Caterwauling

I’d declared Sunday to be laundry day. However, it didn’t want to declare it back.

I decided I needed to wash two loads. Could’ve done more, but it’s all about goals, people. Besides, it took me 90 minutes to get a washer in the first place.

The thing is, I can understand that our measly two washers on our floor are always taken. That’s fine. But those bitches had been stopped for an hour. An hour, unattended! The thing is, there is no way in hell I am touching anyone’s nasty-ass gutchies with my hands. I don’t care that they’ve (hopefully) used soap. I don’t want anyone touching my stuff, and I will return the courtesy. Not to mention, if there are only two machines, it’s rude to use them both. And as a personal rule, I only use one machine at a time. Courtesy, peeps.

So I was angrily storming around in flip-flops, slamming doors wherever possible — anything to alert the offender to get their stupid ass in to take care of their skivvies. Finally — finally! — I was making a racket when a door opened. It was the door NEXT to the laundry room. Lazy asshole. He was blaring music and smelled funky. Yay. I thought we paid out the ass here to keep out the riff-raff. Coulda fooled me.

So I waited awhile for him to get his shit into the dryer and I washed two consecutive loads. And here’s a helpful hint: Putting your crap in the washer someone neglects is all well and good until you need that dryer. And not only is the wash cycle 35 minutes to the dryer’s 60, but you didn’t actually think he was going to be prompt with emptying that, either, did you? I dragged lots of wet crap to air-dry from various lamps, shower rods and assorted bookcases. Because that’s not a pain in the ass.

The guy did come to empty a dryer when I was tending to my second load. And the smell was familiar — boyfriend reeked of weed. He was nice to me, if not spaced the hell out. The stuff smelled high-quality. 😉 Doesn’t he know that it’s not nice to NOT share?!?! LOL. (Yeah, laundry? What laundry? *sniff*)

I’d thought about going up a couple of floors and telling the cop who lives here about it. The cop that I, oh, have had a date or two with. (*blush*) 😀 But, alas, I decided not to create a hot fuss because, hey, maybe I can stand outside Smokey’s door and get a nice contact high once in awhile. 😉

I’m starting to like this city after all!

Subtitle: Salvation by sticky note

I have survived this far in life by virtue of the sticky note. Whether in its fine neon pinks, purples or blues, or whether it’s the simple white notes that are formed into thought balloons (one of which contains the title of this entry), my blood pressure would be triple what it is without their fortune-cookie-like wisdom.

I find notes from time to time. I’ve even written about them on this site. But there are many more that never see the light of day. Sometimes I throw them away, other times I archive them by tossing them “somewhere” and forgetting about their existence. But no matter. It’s what I write down in a passionate moment that keeps me sane.

I have two notes that I refer to at least daily, oftentimes more, that aren’t in an obvious place. Mostly because I have them memorized. Also because others might want a backstory/explanation. And those are not up for consideration. Even if they’re as lighthearted as this entry title — something spurred their creation. Sometimes they’re the light I shine from a dark place to bring me to the other side of it.

This is something I’ve done for years, and while I might seem like I talk a lot sometimes, there’s always proof of the undercurrent of what I’m not necessarily saying. I think we all have some sort of mantra (or many of them) that is the equivalent of “Serenity Now” (although I can’t think of that phrase in a non-“George Costanza” way. LOL).

What do you tell yourself when you need to get through “One of Those Days/Weeks/Moments/Decades”?

How I miss the days when Caterwauling used to focus on surviving one’s career, but we can still revisit relevant topics. Just without bitching about the Town Crier who acccosted me in the bathroom stall and tried to accost my pregnant friend and who still works there and we don’t. Go figure!

But this article reminded me of a job long before that wacky-ass place:

Wise Words for Getting Ahead in Your Career by Ben Stein

Don’t Work for Insane People

“Yes, you will have people who yell at you, demean your abilities, or boss you around even though you’re a lot smarter than they are. But that’s totally normal. That’s called “life in the workplace.” Expect it, and roll with the punches.

“But if a boss calls you a racial epithet, casts slurs on your family, touches you inappropriately, or screams at you and calls you at home to yell at you over something you did or didn’t do at work, tell him politely that you don’t want such treatment. And if it persists, then quit. Life is short. It’s far too short to waste working for someone who’s mentally sick enough to think he owns your soul and that you have no dignity just because he gives you a paycheck.

“You’ll find this kind of person extremely frequently here in Hollywood: Little Caesars, little Napoleons, little dictators who will treat you like a slave. There are a great many sick people here with serious rage problems. If one of them is your boss, politely but firmly take your leave. A boss who treats you with respect means fewer sleepless nights and a lot more possibility for making a name for yourself.”

Hoo boy, do I have a story about THAT subject!

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