Caterwauling

Go see the movie with the same title as this post. Because you will be witnessing what is sure to become the next year of my life! I cried not because it was funny and cute (which it was) but because I will probably be able to write my own variation of that script. Mom always tells me to find a man with a dad (for her), and I swear to God, someone made that movie about us.

In any event, all that (s)mothering brings me to today’s rant.

Editor’s note: I was going to password-protect this entry, as those who should have better things to do than drive up my hits and see what I’m up to really don’t need to be privy to it. But then I remembered how that same person used to say how he LOVED to see me miserable, although I’ve never been happier since I realized there was no law obligating me to put up with HIS miserable ass. Just wanted to make that clear — thinking and typing doesn’t constitute anything other than coming to terms with situations. That’s what grown-ups do — reason things out. So, please navigate away from this page — maturity is required to frequent this joint. 🙂

Now, are we left with just grown-ups in the room?

Good.

That said, I went apartment-hunting today. Part 20, it seems, of the saga. I was so annoyed. I seriously didn’t see anything worth reviewing positively. I hate townhouses but I ended up touring one because I was so through with the apartment manager and her girlfriend who was hangin’ out with her (they were calling people on their cell phones and planning their weekend while I was fucking standing there) that she said we’d have to drive to see the apartments but could walk to the THs, so I said fine, show me the (what I knew was going to be ghetto) townhouse.

(CRACK) DEN MOTHER

Look, don’t tell me the floors are hardwood when they’re laminate. I can tell the difference. Nothing against laminate floors, when they’re in great shape. But scratched-up and fucked-up floors deserve to be covered. They beg for it, actually. That crack-den mother wanted $1,500 a month for that mess. Puh-leeze!

I hated it. I hated her. I hated the community and I felt sick in the car before I even got out.

The neat thing about it being icy is that you can see how these buildings/complexes take care of their residents. And if I’m there at NOON and I’m barely able to walk upright on your sidewalks, something’s amiss.

SO I APPLIED AT ‘PLACE A’ TODAY

In any event, I put in my application with an apartment company today (the one I liked best). I’ve heard they’re miserable about iffy credit and only take those with the best of the best. I also learned that their deposit is anywhere from $300 to $1,300 depending on said credit. Wondrous. Here’s to hoping the student loan company doesn’t seize my tax refund AGAIN this year, as that’s where it’s going.

Late tonight, I drove around said new complex, just hoping to get a sign. I didn’t get one. I was also looking for any kind of unusual activity and general upkeep, and at least that was fruitful.

The grounds were meticulous. It’s a very, uh, *populated* community (i.e., apartments on top of each other, all over the place), but attractive, if not a bit on the close-quarters side.

I walked to where the management indicated my unit could be. And it was a HIKE. Over the river, through the woods, up (and down) about a billion sets of stairs. I didn’t mind it, although I don’t know who I’m going to pay to lift my brick-shithouse of an entertainment center or the 32″ TV that sits in it. Then again, if I do all the “light” moving myself (boxes, textiles, et al), I can just pay a handful of people for the aggravation of heavy-lifting.

The problem with all the sidewalks and steps is wondering whether the furniture will survive it, as some of those corners are tight. But that’s not my main concern.

I’m wondering whether it would be too much for Mom.

A GODDESS ATOP HER EMPIRE

I’m going for a top-floor unit for the fireplace and for the fact that no rugrats will be tap-dancing on the floorboards (i.e., our ceilings). My ass can use the exercise, but I don’t know that she can hang to do all of that exertion.

Damn it. I hadn’t thought of that before. As I raced to the top floor of one of the buildings, I was pooped. But just for the smell of burning firewood alone, it was worth it.

Here’s the deal. I applied for the pricier place because, really, there ain’t nothin’ cheap in D.C. proper or in the surrounding areas. Finding a 2BR unit below $1,750/month is a gift from God, I kid you not. Nowhere is “cheap.” Nowhere is “perfect.” I just want something warm and safe and something that I would be happy to call home for a little while. I CANNOT move three springs in a row — this second one is going to kill me, no doubt.

Why did I do it, truly? Why apply to basically give up my firstborn in exchange for a roof over my head instead of just having my mom move into my current 1BR unit and just make do for awhile?

Because I just don’t want to become resentful.

There, I said it.

WHY IS MY ‘NORMAL’ SO FUCKED-UP?

More people than not tell me I’m strong, brave, a saint, a martyr, a hero or someone who needs to have her head examined because I not only offered to take in my mom in her time of need, but also because I want to. Well, “want” may be overstating the case, but I’m definitely willing, if that’s a better word choice.

I can’t look at it as personal sacrifice on my part. I can only view it as doing the right thing. She’s scared, she’s sad and she’s freaking the fuck out because her whole world crashed to a halt and now she’s going to crash into mine. She doesn’t want to be a burden but she’s got nowhere else to go.

I’ll be honest with you. I wish I were trying to find a bigger place so I can move in with a man. I should be setting up a wedding registry or buying a crib or doing whatever it is that people my age do. Not that I’m overly interested in either concept, and certainly not (maybe yet) with the current candidate pool, but if I start to wonder where it is that my life *should* be right now, I fear I would become resentful. And that’s the last thing I want to do.

So that’s why I want a nice apartment in a nice area. That’s why I want the one that I like — I’m paying for it dearly, and not just with money. I could be doing OK (financially) after my review in March. I could be doing better than OK. But I can’t think about what all that “extra” money could have bought (i.e., a couch, a computer that doesn’t conk out), or else I will feel sorry for myself. And I don’t do the self-pity thing, and even if I did, now isn’t the time.

BOTTOM LINE

I can always be counted on to do the right thing. No questions asked. This is just another one of those times.

I just wonder what apartments I possibly HAVEN’T seen yet, because I really do have to make more reasonable accommodations. She told me she can do whatever I need her to do, but I don’t know. I have to think more about this. I’ll see how amicable Place A is with the security deposit before I go sniffing elsewhere. But damn, it really is my favorite. …

I don’t need to sell myself on this idea, of throwing my life into this cosmic spin for the indefinite future. A girl needs her mommy, plain and simple. Maybe not in the same house, but whatever. Details. When my Mr. Right does show up with a white-gold ring (not yellow gold. Ick), I’ll figure out the logistics from there.

And God help me, I’m never going to stop praying that Mom meets a multimillionaire in the meantime, maybe even one with a son. … 😉

I was inside my head when I came home from work last night. I usually am — I don’t clear my mind of the day’s events very easily, given that a lot of the work is creative in nature and inspiration usually strikes when I’m released from my little box.

I’d also had, for all intents and purposes, a great day and wasn’t about to ruin my little bubble.

And then, I got home.

I’ll forgive the fact that I needed pet food and didn’t get to the pet store till 9:06 p.m. (Aaaand, it closed at 9.) I picked up a pizza at the joint next door and went to another store closer to home for catty kibble — I don’t sweat details like this; I use them as opportunities.

But then, hell broke loose.

I had too much to carry, but I wasn’t going to make more than one trip. My stupid management company didn’t see fit to salt the non-city-owned walkways, which were a sheet of ice. I don’t do well on ice. I don’t own a single pair of non-fashion boots and I really didn’t want to fall on my ass with a bag full of groceries, a pizza, a box full of crap that I’d ordered and had delivered to work, two books to read this weekend, and a pile of paperwork.

I was juggling all this shit when my upstairs neighor pulled into the spot next to me. He’s nice enough. Creepy, sort of, but whatever. And I didn’t feel like talking. I know, it was an early night (trust me, getting home before 10 is a luxury), but I had talked to everyone I needed to talk to yesterday, and again, I wanted to be inside my head. We already established the fact long ago that we have NOTHING in common, and now that I’m moving? There’s no need for me to be social.

Anyway, I wanted to strangle him because I think I made it pretty clear when I jetted the fuck away from my car that I wanted to be alone. The ice, however, impeded my progress a bit, and fucker was RIGHT ON MY HEELS for the 100-yard walk. I was pissed. Seriously, pissed. I guess it’s wrong to expect someone to give the person in front of them a little breathing room on the ice.

I knew he was at my heels. It was making me nervous, truth be told. I don’t see the problem in trailing someone by a few feet, not inches. I was clearly not interested in acknowledging his presence — why do I have to be punished for it?

So I get to my door, and something had been delivered there that SHOULD have been delivered as a gift to someone else (on Jan. 23, not Feb. 2). I was furious — people in my building are known to open others’ packages, take what items they want, and re-seal them. I kid you not.

From my overloaded vantage point, I was trying to figure out whether the package had been opened as I put the key in the lock.

And I dropped everything.

Every.thing.

Including the pizza, which landed face-down. *splat*

Asshole was standing right behind me … I mean, RIGHT behind me. I know he needed to get past me, but seriously, BREATHING ROOM, people. Has anyone heard of it?

I was scrambling to get the key in the door when the pizza hit the floor, the package, the books, the paperwork, my purse and my other shoulder bag. Cans of cat food went rolling. Expletives went flying.

I didn’t look at the guy.

He mumbled some sort of snotty, “Sor-ry” my way, as though he expected I blamed him for breathing.

Which, was sort of true.

I just answered with a very tired, “It’s just that kind of day” and kicked all my shit into the doorway.

But it WASN’T that kind of day. Not by a long shot.

I hate feeling like I have to cover up so others don’t feel bad. Even though he WAS the reason I was scurrying!

I just get angry that I can’t choose to ignore someone who creeps me out. It’s 10 p.m., there was just a report of an assault on the property and damn it, what law prevents me from choosing to not want to talk to strange men at that hour?!?! (Unless I’m in a bar — talking to strange men is mandatory, in that case!)

I already have to put up with enough people in this world I can’t stand — don’t crowd my space and get added to the shit list. It’s a short list, which means all the ire that would normally be targeted to a crowd is split evenly between two people. I just added No. 2 last Friday night — want to be third?

I don’t know. I don’t ever want to make anybody feel bad, but was I wrong to just want some personal fucking space? No one was out at that hour — do you really need someone at your heels, on the ice? It’s like when you’re the only car on the road and some nitwit is tailgating you. Go around, drop back or drive off a cliff — just quit breakin’ my stride and stealin’ my peace.

Like Jim Belushi said in “About Last Night” — “We’re talking about space. Recreational fucking space!”