I'm Going Home, I Cleaned, I Want Out, The 6, And Man Is A Dirty Boy
This entry was actually written over several days ending a couple of days ago, but it will have to suffice, because the Fiery One and I are going to my fair, much missed city to visit friends and family for a few days. If parts of this post seem outdated, that’s because they are. Because my family, aside from Fidridge, do not know about this site and hopefully never will, I will be incommunicado while we are gone.
Me, the girl who never cleans anything unless my self-disgust levels rise to a dangerous high, actually did quite a bit of cleaning yesterday. Normally for me, cleaning entails wiping up only the most visible dirt, throwing out the shit I don't know what to do with, and maybe a cursory sweeping, but not yesterday. I had just started doing the dishes when a thought occurred to me: since the Fiery One and I tend to use almost every available plate and bowl before we will attack the teetering pile, I decided that I would put the newly cleaned dishes on the very top shelf of the cupboard. My reasoning was that if we can't reach them, they won't end up making gigantic piles on our kitchen counters and escaping into other reaches of the apartment. While I was balancing myself on the countertop, I had a good top-down view of the inside of my cupboards, and I don't recommend this if you don't want to find yourself taking every last item out, washing it down, rearranging it, and throwing out tons of ancient food odds and ends, because that is what I ended up doing. After hours of wiping, scrubbing, and windexing (somehow that stuff manages to get off what my scrubber cannot), I still have a bit left to go, because I haven't really looked at my kitchen cupboards since we moved in. The Fiery One is going to be so impressed when he gets home on Thursday. The apartment might actually end up being in a less scary condition than when he left on his work trip, which would be an absolute first.
Maybe this has something to do with my mood over the weekend, but I have grown increasingly more dissatisfied with my situation in this city since I moved here, and I'm finally just about sick to death of it. I really don't like this city, and I'm not warming up to it at all. I thought I would, I had hoped I would, but I quite simply haven't. It could be argued that I am projecting my own personal dissatisfactions on an innocent urban landscape, and that could be. Also, spring is usually the time when I hate things on a swiftly shifting, erratic basis. I am continually unhappy with how little money I always seem to have because I'm paying off old student loans, I'm starting to hate the building I live in passionately, I'm pretty much alone most of the time aside from the Fiery One, I can't afford to get away to my old city more than once every two or three months (I'm might have to cancel my trip next weekend!), and on it goes. I'm such a whiner these days. But that's how I feel.
I will take some of the blame. I haven't gone out of my way to make friends. Most of the people I do talk to here were originally friends of the Fiery One before I came into the picture, and I usually only see them when he's around or I accidentally bump into them. I rarely call anyone ever about anything, and if the telephone does ring while I'm at home, I usually don't answer it and will only return a call if someone bothers to leave me a message. I haven't joined any groups like art or exercise classes or singing groups, and so aside from work and the Fiery One's contacts, I haven't had much occasion to meet new people here. I guess I'm pretty much admitting that this one's my fault, so if you ever hear me complaining of loneliness, roll your eyes.
Also, this city is ugly. There are parts of it that are quite nice, even beautiful, but generally what you see are broad expanses of semi-industrial-looking, low-lying, brown and grey buildings and anonymous-looking suburbs infected with large growths of big box stores and strip malls. This is not a place for the aesthetically sensitive. I'm not even a big snob when it comes to the looks of things. I often take great joy in the hideously ugly -- the rusted out, the broken down, the crumbling, the defaced -- but when it becomes the condition of living, I am no longer such a good sport about it. I was so glad when I moved here that the Fiery One had managed to get us into such a nice, non-eyesore building, and I really enjoyed living in it for the first while, but even that has degenerated.
This brings me to what is really getting to me lately, which is less city and more building specific. Over the last few months, I have not been able to get a decent night's sleep. I have blamed our mattress, the pillows, and stress, but I now think that it is because I can't get into a deep sleep in the first place aside from all the other reasons, and so I toss and turn and feel uncomfortable. The reason I can't fall into a deep sleep is because whatever riffraff the landlord has been allowing to move into this building over the last while come and go at all hours of the night, banging the front doors and buzzing apartments and having loud conversations over the intercom. Our bedroom is on the same wall one floor up from the apartment buzzer system, and so it is just about as loud as my telephone would be from the other room. The abuse of the intercom system in the middle of the night did not used to happen very often. There wasn't nearly so much middle-of-the-night traffic, and other tenants' friends had a sense that at 2:00 am they should not shout loudly through the intercom when asking if there was a party going on. From my bed, where I am trying desperately to sleep more than two hours in a row, I can hear every word enunciated clearly through my bedroom wall. Also, an incident that happened yesterday afternoon really got me thinking about how much I like where we live now. A male tenant was on the front lawn having a shouting match with two other young men on the sidewalk. One of the sidewalk pair had pulled a knife on the tenant and was demanding $1500 "or else", to which the tenant screamed that he didn't have it and it was all he could do to take care of his pregnant wife, and then the pregnant wife came out to chase off the knife guys. Real high class. I have got to get out of there. What with the arson, the screaming-in-the-hallway lady, the knife guys, the monthly tidiness checks, my laundry being stolen, and the ongoing bathroom reconstruction, I'm ready to move on. I'm not very excited about moving, but I figure if I bring home a box from work every few days and fill it up, pretty soon we'll be living without most of the things we own, and then we'll have to move, no matter how much of a bother it is.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch. Thanks for listening. It's funny. Unless I get out all my frustration out in words somehow, I can't think my way around it. This is not really about the city I live in, although I still wish I had the money to move elsewhere. This is about it being spring and me waking up out of my winter stupor and suddenly wanting more for myself than I could sustain over winter. I can make living in this city better for myself, and it wouldn't be that hard. I do want to start the yoga thing and take a photography class. The Fiery One and I can move, and this is a good time to think about it, because a lot of the students will be moving out. Man, do I like to complicate things for myself. It's a cycle I've just realized I pursue almost zealously, and I think I do it so that I don't have to do anything, put myself out there, be accountable. If I can pretend that the odds are against me, then I can excuse myself from bothering. I'm getting a little old for that kind of evasion, don't you think?
Laili-6 just dropped by to see me at work. She also borrowed two bucks from me for coffee. I'll pretend that it was for the love of me that she came in and not for the love of caffeine. I must take her up on her offer to go hang out sometime soon. She's single again, so the likelihood is much greater. The dating and the seriously partnered seem to disappear on you. (Hey, I'm married. What was I saying earlier about not calling people and whatnot?).
Man and I were going over some confusing receipts at the cashier's desk, and it didn't take us long to start making rude comments about every beefcake that walked in here. I am not normally the sort to make piggish sexual comments, but Man brings that out in me. Maybe it's because the level of rudeness to which he is willing to descend would be so offensive to most people. It's titillating. Oh, and completely inappropriate for the workplace, too. I hope none of the customers heard us. More importantly, I hope that none of our co-workers overheard us. One particular guy that came in was hot in that I-work-construction-and-wear-flannel-shirts way, which sometimes works for a guy. Man was disappointed because the guy was wearing a wedding ring, but I said that didn't have to mean anything as far as whether he was gay or not was concerned. Man said that he knew that, but from his experience, the straighter married ones never kissed and would always leave immediately after cumming. I found the never kissing thing odd, but Man said that it was the line of intimacy that they just wouldn't cross. Kissing was more like romantic intimacy, or accepting the sensuality of what they were doing, and that might mean they weren't as straight as they would like to think. You would think that the line would actually be drawn at the anal entry part of the deal, but who am I to say as an ambisextrous, monogamous, married female?
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