Monday, January 21, 2008

Sunny Days, Blue Skies, and Seeing Red

On top of all the deep-breath-keep-breathing-ok-take-a-walk moments I can kinda manage through the day, I am trying to embrace the 15-20 minutes from the highway to my house by trying to find good radio and re-listening to all my CDs and singing really loud and all in all being happy I'm coming from the gym... but it's the last bit, the coming home to find there are no parking spots (and my roomies car has been in the same spot for 2 weeks now and I can't figure out which other car he's driving) so I'm at the end of the block (where I apparently backed into a numbered spot instead of a visitor spot the first time this happened sometime early last week and have had notes left on my car no matter what spot I choose beacuse I'm consistently parking in the wrong area) carrying all my lunch tupperwares and gym bag and purse and to-go chicken on spinach salad where something falls out of my hands (because it's 22 degrees and I thought I could make it 20 yards without gloves on) that causes just enough of a gggrrrrr to set in to really make the piles of garbage on the front stoop (from last night's football game watching party to which I had no notice would be happening and was a bit appauled to be awakened from my late afternoon snoozefest (thanks to the latex boyfriend, that little tip/reminder is getting better all the time) by the rumbling of 10 people screaming at a play and the volume subsequently being turned up to shake-Chrissy's-bed volume, naturally soliciting my very best mood as I waited for the certainty they'd all be glued to the tv before rushing down to the freezer to toss something edible in the microwave while no one was in the hideously unsanitary kitchen)... I've been here long enough to remember the screen door knob only works if you twist it one way and the door only works if you twist it the other but I just can NOT remember to start the approach with this thought in mind so my lefty hand always gets the ache of cold nerves as I grip and twist and twist harder and then the other way and then on-no-which-way-is-this-door until I finally just yank and the bastard (it only really latches if the entire mechanism has been manhandled to do so, typically you can't get the fucker to close) and toss myself across the threshold so as to let out as little of the precious heated air as possible. This particular evening I'm greeted by an actual sighting of the roomie and his prepubecent mannerless mute child, but couldn't be bothered to intrude on their bondfest because I misjudged the amount of water I'd consumed on that eliptical machine and very urgently needed my bathroom. With that being said, you'd think I'd be thrilled to find that I didn't need to worry about dropping another bag or getting an arthritic cramp trying to open another door, but somehow the culmination of all things unwelcoming about my coming home these last few nights is sending me into a fit of rage upon finding my bedroom and bathroom doors wide open. I am, as it turns out, quite private and overly possessive of my things, not the least of which is the precious warm air that I try to trap in my usual spaces to keep the frigid witch in me from taking over completely, and considering some days the thermostat is set to 72 (when someone will be over, like 10 screaming friends, or his oh-so-always-drunk-and-therefore-always-laughing-and-fuckable girlfriend, or the bratty kid who thinks dingdongditch is a game best played at one's own address and therefore the only reason the door should be closed at all is to facilitate the fun of this particular prank) or 63 (I thought it was when the bill came in he turned it down, but apparently it's just the standard temp at which he keeps a house he isn't using; can't blame him really, except that my cup of water on the nightstand is either chilled or sweating, and it's making the bed dressings and my pj choice vary from flannel on flannel with a heavy feather down to naked with a sheet in reach if need be). Besides this minutia, there is a cat living in the house. I am fine with cats, except that some cats are more possessive than I and have a tendancy to spray, especially anything that smells like other cats, like maybe my laundry bag that is in the bathroom, or anything I own that is in my bedroom. Not that any of it means anything to me, I mean I only packed it in stages depending on what I'd need shipped to me in priority order, then loaded every bit of it on a freight truck leaving behind anything I couldn't carry myself (including the bookcase I've had in every memory of my mom's room since forever), then upacked everything I could fit in the 10x11 room and stacked it on top of itself so I could be immersed in all things mine to create a whole in the universe that would nurture my me-ness... no reason to keep the cat out of that room, or respect that the door is closed unless I'm going through it, or even leave a note as to the reason someone might feel the need to be coming up the stairs to a total view of my stacks of PJs and pillows and discarded bedding...)
Right. So, I've been doing my very best to make the dream of a different future combat all the anger filled moments that come with my current home, to the point of taking a drive to a well spoken of town just 10 miles south of here. The downtown is ohsoverychick, they even have a Tiffany's just up the block from the tribute to Jay and Silent Bob store, all close enough to the river to smell it. I'll be making a return trip in the daylight, but I think I just found the kind of town I'd like to meet my next boyfriend in ;)
On that note, I'm going to see if my tender bits are suffering permanent damage from the weekend of hiding from the frigid weather by entertaining myself in bed, or if I can cause permanent damage by diffusing this instance of twitchy rage with another trip to the toy box.

1 comment:

curmudgeon said...

BWAH!!! Careful. Don't be getting callouses now...