came zipping out towards my metal encrusted shin.

3) I shrieked, shifted, and knocked off my glasses into the AC unit, which was momentarily the LAST place I wanted to stick my hand into.

I grabbed the room spray I'd brought out (on a hunch that something like this would happen as I have no bug spray), sprayed the shit out of the would be injectors of pain, and ran back inside.

A few minutes later I come back, sweep the twitching wasps off my balcony, shine a light into the AC, and remove what's left of the nest. I then go to get my glasses, which are now snapped past any hope of duct-tape repair.

So my AC is now cleared of wasps but I am unable to refit the grate back onto it. I'll get some proper screws and bend the metal back tomorrow. I am using my glasses with one armpiece, which means more loan money that was supposed to go towards rent will go towards new glasses. My shin is still sore but I will survive.

And Cassie called in the middle of this, too. She is not well and is thinking of signing over her rights to the children, which is good as she's been on a drug and alcohol bender and will not pass any UA's. It's a more contemplative, quiet tone than I've heard from her in a long time. This says good things, even as I'm sure it's fueled by exhaustion and self hate than anything else.

I'm still not betting money on real change, or even mild change. Still, it was interesting to hear. Maybe something will sink in eventually. Maybe not.

Either way, I'm not dropping out of the race, whatever that may look like in the final end.

Oh, and for the whole "call maintenance" thing, it took them three days to respond to my AC CATCHING FIRE. Surely this is something I can handle on my own.
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There is something that begs to be written, though what it is, I do not know.

There is something about this apartment. A studio. 500 sq ft space. A place where the bed becomes the focal point of the entire apartment, for it is what you survey the entirety of your home from. The couch, five feet away from bed. The kitchen, less than seven feet from my bed. The bathroom, less than ten feet from my bed. I am lucky - this particular model of the apartments studios does have a small wall and counter separating the living space from the kitchen. And there is a door to the bathroom.

I've rented worse. A half sized trailer, no bigger than a camper, which did not have a bathroom door. The air conditioner never worked. When the Arizona summer hit, 100 degrees and over, I would buy bags of ice to dump into the fan trays. It mostly just made things damp.

Later, in Oregon, another studio, half this size, that also did not have a bathroom door. It was only a few blocks from the beach, but in the decrepit part of town. Never having been near the ocean, I was unable to sleep, irrationally worried the surf would crash over the boardwalk and swallow me whole.

So at 500 square feet and with a bathroom door, this really does feel like I'm living the grand life. I'm not at all embarrassed of the small size, nor do my friends look down on me for it.

There are flowers above my head when I sleep. There are soft lights in the bathroom. There are places I can set candles without fearing an accidental tip will set the entire county aflame.

But what is really different about this place is the fact that I live here. Those other places....I had no one else in bed with me, but it didn't matter, as I rarely was home to begin with.

It was terrifying to be in such small spaces alone. Terrifying to be in such spaces alone, period. It simply would not do.

I am alone now. And I spend the time here, gratefully. Days upon days alone. I've never been grateful, so happy for the space to be alone. To be with myself.

And to have a bathroom door. That part is pretty nifty.


Jul. 19th, 2014 05:24 pm
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I made enchiladas and they don't suck. This is pretty awesome. As usual, they aren't spiced quite right. I didn't have enchilada sauce, so I used some tomato sauce and spiced that.

But texture, cooked wise, everything else wise, it turned out pretty good. I can't wait to fine tune this and make it for Amanda and her husband!

It's weird - I'm getting decent enough at cooking as to where I normally have several day's worth of leftovers in my fridge. Sometimes too much. Some things you can freeze, I guess.

It's just.....seven months ago, if someone had told me that I'd be cooking....on a regular basis....whole ingredients.....enough to have stuff to FREEZE....

Before, I could make a boxed Hamburger Helper meal. And maybe hamburgers and spaghetti, maybe.

But...real meals? The kind of meals I depended on others for all of my life, because that was a form of love I felt safe receiving...???

I'm doing that now. I'm doing that for me.

This is love I'm giving myself. Love and lots and lots of cheese.

I go through a lot of cheese.
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I get done with school and think that I don't want to go home yet. I want to do something fun, but I want something fun I can do for myself. I decide to stop in at a little cafe that I've always wanted to try, only to discover that it's been closed down.

Well, fuck. Okay, well, I need to pick up some dried peas for split pea soup later this week. Alright. I'll go to the grocery store. By myself. In the middle of the crowded day. That's brave, right? Right. Just to quell the anxiety, I put in my headphones.

And when I'm in the store it occurs to me that I have the money to buy whatever the hell I want. So I begin to ponder what the hell I want. And I decide I want tuna. Tuna steaks. Parmesan encrusted tuna steaks.

I pull up a recipe, buy the ingredients, and flee.

I've never tried anything like this. The recipe says it's easy, but this is something that costs 20 dollars at a restaurant! It can't be easy! Nervously I begin tossing the tuna steaks with oil and parmesan and put it in the pan and...

Holy shit, it really is easy. Like, seriously. This is easier than cooking hamburgers.

It came out well, but a little too salty. I'd used olive oil to make the salt/pepper/parmesan stick. Does anyone have any cooking tips to make it less salty, or did I just use too much salt????

(I am paying attention to what you guys say. I don't know if that's coming across in the words, but I really am.)
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1 AM. I cannot sleep. I realize it's in part because I'm hungry. All I have are sodium laden foods. I text Pat and ask him if he'd be willing to buy me some food. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Bread. I want a tomato sandwich. Something fresh. He obliges and away we go to the grocery store.

One of the clerks recognizes him and says "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan." (Pat goes to this grocery store a lot.) Pat and I exchange knowing smiles and don't bother to correct him. This actually happens often - in places where we used to shop when married, his or my card will still ring up as Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. It'd be more a hassle than not to correct people, and besides, we both think it's kind of funny.

I come home and wolf down a sandwich. Go to have a cigarette. Realize the same pack of children who woke me up at 4 AM last week are hanging out in the stairwell. Not doing anything, mind you, just hanging out. Loudly. As if a stairwell is the cool place to be on a Saturday night.

I briefly consider telling them that homeless guys have been known to piss in that particular stairwell. Decide against that and rise to ask if they need let in. (If they are in someone else's apartment, they won't be loud near my stairwell.) Before I can get to my feet, someone lets them in.

I sit down, sighing with happy, quiet relief.

And then a car alarm starts going off. It's 2 AM. It'll probably go all night.

I swear, the Universe is getting revenge on me for all the booze-soaked, drug-infested, scream and laugh all-night parties I held when I had my first apartment.
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That next door neighbor I posted about the other day? Who had to call the police on her boyfriend? She's moving out.

Well, not so much moving out as fleeing. Everything is being tossed into a van. She's been dashing in and out of the apartments for hours, as if she's working against borrowed time, time before someone else might show up. As if her safety - her very life - depends on getting the hell of Dodge as fast as she possibly can.

I know that dance.

I hope the next place is safer for her.
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So as I stepped out into my hall this afternoon, I discovered a couple of cops prowling the apartment hallway. They were talking into their radios, describing a man who was apparently on the loose somewhere on the premises whom they wished to catch.

This is not an uncommon sight in these parts.

The pest control guy standing across from me in the hallway looked alarmed. I shrugged, smiled, and said "Just another day at The Falls." He laughed. I proceeded down the hallway.

Stepping outside the door, I saw my next door neighbor with her nephew getting out of a car. She looked stressed and called out to me, asking if I could let her in. I told her of course and let her know there were cops about.

"I know," she said apologetically. "They're looking for my boyfriend."

I suddenly felt bad about being so flip. I offered my condolences and told her to stay safe.

There were lots of cops when Pat drove me out of the parking lot. I wondered if my neighbor was okay. I like her. She's about my age. Quiet neighbor. Lives alone. Babysits her niece and nephew sometimes. They're young. Toddlers. Sometimes they come up to the slats in my balcony and talk to my cats (whom I let wander the fenced in patio while I'm out smoking.) Cute kids.

I guess I've got an extra reason to keep an eye out on who wanders up to her door now.

Something else: Dr. Cannon was unusually present today. He actually....listened. This may be in part because I was not entirely coherent. Or I was, but I was speaking in starts, in stilted mannerisms. He noted how much I was wringing my hands and gesturing. We actually TALKED for a few moments.

That was nice. Maybe he's not such a bad doctor after all.
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Ha ha, yeah not getting any work done today. The second dose of Norco is actually making me a tad light headed and high. I guess this is actually a good thing. It means the pain is lessening and that the medication is no longer a "I simply don't feel like taking a hammer to my jaw" thing.

Our quiet cat is dashing around the house meowing. Like, not frantically. She appears to be in no distress. It's just odd. She barely makes a peep. I will keep an eye on her.

Wait - not "our." My. My quiet cat. Well, technically I guess "our" as in David's cat and I am keeping her until he gets his own place, but still...."my", not "our."

That is still taking some getting used to. The vocabulary switch. My house. My bed. The pronouns of the singular. (The pronouns OF the single. Single people, that is.)

I am no longer an "our." I am a "my."

That's pretty neat.

I should totally try and sleep. I'm gonna be whacky today. Fair warning, ya'll. Thanks for putting up with all this!


Apr. 25th, 2014 07:21 am
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A dream where I was in fourth grade, but attending as an adult - everyone there were grown ups. I wasn't "cool" enough for the rest of the class to let me eat with them, so I ate my tuna fish sandwich alone in the class room with the teacher.

I did that a lot as a child. Ate in secluded places, often where there was an adult present. No one would mess with me then. I craved quiet places after the noise of the lunchroom and the general busy-ness of class activities.

Even in High School (where I was most definitively the loudest I ever would be - and I was LOUD. Big loud attention whore teenager!) I'd seek out isolated places to eat. And often, when I cut school, it was do nothing more than find some quiet space in a park somewhere where I could just write in peace.

I occurs to me that THIS - this time right here - in the last two months since breaking up with David at 32 years of age - is the quietest my life has ever been.

I like it. It sort of feels like I've been wanting this my entire life. I guess, in a way, I have.

I should write my paper for school this month. It's only got to be 3 pages (double spaced). My brain is such a spaz on all these pain meds, though. I guess I can knock out a couple of paragraphs at the very least.

Maybe I can not sleep so much today. Pain and pain meds have kept me on my ass for most of this week.

Onto the day, whatever that may entail.
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There are plenty of things I want to write about this morning, but the near week I've been on narcotics is taking its toll. My brain is fuzzing out. The good news is I've been taking less and less over the last couple of days. I'm starting to get a kind of cabin fever. Not so much as in I want to LEAVE the house, but that I'd like the ability to do more things within the house.

Light cleaning is about all I can do before I am completely taxed. And even that is somewhat difficult, as I am constantly veering between "unable to keep my eyes open" and "unable to fall asleep." I'm getting tired of being so tired (ha ha, funny play on words). I love naps and I love sleeping, but it's beginning to feel like wasted time. Not much to do about it, though.

Thank you, body full o' drugs.

The longer I live alone the more I am coming to enjoy it. There are no human irritants around, no one doing things that set me on edge, make sleeping difficult, or make me feel crowded. Everything I do in here is on MY schedule. And even wishing I had someone around to do the housework and fetch things for me isn't so bad. Having the space makes it easier to do things by myself.

I always used to sort of pity sick people who lived alone. And maybe if I had the flu, I'd feel differently. But right now - at least for THIS malady - I feel I'm actually BETTER OFF alone.

A part of me is wondering why I didn't try this sooner. Well, I know why, but still. Living alone is not anywhere near as scary or difficult as I thought it would be. Being single is not anywhere near as scary or difficult as I thought it would be.

In the end, I come to that cliche question, where I turn around and look back and ask myself "What was I so afraid of?"

Turns out there is very little to fear. All of my fears of not being grounded, of not being able to feed myself, of being driven insane by loneliness and quiet, were unfounded.

I hope I have the energy later to do more writing. I want to talk about Cassie, about David, and about a really interesting LJ secret this week about bisexuality.

Here's hopin.
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Beeecause I'm not quite high anymore but not quite sleepy but not in pain (again. yet.) I wanted to jot down some of the impressions of the Great Tooth Excavation of 2014.

I had all four of my wisdom teeth yanked out at the same time when I was 24. The difference there was 1) I was COMPLETELY under anesthesia and 2) at a professional dentistry office. I don't remember there being a whole lot of pain during or after, but there was swelling and discomfort. Didn't get dry sockets or anything, despite smoking after the first day. So yay on that.

I was also staying with Pat's parents at the time, too, since Pat had to work during the day and I wanted someone to keep an eye on me. I definitely don't have that this time around. (Well, I have the cats, but they suck at getting me stuff from the fridge.)

I went alone this time - something I've never done before. I never walk into any doctor's (or doctor-ish's) offices by myself. I don't have medical phobias, but paperwork gives me panic attacks and I just don't feel capable or grown up or....or whatever it is that an adult IS when they go take care of themselves in a medical manner.

But I didn't have anyone to go with me. So I went on my own. I'm really proud of this.

I pretty much knew walking into the clinic this morning I wouldn't be able to get general anesthesia. (That's my preferred state when someone is removing body parts. DEAD TO THE WORLD, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.) But no insurance AND going into a walk in clinic? I'd better be prepared to just close my eyes and think happy thoughts.

So I took a Norco on my way in, both for that and fearing I'd be sitting there for hours waiting to be seen and the pain might kick back in.

I was actually seen pretty quickly, all in all. Walked in at 8:30, left at about noon. The Xray guy was really nice. And pretty cute, too. We chit-chatted about student debt and the things that various teachers and faculty do that piss us off.

(I went to UMKC's School Of Dentistry. For the price of getting an amateur, you can be sure it won't break the bank. And hope it won't break your teeth, either.)

Nah, really these kids seem to have their stuff together. They're not amateurs. Just not really experienced, which is a little scary.

The tooth was split, infected, and swollen at the roots. Just about ready to abscess. And, like, curved at the end, with a freaking knot/bulb of whatever-something-gross-at the end. Most tooth roots are sort of curved, but this was like a fucking U shape with a horrible 3-D dot on the end. The Xray guy said it was infection that had deformed it. Yikes.

So I had a choice. Have them perform a root canal and put a crown on it for 900 dollars, or have them yank it for 100. Yeeeah, that wasn't a tough choice. So upstairs to the modern torture room I went.

The two guys who did the tooth pulling were nice, too. That was one thing I REALLY appreciated - all of the people I interacted with were calming and cheerful. That helped me not be so scared.

So they swish on the Industrial Strength Oragel for a few minutes on my gums and then stick the GIANT FUCKING NEEDLE THAT WILL PREVENT ME FROM FEELING OTHER GIANT FUCKING NEEDLES into my gums.

That suuuucked. Pinchy pain, like four times until they had enough in. There are just some parts of the body that were never designed to have needles in them. Your mouth is one of them.

It took four times because they did the "press-test" (where they press sharp things against you to test how numb you are) after the first time and it still hurt. So it took three more pokes before I couldn't feel any other pokes.

I closed my eyes for that part. Needles usually give me a woody. Needles near my mouth? Less woody and more pants-shitting-terror.

Then comes the really creepy part. They'd told me I would feel lots of pressure and yanking, but no pain. And they were mostly right - I felt very little ACTUAL pain.

But my brain sure made up some painful stories to go along with the painful sounds I was hearing, and as a result, there were a few times when I cried out. Not because it actually physically hurt, but because my brain was TELLING ME IT SHOULD HURT.

The pressure was not nominal, though. It was actually pretty damn uncomfortable. Part of the problem was that the tooth was not coming out in one piece, nor easily.

At one point, one of the dentists held my head firm while the other guy braced his knees on the chair and yanked. And yanked. And kept yanking. I could feel his hands and arms straining.

Shit, I could feel ME straining. My eyes were still closed and I ran away inside to my Happy Place. (It's a beach. It's a beautiful warm, sunny beach at midday and there is a single seagull cawing overhead and I have a delicious non-alcoholic Shirley Temple in my hand and I am wearing a fabulous wicker sunhat and wedged black sandals.)

Looking back, I think THAT - the straining and extra tugging and yanking - is probably what is causing the majority of my pain now. That's got to fuck up the rest of your mouth. It's definitely what's causing the majority of the swelling, I'm sure.

Eventually - about five to seven minutes later - the last splinter gave way with a great, disgusting, wet sucking sound. I swear, I heard both of them sigh in relief. I would have sighed with them, but I was drooling, numb, and wondering if I had any teeth - or a jawbone - left at all.

We all smile and laugh (or they smile and laugh and I nod and drool), I'm given a prescription and a "don't smoke or use straws for 24 hours" speech and I'm sent off. I meander down to my truck, tongue clumsily lolling over the gauze, wondering just how to get a cigarette and food in before I take the next pain pill.

(Smoked the cigarette while firmly gripping the gauze in my teeth to prevent air suction in that area. Ate with David when we went out because I didn't want to drive to get my meds.)

I'm feeling somewhat alright at the moment. Freakishly nauseous - oh thank you, medication - but not in pain. Not freaked out.

And that's thanks to you guys. Reading you guy's experiences and advice and all that - it's been taking the edge off the fear. I was WAY MORE scared when I GOT HOME than when I'd LEFT to the clinic this morning. I was really, REALLY FUCKING SCARED when I got home and you guys helped me not be so scared. THANK YOU!!!

I'm off school tomorrow, too. I should try to sleep. I need to make sure I don't throw up. That'd ruin the clot AND taste disgusting to boot.

A rant

Apr. 17th, 2014 04:55 pm
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Took another hydro. The bottle says every four hours, but I waited eight because uggghhhh to this feeling. It will be several hours before I can drive. But pats couch is comfy and that works. We are also having dinner with pats parents and his grandma. Love!

An awesome thing happened: I got my loan in. The small one, but enough to pay down all of my bills for three months out. I also paid off a ticket that apparently had a warrant out for my arrest. It was for a speeding ticket back in 2009, one that when I was issued it, I'd tried to pay it off and was told by the county clerk that the officer had not submitted. I called again a year later to check, and the ticket was still not there.

Not so, as it turns out. For some reason, it takes agencies years - and in the case of Sierra Vista, decades - to track me down. I've had steady and legally recorded addresses for well over a decade now, so I'm not sure what's up with that. Magic? Luck? A legal invisibility spell?

Eileen, check your text messages. Sent you a text.

I got a ton of shit squared away, well enough to last until I get my next loan. I feel pleased, productive, and proud.

And angry. Or maybe the word is more annoyed. See, THIS feeling is what David missed out on. This feeling of pride and satisfaction of knowing you are taking care of yourself. This absolutely wonderful feeling of knowing You Are A Grown Up because you are doing The Grown Up Things. Sustaining your sustainability.

It's wonderful. I fucking love this feeling.

And he missed it. No, he didn't "miss" it, he fucking refused it. And now, two and a half months later, now having spent down just about everything I got in that loan the DAY I got it, all on bills....his excuses for misspending the thousands upon thousands of dollars and the lying about it seem so....so....

So bullshit. Because they were bullshit. Utter, total, complete BULLSHIT.

He'd say "I wanted to treat you to nice things. I just wanted to spend money on you." No, motherfucker, we ate out at Applebee's a lot while you spent the rest down on Magic cards and minis that you never painted. (And then carpeted my apartment with)

I'm wondering if clutter...squalor...hoarding....if that can be a form of forcing unhealthy control in a relationship? Like, in an attempt to make me feel as off and crazy as possible, since I told him so many times how it affected me, he did it anyways because it was another way for him to throw a tantrum? Kind of like how kids will refuse to clean their room because they think it will show the parents a lesson. And he knew, he KNEW because I told him, directly, over and over again, how badly it affected my mental state.

I don't know, though. He's got serious hoarding problems and so that might not at all have had anything to do with his feelings towards me. Either way, though, it's not something that was healthy. Ugh. I need to do some sound boarding off Issendai's hoarding tags. Cuz the further away I get from the relationship and the squalor, the more important that area of the relationship seems.

Seriously, I need my laptop. I think so much better when I have an actual keyboard in front of me.

Anyways, his total bullshit of spending down thousands and thousands of dollars that was supposed to go towards rent, putting us at risk of eviction god knows how many times, sending me to scramble and beg from past lovers and friends and even the few remaining family I have wasn't him trying to ”buy me nice things."

It was him being fucking selfish, short sighted, manipulative, stupid, childish, and just...ARGH. Angry about all that. For him to put me at risk like that, all because he wants to stay a fucking man child and buy his stupid toys and then to say "I did it because I wanted to show you how much I loved you?"

What the fuck was that shit?! I mean what in the actual goddamn fuck?

I didn't mean this to turn into an angry anti David rant. I guess some days are going to be like that, huh? It just felt so fucking good to be able to pay down my bills, to give myself some room, a cushion, to do the responsible thing and NOT have anything - or ANYONE - waiting to fuck that up.

Rant rant ranty me that is ranty. I'll get to responding tonight, I see you guys have good things going on I your journals, too!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I realized yesterday how people wind up being crazy cat ladies. How you wind up being that old spinster who has 27 cats and not near enough litterboxes.

The last couple of days I've wanted another cat. Badly. Something else to care for, to love, to hold. And I realized why.

It's because I miss David. Not only miss him, but that I am grieving. Dealing with loss. It's natural to want something to fill that void.

I think most people want babies when they run into this feeling. I want more cats.

You just wind up training yourself that loss = getting another cat.

I did not get another cat. Three cats in a studio apartment is more than enough. But I did want one.

Today did not turn out so bad. I watched Buffy kill Angel and cried my eyes out. I fell asleep for several hours. I woke up and ate. Brushed the kitties. Watched more Buffy.

I can feel things and still be okay. This isn't the first time I've had to deal with stuff like this. Not by a long shot.

I'll be okay.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
(Note: Please disregard this if you are living at home due to physical or mental illness, caring for a parent, or extreme destitution. For some reason, people never seem to think that those are exceptions, even when I state them as such and that I think THOSE THINGS ARE OKAY and thus people get all huffy, etc etc etc.)

However, if you have NEVER lived outside of your parents house, and none of the above extenuating circumstances have been steadily true since you turned 18, then this rant includes you.

So last night I was googling the phenomenon of adults whom, without any extenuating circumstances, choose to live at home with their parents. Surprisingly-but-not-surprisingly, it's far more common with men, who make up well over half of the 18-35 year olds who never leave the nest. Most of these people do eventually assume some level of financial payment to their parents, but of course, far less than what they would be paying on their own.

It was interesting to read - and considering how strongly I feel on the subject, really enjoyable to read the more scathing articles.

A lot of those people who chose to stay home gave terrible excuses.In which I disdain those excuses. Alot. )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
1) I am baking a pork chop.

2) I have no idea how to do this, despite copious amounts of Googling, so threw the pork chop, a can of cream of mushroom, some chopped up potatoes and onions, and frozen broccoli into a glass dish.

3) Slapped the pork chop in there.

4) Put the oven at 350, one site said let it cook for 30 minutes and then turn it over and let it cook for another 30 minutes.

5) The addition of broccoli, onion, and potato nearly filled the dish. This may extend cooking time, I don't know.

6) Also, I will then have a SHIT TON of potato, onion, and broccoli laden sauce that I have no idea what to do with.

7) What else can I use that on? I have mashed potatoes I think I can use it on, and maybe a steak? I don't think I have steak.

8) COOKING IS FREAKY! How in the hell did I get to be almost 33 years old with no idea how to bake a pork chop?

9) * Through a careful, though not entirely deliberate, process of picking partners who were willing to let me use them for their cooking skills, that's how.

10) Being a grown-up is really, really weird.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Still sick.

Still not sleeping well.

Down to my last half a pack of cigarettes and no money.

And it's snowing outside.


The snow is supposed to abate with less than an inch totalled by the end of the day. So there's that, at least.

I will see if I can't get Pat to swing by for smokes and some company, though I don't want him to get sick, either. I was planning on having my cleaning money for smokes this weekend, but then came the Plague.

Which has returned its muscle soreness upon me today.


I just feel like having a picnic on my floor and playing a board game with someone and then eating maybe a pot roast sandwich and playing with kitties and then sleeping.

And smoking. God, the almost out of smokes thing is a really big anxiety thing. Ya'll know what I'm talking about.

EDIT: I checked my bank account. I have 2.96 in checking and 3.72 cents in savings. So I moved 3.00 into checking AND NOW I CAN HAS A PACK OF CIGARETTES. THINGS ARE GOING TO BE OKAY!!!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
What's left for the bed area: Fake vines and flowers along the trellises, as they still look a little slapdash. And put some painted mirrors about the edges. Also going to paint the trellis's with accent colors, maybe the headboard, too. (DUDE. THAT HEADBOARD AT 10 DOLLARS AT A THRIFT STORE. FUCK YEAH!)

(Oh, Cemetery_Consort, I got your comment about the lights - but I found a TON at all the thrift stores I went to. Thank you, though!)

Behold the awesomeness of Christmas lights )

(Yeah, that's my stuffed animals. That stuffed rabbit? Had that since I was 14. That thing has been through every foster home, every psych ward, every homeless shelter. I sleep with that rabbit every night tucked in my arms. Even when I have someone in the bed with me. That thing is a part of me.)

Also: Skull shrine. Not kidding. Directly below my hyyuge ass Crow poster (to be framed shortly), along with the original comic on the shrine. My favorite piece is the snow globe to the upper left - it's two skeletons in ragged wedding wear dancing. Eternal love.

Behold the awesomeness of my gothic concession )

(Though today bought the most adorable SCORPION snow globe, with sand at the bottom as opposed to water and snow. God I love thrift stores!)

Also getting the rest of the walls sorted with fun mirrors, frames, and random wall scones, candles, and whatnot. Even found a neat dark bronze key, like a foot tall, I was able to put up.

GIRLY, BOHEMIAN SHIT IS ME. FUCK YEAH! Bathroom will be done in a similar fashion, lights and all.

Oh yeah, managed to take one of the bookshelves and use it as a shoe shelf. Holy crap, I've got shittons of black boots, chunky heeled, ala the late 1990's that I will forever be happily stuck in.

Finally, I think I can rest.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Something weird just happened....

So I'm cruising decorating ideas and think "Hey. I'm a recovering goth. Let's see what ideas the internet has about goth stuff."

And I google and I'm like "That's nice. Oh, that'd be a great way to make a small focal table. And that -"

And I realize -

I don't really WANT my entire apartment to be shades of black, red, and dark purple.

Don't get me wrong, I have what I call my "skull shrine". It's is a small bookshelf top decorated with plastic skulls, skull snow globes, a small coffin flask, some sparkly styrofoam skulls, a coffin diorama with teeny, adorable skeletons that Cemetery_Consort made me, and a fake flower with a real muskrat skull affixed in it. I love that. I love the whole thing. I even want to expand my collection. I LOVE skull stuff.

(And it turns out that YES, skull snowglobes are a thing. There are lots of them out there. Yay for subcultures merging in the new millennium!)

But I don't want my entire house to look like that.

Am I growing up? Possibly? A little?

Ha. As if. I'm also just realizing how much dusting dark colors require. Whole apartment in those colors?

Naaaah. Too much dusting.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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