"It's all about the triumph of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism." Okay, so that's Craig Ferguson talking about Doctor Who, but this blog endeavors exactly that. Lofty yes, but what the hell, why not. Onward, my romantic intellectual companions!
So I'm supposed to be getting rent checks from tenants who aren't living on site right now and they haven't come through. Fearing it may be due to my change of address (I literally just moved down the hall from one apartment to another) I decided maybe I should do a forward address thing on the US Post Office's website so I could actually receive mail.
I filled out all the lines on the online form and was about to submit it when the last page told me it would cost $9.99 for the post office to "handle the change." Also my debit card had to be billed to either my old address or my new address, otherwise the card would be declined for me doing something fraudulent. This angered me for several reasons.
1) I'm pretty sure that my debit card is "billed" (because debit cards don't have bills) to my parents' house, which is technically still my permanent residence. I could change this, except the last time I checked, TCF Bank doesn't recognize that I have an actual account with them because I have this weird debit card program through the University and my card actually expires when I graduate so I should probably look into getting a different card... The point is, the USPS fails to take into account the weird living situations of college students. Which is kind of annoying.
2) I am not changing the billing address for my debit card for 12 months when there probably isn't any actual mail to forward and whatever I was supposed to get probably just got lost because -
3) The post office sucks. Really. WHO CHARGES 10 BUCKS FOR A CHANGE OF ADDRESS? "We need ten dollars to process your change." Really, do you? REALLY? Isn't dealing with change just what the post office is supposed to do on its own? People move! It happens!
So, US Post Office, I am not giving you $10 because I moved one unit over and I have a different mail box. If I don't get my Minnesota Opera updates, oh well. If there's anything else important I'm supposed to get, hopefully you will realize that I am still in this building and, though the apartment number is different, it should still be delivered here. Or just give it to 202. The girl living next door is very nice and I'm sure she won't mind giving me my mail. But for the love of God, please deliver the checks. They've been resent to my new address and I still haven't gotten them.
It's not even April Fools and already I think [Львица] and I have already encountered our first practical joke of the season.
I had just come back to the apartment on Tuesday after class to make lunch and to finish up a paper I had to write when someone knocked on the door. I opened it find our tenant from 304 (who we've not exactly had the easiest time with) looking very upset. She then proceeded to explain to me that she had been gone over spring break and, after she'd returned, noticed that these pod-like things that she thought might be insects had appeared on the walls of her kitchen-dining room area. I decided to to take a look.
I had never seen anything like it in my life. Now, to frame this properly, it's been very warm in Minnesota, very very warm for March and I thought it very likely that something odd could have occurred given the sudden warm spell and that some creature could have found its way out of the walls. Upon examining them in the kitchen, which 304 had sealed off, afraid that some insects would escape and get all over her apartment, the only thing I could compare them to in my mind were prune-like growths sticking horizontally off of the wall. It seemed one was attached to a nail but I didn't think much of it at the time. I told 304 I'd Google search it and I'd get back to her.
They weren't beetle lava, they weren't chrysalis, they weren't spider egg sacs or fungi or anything that Google could even identify. Other than prunes. I told [Львица] about it and, later that evening when 304 wasn't there, we returned to examine them ourselves with a more perceptive eye. Gingerly, [Львица] pried one off the wall, a plastic bag over her hand, and we found it was also on a nail. We removed eight of these things, all of them on nails, and took them in a bag into our apartment.
The "pods" on the wall, as taken by [Львица]
My hand holding up a small key to compare size to the "pod"
We began really seriously wondering if the "pods" were large raisins or some kind of prune. It's what they looked like most and some were even kind of greenish, like dried raisins sometimes are. So, after I failed to find any way of scientifically testing them in our kitchen, we sliced one open, looked at it, sniffed it, and decided that it must be a raisin (or some unknown alien life form; highly unlikely at this point). Knowing 304 has a friend in the building, we wondered if it was a practical joke (as 304 told me she is dreadfully terrified of insects. And that she'd asked her friend from apartment 2 i for our phone numbers (as she'd lost her phone earlier in the semester and apparently didn't have either building manager's number re-added) but her friend had never gotten back to her).
What do I think? I'm not detective (as much as I wish I was) but I presume that 2 did this as a practical joke and 304 really flipped out and got us involved. But we haven't heard back from 304. Guess we'll just have to wait and see if those "pods" reappear.
Seriously, people. This was half of my Tuesday. I have the weirdest job in the world.
This week has been a busy (and unexpectedly dramatic) week in apartment management. I attended the housing fair (on the correct day this time) and got at least six people to give me their info to schedule a tour. However, [Львица] and I have been trying to find someone to move into our apartment in June so I can move in next door and the girl living there doesn't have to worry about subletting. But it's been hard to find two people who want to sublet so early, so we wondered if it might be easier for Britney, the girl who lives in the apartment I'm planning on moving into next year, to find a short-term subletter.
Except that, suddenly, it's not okay to sublet for less than three months in the building; they look for long-term leasing so they don't have high turnover. Which makes sense... but that was NOT what we were told upon filling out the lease. And that's not what any of the other tenants were told by the previous building manager either. So now we have that tricky little issue.
Our boss and building owner had decided to make an exception in order to let someone lease short-term, but before this [Львица] and I were both certain he alluded to giving me another apartment, not the one I wanted. I was unsure how this would solve any problems, but I'm certain that's what he said on the phone the other night. Not that it matters here; there are some battles I can't win and trying to justify myself and show that I am not in the wrong will solve nothing; it is not the point and it doesn't matter here. Unfortunately for me, I have a long history of hating any situation that makes me feel wronged and blamed when I feel I don't deserve to (something I deeply have in common with the protagonist of Jane Eyre) and it's been hard for me to see this situation clearly. However, this situation came up the other night and our boss took offense and [Львица] had to work herself out of a very awkward situation. Every time I think I've gotten better at communication and I think I'm good at what I'm doing, the stark reality of how much work it takes to attain good communication hits me.
http://www.examiner.com/
But instead of focusing out how far I've got to go, I'd rather commend myself for how far I've come. Yes, I could communicate better with my boss. But this is the first real job I've had, I've never met him or spoken with him face-to-face, and sometimes it's hard to express what [Львица] and I have discussed to our boss with just one of us trying to summarize. And given my history of introversion, slight social anxiety, and loathing of talking on phones (which has all but dissipated this year), I'm pretty goddamn pleased with myself. I have become a stronger person - in words, in actions, in many things. And for that, well, I'm quite happy.
Of course, I still have ways to grow and change (who doesn't?) and I'll harbor regrets about not being afraid to speak up sooner. Maybe it was because of Catholic school, maybe it was just who I was or what I was taught when I was young, but arguing with authority is something I had to learn myself, something I never saw accepted or allowed. If it weren't for [Львица] and, oddly enough, my father's new outspokenness about politics, and the fact that I've allowed myself to get really pissed off about some things, I might have never learned to speak my mind. I regret not doing it more in the past; I'll always wish I had spoken up in my high school Biology class when my teacher said that it was possible for AIDS to be passed through kissing which was SO WRONG, instead of just fuming about it later; I should have stood up and TOLD HIM he was wrong.
But the environment and person I was in high school was far, far different from where I find myself now. In college, there's a sense of freedom that I often take for granted. In college, you can break some of the rules. In high school, rules are the only structure there is to cling to.
Not that college is anywhere near perfect. [Львица]'s English class this semester has exemplified over and over again how easy it is for someone to take away the ability of expression (even when they think they are actually opening doors wider when in actuality they are slamming them shut). But I'm infinitely grateful for those who have allowed and encouraged me to speak out; the only thing I have too keep fighting for is the belief that I have the right to do so and that I deserve it. It's not always an easy feat; but I'm working on it. :)
All has been rather quiet on the apartment front. I say this, of course, while rapidly hamming my fist on the closest available wooden surface. [Львица] and I have been doing apartment showings, trying to convince people that our apartment building is awesome and a great location on campus. And no, sir, there are no pests (Mouse? What's a mouse?) and the noise from the interstate isn't bad (ha, it sounds like a fucking Transformer is out there, 24/7), and really, living in the basement apartments is cheaper in the long run (even if if does look a bit like you're taking residence in something from The Shining). So we're fibbing a bit; welcome to corporate America.
[Львица] recently found out she's gotten accepted for a study abroad program in Russia over the summer, for which she should be celebrated and congratulated. However, I will miss her very much, both as a friend and a roommate. And I will miss her saying, when something nuts happens in the apartment, "I don't want to be here when the walls start to bleed." Trust me, [Львица], if the walls start bleeding while you are abroad, you will be the first to know.
Since [Львица] is going abroad, one of our current tenants - and a former high school classmate of ours - is taking up the reins as building manager. However, I've been doing more building related stuff this semester, which is cool because it makes me feel like a bad-ass adult.
Except for today. Today, I thought, was supposed to be the annual housing fair in the student union. I got semi-dressed up, lugged my computer along, got all the rental applications, and prepared to sell the building to the best of my abilities. Now, I'd been having weird dreams that I'd missed the housing fair or I couldn't find it or the usual stupid bullshit one's brain produces when they're planning on an upcoming event. And so when I walked into the student union and saw no one around the Great Hall and walked in there and realized they were setting up for an event with the Black Student Union, I sort of panicked.
I whipped out my computer, cursed the slow wi-fi on campus, and checked the email account we'd set up for the apartment building. And realized my mistake. One email sent by the building owner said that the housing fair was Tuesday, March 1st. March 1st is today, a Thursday. I figured that he must have made a typo. Another email, one that I apparently didn't pay enough attention to said that the housing fair was Tuesday, March 6th. Clearly this must be the case. Because I'm in the Union now and it sure as hell isn't today.
I was furious about this: partly because I wore a dress and dragged a heavy backpack with me across an icy, snow-covered campus for this. Partly because the building owner gave me two different dates for the event. And mostly because I'm just mad at myself for not double checking and being more prepared.
In my defense, I have been writing the hardest research paper I've ever encountered and it's making my loathe being a psych major. And I've had a general ennui about life that only broke the other day when I decided I sort-of, kind-of know what I want to do with my life. And it's sad to admit, but it's goddamn hard to care about this job when I'm making minimum wage, working infrequently, dealing with repair men who either seem incompetent and make me lose faith in humanity or are very kind and supportive but tell me I should get the hell out of Dodge before this building comes down around me.
Not that it's all bad. I've learned a ton while working here. I've gotten a great resume booster and the building owner has agreed to be a reference for me on an internship application that I'm filling out. It's just... hard, hard when you see these brand new luxury apartments being built and watch the glitz and glamor of the Oscars on TV while you're living in an old brownstone with bad plumbing eating pasta and peanut butter (not together... God, that would be terrible). I'm just tired of being a college student. I think that's what it comes down to. Someday, I'll look back at this job and laugh and smile and be so glad I took it. But that day is not today. So I'm going to sit here and starve (since I didn't bring a snack since I thought I'd be working and am too cheap to buy something to eat) and recklessly daydream and try not to give a shit about anything for a few minutes. Because right now, caring hurts.
[Львица] and I came to a consensus the other day: men don't know how to write checks. Okay, so not all men, obviously. But a wide variety of twenty-something college boys sure don't.
Case and point: last summer, on move-in day, I had to tell the tenant of 103 how to fill out the check for the first month's rent because he'd never written one. Then the other day, [Львица] was watching a guy who was writing a check for the security deposit to rent an apartment in our building next year and he didn't know how to do it.
What is with this? I mean, both [Львица] and I realized that are mothers are the ones who pay the checks in the household and that neither of our fathers write checks very often. Not saying they don't know how, but that it doesn't happen often. Why did the checkbook become a woman's tool? What's with this?
I don't have the answers... seriously, I don't. I'm just mindlessly musing because it's late and that's what I'm good at.
It's been a rough start to the New Year, what with the wisdom teeth removal and all. So by the time our friends' holiday party rolled around on Wednesday, the one that caused all the trouble before the semester ended, I was kind of worried about it. I mean, any of a number of things could have gone wrong.
Amazingly, nothing did. [Львица] and I decorated our apartment rather majestically, I think, even giving Mo the cat a little pink bow. We cooked for half the day (wondrous Alaskan salmon and halibut, and chicken broccoli alfredo for those peculiar people who don't like fish) and had ample time left to set up ambiance music, rearrange chairs, and mock our friends for not being on time.
Things were perhaps a little hard to ease into at first, with offering drinks and trying to get people to decide whether they were hungry or not (our friends are historically indecisive). But once dinner had been served and drinks refilled and Secret Santa gifts were opened, things began to feel much more comfortable and relaxed to me. I was fortunate enough to have [shortage of perfect breasts] as my Secret Santa, the only other person there, other than [Львица], who could possibly know about or understand my obsession with Torchwood. So I was blown away by and totally grateful for her gift - a downloaded and burned DVD of Friday Night Project hosted by John Barrowman, and a home-knitted pillow (made by [shortage of perfect breasts] herself) with the Torchwood logo on one side and my first initial on the other. It's the best Secret Santa gift I've ever gotten. I wish I knew how to show her how thankful I am, without seeming ridiculous. It's a rather wibbly-wobbly line, that.
I managed to talk to [X] and [novel killer] without any apparent weirdness (but by that time, I'd already several drinks). I assured [X] that I was totally over [No-Mr-Darcy] and she informed me that it was just as well, as he believes that a woman's place is in the kitchen (it, of course, no longer matters, if he really thinks that, but it's just as well things didn't work out because, if it's true, I probably would have beaten him up). I tried tequila - bizarre, not my favorite, but not bad. I felt closer to my friends then than I had in years. I suddenly had high, high hopes that I was going to be able to move on from all of the things that had been bothering me about my friendships, that if we'd been able to hang on this long, that maybe we could forge ahead into the future. That even thought sometimes we have our issues, that they treat me better and understand me more than the rest of the world. There wasn't any peer pressure to drink and I didn't drink too much and I felt comfortably tipsy. All was good.
Perhaps I was seeing the world through rosy-colored lenses (or maybe liquor-tinted ones. I did have two glasses of wine, a Guinness, a shot of tequila, and a Heineken. Far more than I have ever drunk before - and yet I wasn't drunk; have I inherited my father's liver?) Everything seemed beautiful and I had no worries. I felt beautiful, important; nothing hurt.
I wish all nights could be like this one; I know they can't - later in the week would prove this true. But this night - this one night - made me feel better than I had in days. Maybe weeks. It didn't last but it's a positive sign for me - a sign that when I finally get those cruel little voices in my head to shut up, life is good. No negative self-thoughts - that was a New Year's resolution, after all :)
Well, [X] has done it now. She's now tainted one of the few sacred things I've got: Christmas.
Here's the deal: my group of friends have this annual tradition of having a Christmas party at [X]'s house every year. Although, because of insinuating circumstances, [X]'s family now lives with her grandmother and she doesn't feel comfortable/isn't allowed to have guests over. And, because I realized that I hadn't heard anything yet about a Christmas party, I messaged her about it. She wasn't sure whether she was up for it, but I told her that [Львица] and I were certainly interested and so she sent out a Facebook message about it. Because she said she couldn't have guests over, [Львица] and I offered up our place. She seemed okay about it, but when I did message her, she sort of flipped out. This was the message:
Me: Hey, you seem busy and I don't want to pressure you into doing the Christmas party if you don't want to, so if you're not interested in doing it, Sarah and I would be cool just hosting a little get-together at our apartment. I don't want to take over the Christmas party from you or anything and we wouldn't do Secret Santa or anything like that; just dinner and hang-out-ness up here. Lemme know what you think.
[X]: I don't want to sound like a bitch, but I want to be honest. It's really hard for me to turn over running the Christmas party to anybody, since I've been hosting it since I was in the sixth grade--before I even knew you or Sarah or most of the people who are invited to it now. It's been my way of giving my friends a holiday gift, hokey as that sounds. So not being able to throw it makes me feel really irrelevant. (Some period of time later) With that said, I'm not eleven anymore. I know that more people than me feel a sense of ownership over the concept of a "Christmas get-together" now and have every right to host it. And the truth is, I don't really have anything to give right now. I don't have a home to welcome anyone to. I don't have a lot of time or energy. I don't even feel like I have the right "spirit" to do this. So if you and Sarah want to host this get-together, then I'll honestly be okay with that. I may even be relieved. Just please don't think badly of me for not getting to the point of being absolutely ok with not hosting this immediately. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty by being honest with you, I just want you to see all my cards laid out on the table so that nothing gets bottled up to fester.
Me: Okay, this is not what I expected at all and it makes me really sad. I think you, [Львица] and I need to have a talk about this.
http://mendokusee.deviantart.com/
So she called me and we talked. Sort of. I don't know why but every time I get on the phone, all of my gumption fails. Oh, wait, I know why. Because I'm a coward.
Yep, that's the truth. I'm a sniveling little coward. I can say exactly how I feel about [X] to [Львица] but when it comes to actually telling [X}, I hear her voice, that sound like she's on the verge of tears and suddenly I'm back to square one. I can't tell her that I'm pissed - though I did tell her I was upset and was audibly angry on the phone yesterday. But somehow, I just can't manage to find the words to tell her how I actually feel. Despite the fact that when her I read her message I was shaking and ended up taking out my rage gnashing Cheerios angrily and cathartically writing all kinds of poisonous thoughts for fifteen minutes. When she starts her talk about feeling unworthy of her friends and how bad she feels about herself and how she feels like all of her problems are insignificant and thus won't talk about them (which then makes them more-so - and more dangerously - important because they get all muddled up in stuff like this), it hits the little part inside of me that feels the same way and then I make my stuff unimportant so at least one person thinks her stuff is important (instead of having an equal, two-way street of a friendship). And then because I try to understand her and support her, I can't criticize her without her thinking I hate her - which she's pushing me to only through self-fulling prophecy. Because she thinks everyone hates her, I begin to hate her because I can't be honest with her. I don't hate her - I just want her think before she speaks, to want to change herself for the better. But instead, I don't tell her this; I just talk about her behind her back. Just like she does. In my inability to be honest with her, I become exactly what I hate about her.
And I don't know what to do.
Ironically, we were talking about relationships and aggression (two separate topics that accidentally overlapped due to too much material) in my social psych class on Monday, which was really too much. Sometimes, my psychology classes oddly mirror my life. What it did tell me was that I can't stay this way. I can't passively wait for us to finally grow apart or stick by her even if I get hurt. That's what I've been doing; it doesn't work and it feels wrong. I don't know whether it's best to try to actively work through our problems, because that would take time from her and she seems to damn busy to care about that sort of thing. Besides, I don't know if it's worth trying to work through and save. Which basically gives me one option: tell her it's done. She's pushed me too far away and that I'm done unless she steps forward herself. But that's not just something you can spring on someone. It's not like you can just break up with a friend (I dunno - maybe you can; I've never tried it). But I have so few friends these days, I feel reluctant to do so - because if I piss her off, I piss off everyone else who still talks to me from high school, [Львица] and [action is eloquence] and [uber gay] probably being the only exceptions. And [save the panzer]. Because fortunately for him, he has nothing to do with this shit.
So right now I just feel ansty and stressed and crampy because it's nearly finals time and I literally have cramps. Yay. But I know I can't stay this way. I mean, after I talked to [X] yesterday, I felt like a terrible person. She makes me feel bad about myself. And then "I am what I am" came on my iTunes and I started crying, because I couldn't have felt farther from what I am after that conversation. I was glad [Львица] called me to save me from wallowing in self-pity.
But bloody hell - IT'S CHRISTMAS. I shouldn't feeling bad about myself. I shouldn't put up with [X] totally misconstruing her friendships and, through trying to not make anything about her, totally make everything about her. I SHOULDN'T BE FEELING LIKE A PILE OF CRAP AGAIN. I was so happy before I got that message, thinking all about a holiday party (because I've never hosted a holiday party. Ever. In fact, I think I've only hosted six parties in my entire life). I want that carefree happiness back. Am I going to let [X] get me down. Not anymore. No, I shan't! It's Christmas.
I certainly hope that, wherever you are in space in time, that it is not in a little apartment infested by centipedes and mice. Or some place worse. I have decided to write this little post because I feel suddenly struck by a fear of making mistakes that are not worth making - not the good sort. And I would like to try to provide you with a source of some perhaps helpful advice in lieu of the insanity that certainly lies ahead.
First off, I have no idea what you will be doing in general. Hopefully it will not involve being a hobo. Regardless, whatever it is, do it with passion. Don't give in to doing something safe just because you know you can do it. TRY NEW THINGS. The worse that can happen is that you will fail, and we both are plenty familiar with that.
I will never be this cool. But goddamn, I can try.
Of course, I'm going to bring up relationships. If you remember, I'm on the edge between being a full-blown romantic and a nihilistic hermit. So, I'm hoping things are a little more steady on your end. If you're queen of the Ryan Gosling Swagger (à la Crazy Stupid Love), kudos. If things suck, keep a stiff upper lip. Remember what it was like to not understand love, to not even have any experience with it. To wonder why you saw so few relationships work out, why everything seems so simple, until you become part of one. I know I sound down about it all but I'm just showing - you knew more than you thought you did. Don't sweat it; it'll work out. I believe it will.
If by some strike of fate you find yourself in a long-term relationship, don't take it for granted. Just don't. And if by some terrible, incredible miracle you have children, remember not to be too hard on them when they act up. Growing up is tough - it might seem long ago, but I remember it pretty well. It's brilliant and brutal. And whatever your kids do, you probably did once too. Don't blame them too much for their mistakes, economic troubles, mistakes you made. They'll listen... maybe too well.
Wherever you're living, I hope it feels like home. I know when you were younger, you likened yourself to a turtle - adaptable, movable, able to fit in anywhere. Know that I'm glad you had that adaptability but that you shouldn't be afraid to put down roots. No one belongs here more than you.
Fresh off a 21st birthday, I had some crummy feelings in the days shortly before. It got me worried, it got me thinking. I hope you're strong and confident - I hope that I'm establishing that now. I hope you still have a warm fuzzy feeling for sci-fi shows and Broadway plays, and a penchant for shortbread, Earl Grey tea and Nutella. But most of all, I hope you look back at all of this and don't regret a thing.
Sometimes I don't know why I write this blog. Here lately I've begun to wonder if it's just a waste of time. It's not academic, nobody really wants to hear me talking about my life, how great I think Torchwood is, how I'm obsessed with British culture and Byronic heroes. Sometimes I wonder why I thought this was a good idea in the first place.
This, of course, comes up because I'm terrified that I'm doing things wrong. My whole life, I've worked for I don't know what... and it's terrifying to recognize that. I'm here in school, basically marking time now until I graduate and trying to find things that set me up and make me look distinctive for an internship that I, until recently, have only dreamed about getting. Well, am still dreaming about getting. I can see it in my own reality... it just seems too fantastic. I think of it as the impossible dream for a reason. But I don't know what I'm doing. If things don't work out, what am I left with? Is blogging really every going to pay off? What if I never finish writing any of the countless things I've started? What if I don't get any internships and graduate with no idea of what I want to do in life?
These questions really start to bog me down, especially after the event I just experienced. I was supposed to let the roofer into the apartment building to do some maintenance, I couldn't find him anywhere. I couldn't call him back because I didn't have his number and, when I did get his number, it was an hour after I was supposed to meet him and I'd already spent a half an hour walking around the outside of the building looking for him. Apparently he was there for about five minutes and left so it totally wasn't my fault. BUT I WAS PISSED. It made me feel so small, so powerless. This job is already rough sometimes because every once in a while, I get the feeling that people don't believe we can actually do this job because we're women. And then I feel like I just can't do this job because I'm 20 years old and I don't exactly look like a manager. And then I just feel like shit. So basically I was just pissed off about being treated like shit. And suddenly, all the things that had made my day good seemed unimportant and trivial. So what if Jules, my CSCL advisor, said that there's absolutely no reason not to try for the Late Late Show internship? So what if I overcame the bystander affect we were talking about in psych class and didn't assume that someone was going to return the key I found in the bathroom and instead returned said key to a very grateful woman in the writing center? So what if I feel like I'm actually going to have an interesting (if totally embarrassing) Nanowrimo story this year? So what if I totally have a celebrity crush on John Barrowman and dream about working for Craig Ferguson and want to be a famous writer? None of that matters because I suck at my job and no one respects me and no one cares about me and I fail at life. At least that's how I felt until I had a little cry, vented to [Львица] and listened to the title song from the musical "Sunset Boulevard" because it's been stuck in my head all day (again, showtunes invading my mind...)
Clearly, I don't suck at my job, people respect me, people care about me and I don't fail at life. But it's hard to think about and appreciate all the things I've accomplished when so many things I want are just... so lofty. I don't think I'm an egotist, I just think I ask a lot out of life. But when am I asking too much? But I so, so so much want to believe this:
Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I be allowed to dream crazy dreams? Why shouldn't I be allowed to try for something incredible? The real trick to all this is keeping my hopes up without getting to overconfident and then totally destroying and disappointing myself. But why shouldn't I at least dream about interviewing, getting the internship, meeting celebrities, just a little bit? It keeps me motivated. It keeps me positive. It keeps me sane.
Sometimes I feel like I should be doing more than what I am to prepare myself - working at some job half the time or leading some student government position or something. But some of those things aren't who I am. And there is only so much I can do in the time that has been given to me. Which is a frightening, staggering thought on many levels... though it's got a nice Lord of the Rings vibe to it. Yes, I don't have much time left before I graduate, before that deadline for the internship is due, before I have to decided what I'm going to do with my life before I kick the bucket and accept that mortality is a fact of life. Unless you're Jack Harkness, of course. But on that plus side, I shouldn't make myself do things I don't really want to do or give up things that truly matter to me. I'm going to run out and overwork myself and let my grades suffer just to impress someone. I'm not going to get involved with something I don't really care about. I'm not going to give up blogging just because I don't have that many followers or I feel like no one cares what I think or because Blogger will never recommend it to anyone and pretends this page doesn't exist. I don't blog for anyone, exactly - I blog because I can. I blog because I enjoy it. I blog for me.
Because when things get rough, it's nice to know that I have this thing, this creation of mine to fall back on. It's a nice comfort. Not to mention I'm finally happy with how the layout looks.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm to stop blogging for a while and go write the worst romance novel ever written and stop being such a gloomy schmuck. Ridiculous sappy storyline - Go!
I decided that, after the email we received from an angry tenant first thing this morning that I should indulge in the closets thing I can get to a British breakfast (as I am totally lacking eggs, sausage and beans in my eatables) - Crunchy Nut cereal and Tesco Earl Grey tea.
As this box proudly announces, Crunch Nut is a brand new Kellogg's cereal - in the States. I had it five years ago in London and have been trying to figure out how to get my hands on it ever since. IT IS DELICIOUS. I'm not a very big cereal fan; in fact I generally try to avoid cereal for breakfast at all costs because it's usually like eating sweetened Styrofoam. But this stuff... this stuff is the shit.
And this tea... I have tried all different kinds of Earl Grey, all different brands. And this is my favorite. It's got the typical bergamot flavor but also a nice smoky overtone. No idea why, but it's delightful. It also reminds me of St. Andrews, Scotland, because I bought it at a Tesco there. It's going to totally suck once the box I have runs out... so for now, I must make the best of it and save it for special occasions. Or mornings with unhappy tenants.
It all started when I got home last night at around 9:20 pm from band. I was checking my email and the Twitter universe when [Львица]'s phone rang and the girl from apartment #3, a basement unit, said her bathroom was flooding. [Львица] went down to investigate while I got the key from the lockbox for #103, as we thought it might be a leak from that unit. As #103 wasn't even home, we were kind of confused how there could be a leak (as most water issues from the pipes seems to occur when the person in the unit above is using the shower). [Львица] went to deal with #103 while I went to go help the tenant in #3 with the leak. As soon as I saw the bathroom, I froze.
The water was ankle deep and pouring out from the ceiling like a waterfall. A bottle of some sort of hair product was floating around and water was seeping into the carpet of the rest of the studio apartment rather quickly, turning it into the consistency of a swamp. I stupidly ran to get some towels, trying to figure out how to keep the water from spreading further. It did little good, as the towels were soaked in an instant. I ran to grab some buckets to start capturing water in while the ceiling tiles fell down, turned into what felt like soggy cardboard-like things and covering the floor in gritty sand-like stuff and staples. I set up some buckets and a giant trash can and, with another bucket, started dumping as much water as possible down the shower drain. Within minutes I was soaked by the onslaught of water from above. I continued to bail out water, like a sailor in the bottom of a sinking ship, and hoped to God one of the valves [Львица] was shutting off would finally do the trick. Eventually, she just shut of the water to the entire building and the water ceased its waterfall-esque activity.
[Львица] took over trying to salvage #3 bathroom while I went to each unit (23 in all) to tell all 34 tenants that the water was off in the entire building. #5 and #4 already knew; #5 is right next door to #3 and she had water seeping into her room from the leak. #4 heard the noise and came out to investigate and also had water at the edge of one of their doorways, even though their apartment is across the hall. I wish I could have tape recorded everyone's reactions as I went to each room, drenched from the leak with my hair plastered across my head like a wet squirrel and water pooling up around my feet from my saturated jeans. I returned to the basement to find that there was no longer any water standing in the bathroom but that the carpet was turning into a lagoon. After many calls to our landlord and his sister, we got an emergency clean-up crew to come out and vacuum the water out of the carpet and our friend Dan the plumber to come and fix the pipe. It was now around eleven o'clock at night.
The ceiling after the leak... photo courtesy of [Львица]
Apparently, whoever designed the plumbing in this building was on crack. Plumbers show up, look at the rows of pipes and the valves for each stack and open up the walls and just shake their head. There were pipes in #3 that had duct tape around them. Not plumber's tape; DUCT TAPE. Seriously? I mean, c'mon.
We got the water mopped up from the hallway, the girls in #4 expressed their consolation that we have the worst job in the world, and the kind-of drunk flood rescue crew and the kindly plumber arrived to save the day. After much-to-do, the carpet was mostly dry, the pipe was temporarily fixed (it was all caused by two pipes that separated... however the hell that happened) and the very tired building managers could finally go to bed.
Except that it wasn't over yet. Today, when I got back from class (yes, I did go to class despite getting only 6 hours of sleep; I think that's more than some kids usually get, so...), the plumber (a different plumber - Mike, who we'd met over the summer) was here to permanently fix the problem. Except that the problem started traveling upwards. Once the leak stopped in #3, it went up to #103 and started coming out. A hole was made in #103 and water started spurting out, making the carpet wet. Mike had to leave to go to another appointment, but another guy was supposed to come. Except that he didn't, we didn't have the other guy's number and Mike just left with an active leak. It kind of felt like this (minus Sam Neil):
So [Львица] shut off the water again, we waited for Mike and Jim, Mike's boss to return, and I did my Italian homework. The plumbers returned, made a hole in #203's room and finally figured out how to fix the leak. After deciding that the plumbing in our building is just insane.
We were joking about the other day how we feel like all the water in the building was collecting in one area and going to explode. Except that we thought that it would be in our apartment, since we had a leak above the sink (which isn't actually a leak... there's no water coming out of the pipe; it was just strangely damp. Who knows...). And then the explosion in #3... *sigh*.
As of now, all is well (KNOCK ON WOOD). All I can say is this job certainly keeps me on my toes. And Mike Rowe of "Dirty Jobs" fame totally missed out on what would have been the most epic episode of his show ever.
This morning, [Львица]'s cat woke me up by jumping on my back and meowing in my ear. No better way to wake up than by cat alarm. It was the best I'd felt in weeks, probably because I had a very cathartic lunch at Serum's with my parents (which has the best wings and the best fried chicken sandwich I've ever eaten in MY LIFE), even though I was tearing up at music, commercials and the news Saturday night (stupid PMS symptoms. Who thought crying over everything was a good thing to add in hormones?) Also, the leak in our bathroom ceiling was not active, which was good since I'm terrified the plaster is going to explode and water is going to go everywhere.
I went to get a load of laundry together and realized that I was short over a dollar's worth of quarters. So, I went out to get coffee and dental floss (yes, I know, great combination) so that I could end up with enough change to run the machines. I walked down to the Purple Onion in the fresh fall air and, because I am terrible at making up my mind, I ordered the first think I saw on the menu when the barista asked for my order. I ended up with a caffè Americano, which is just espresso and hot water. I am still wired from the amount of caffeine in my bloodstream. Then it was off to CVS to get the floss and back home.
Because I was nearly hyper-ventilating from the coffee, I decided to burn of my energy and do something outrageous and clean our bathroom.
Here's the deal - our apartment was not clean when we moved in. But because we'd spent so much time cleaning all the other 22 units for the new tenants, we didn't even bother with ours. Clearly the people who lived here had not cleaned much before they moved out, but then again, it probably wasn't clean when they moved in either. That's basically how it was for all of these units though. Anyway, I got ambitious and decided to clean - plus I couldn't stand the fact that there was an old scrap of toilet paper glued to the floor by dirt and dust that had been there since for God knows how long. Yeah, something needed done.
I'd cleaned the sink the night before because there was paint in it from when we got our shower repainted. First thing I decided to tackle was the toilet. IT WAS DISGUSTING. There was a brownish-black ring of... something... around the top. It took me at least 10 minutes of scrubbing and still not all of it came off. At least it looks better. And less disease-spreading.
Next I decided to scrub the floors. Because there were areas where you could see the gunk caked across the tiles. I did my best. It's not 100% clean, but it's liveable. I also think I was the first person to clean under the radiator since 1986. I felt like Cinderella, using a sponge and scrubbing at the tiles. No fairy godmother for me, but oh well - at least [Львица] and I won't have to worry about getting dirt on our feet the moment we get out of the show now.
A disgusting start to the day, but it make me feel pretty hardcore. I mean, really - how many college students would choose to do that sort of cleaning? Not that our tenants are going to have much of a choice. [Львица] and I plan on super cleaning our apartment and insisting that all other units look like this when they move out. Because somebody's gotta stop this cycle of never cleaning the apartments. It might as well be us. The building manager overlords have spoken.
Today, I was hoping to get the bulk of my homework done today so I could relax this weekend. Ha. Right.
Yesterday, we had an issue up in apartment 306 with a toilet that wouldn't stop flushing so our handyman had to run out here and temporarily fix it until he could return today to figure out what the hell was going. But then, this morning, [Львица] called me and said that water was gushing out of 306 and that there was some issue in 206.
For some ungodly reason, water erupted from the walls of 306 when one of the girls in 206 turned on their shower. Their bathroom in 306 filled with water, which then gushed "like a waterfall" down through the doorway of the bathroom doorway of 206.
Sad day. Just... yeah. Sad day.
I hate plumbing. I really do. I've inhereited it from my father. He can deal with any home improvement issue, as long as it doesn't involve complicated electrical wiring or plumbing. Because when it comes to plumbing... well, there's a reason it takes some serious training to know what the hell is going on there. I generally love water - when it's not being routed through pipe systems that seem rather faulty and enjoy ruining a perfectly good Friday morning. Because the plumbing in this building seems to be possessed. And it's sending me into hysterics.
Yep, plumbing issues turn me into Leopold Bloom from The Producers. Who knew?
That being said, I feel like no matter how crazy things are around here, the residents of this building are to be commended. Not only did they choose cheaper housing over the fancy-pants places like the Dinkydome (okay, so maybe they didn't choose, exactly, but there are other places that cost only a little more than here and are... shall we say, more luxurious) they also chose minimalist living (meaning you don't get a lot of perks. No exercise room, no free laundry, no plasma TVs and cable in each unit. And yes, to those of you who didn't know that, some college apartments come with this stuff now). Probably because minimalist living is a bit cheaper (though really, FloCo just down the street doesn't cost that much more. It's just brand-new and filled up faster than Adele tickets sell out. Okay, okay, not that fast. But you get the idea). Also, our residents are to be commended for their patience. Seriously, water exploding out of the walls? Not something you want to deal with very often. And yet they haven't flipped out on us. Well, not a total meltdown yet. Everyone has been very kind and forgiving so far. Except for you, 303. You know why.
I bring this up to remind myself that I'm doing this for them, the college students who choose a "distinctive" building with "character" and are making the best of it. If they weren't so fabulous, our job would be much, much harder. It's better to deal with just the exploding pipes, rather than exploding pipes and emotions. Knock on wood... I'm probably tempting fate now. Alas.
I had all these good intentions of writing about my experiences at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival yesterday, but I had to finish the "Pissed" post I started on Friday. And then after going to the Ren Fest, the chest cold I had started getting erupted into a stuffy-nosed, fever-ridden Sunday morning of blah.
Being sick was so much more fun when I was younger. Then I could stay in bed and watch TV and have my parents bring me chicken noodle soup. Today I had to get up to study for a test I have tomorrow and to make my own chicken noodle soup. Being a responsible adult kind of sucks.
Also, may I mention that Web-MD sucks as a diagnosing tool. I know I probably just have the common cold, but because I live in an apartment ridden with mold, I thought I should probably confer with the closest thing to doctor I could get at 9 am on a Sunday morning - the internet.
I understand that Web MD is not meant to replace a doctor. But when the little symptom finder can't even distinguish my cough and sore throat and slight fever with the symptoms of anthrax poising, I severely doubt it's ability to tell me anything.
So it's time for some serious R&R before classes tomorrow. Because if I still feel like this tomorrow morning - it's going to be one hell of a long day.
For some reason, every time [Львица] or I leave the apartment building, some small crisis occurs. Tonight, a pilot light was out in #2 while [Львица] was out to dinner with her dad, so half the building smelled like gas. I relit it and that seemed to do the trick, though the smell of gas still lingered as #106 came up and expressed her concern.
This building is insane. I'm beginning to hate this job.
You probably know this by now. Perhaps there is some essence of "dreamerism" that pervades my writing. Or because I write about the possibility of Nicholas Cage being a vampire without really addressing the point that vampires PROBABLY AREN'T REAL.
I'm also a Scorpio. I think being a dreamer is just a side effect.
Um... maybe we feign interest because we're daydreaming?
Anyway, point is, I have ridiculous hopes and expectations. Many of which I am my rational side and my dreamy side are constantly fighting over. And things get complicated.
I actually started blogging last summer (the summer before sophomore year) because I decided I wanted to try to get an internship on the Late Late Show. And I thought blogging would be a good way to build my resume. Except that blog kind of died out when school started up again AND I HAD TO BLOG FOR CLASS. It made me a better blogger (I hope) but it also kept me from doing personal writing for a while. And then I had the idea that I wanted to go for grad school for Cultural Studies.
And then I surrounded myself with grad students in a lecture about Hegel and realized that GRAD SCHOOL WOULD KILL ME. So I spent the rest of the year trying not to die (never take 18 credits that involve two night classes - EVER) - and I created this blog. Which is now being used for various nefarious purposes.
And then, after seeing Craig Ferguson live, I realized that I AM TOTALLY STUPID. I stopped thinking about the internship only because no one seemed to think it was possible, that no one seemed to believe I was able to do it (*cough, [X],* *cough, [novel killer]*). Would I like to work in television? I think so. Would I like to work for the funniest comedian in existence? Hell yes!
Do I have the right major for this sort of thing? Who cares! After dropping in at Radio K (which is as close to working for television as I'm going to get around here; not the same but the same general idea at least) I learned that half the volunteers are at least CSCL minors and I already ran into a few fellow psych majors. Do I have enough job experience? Well, thanks to this little run with the apartment, maybe so. Do I have any idea what L.A. is like? Fuck no.
Which is probably going to be my biggest problem.
I'm not the sort of person who ever dreamed of going to L.A. or running of to make it big in Hollywood. My yearning for fame always came from book writing. And music. And acting in the theater. Those sort of ridiculous things. Not Hollywood.
So it's strange for me, to say the least, to actually want to go to Hollywood now. Although it's not really the location - it's the show. It's so rare for me to find something that I really, really intensely like. I might be passionate, but only regarding a few selected things. Like 19th Regency romance novels. Stories involving life at sea. Scotland. Complicated psychological dramas that often involve sci-fi/fantasy themes. Things that I keep bringing up again and again and again... I mean, I like many things. But there are only a few certain things that I REALLY REALLY LIKE. Thus it probably is for most people.
Anyway, my long-winded point is, I am sometimes incredibly picky. Especially regarding humor. The fact that I can watch Craig Ferguson and that he always makes me laugh seem to be a sign that he is, at least, a demi-god.
Seriously, I love humor, it's like my favorite genre of... life - but I am SO PICKY. I'm one of those people who can sit in a theater and watch a comedic film and not laugh at anything (exactly how I felt when I saw Bridesmaids. But I'm wondering if that had to do with extenuating circumstances). I have watched George Lopez and David Letterman and not even smiled. Generally, I like Monty Python, but The Life of Brian just made me uncomfortable. Maybe because I was watching it with [hahahaha SHUT UP].
So it makes me really happy that the Late Late Show is something I: A) find funny, B) can relate to, C) is the most un-L.A. thing in L.A. and D) something I feel like I could be a part of. Thus, the impossible dream.
A little Broadway, a little Sinatra - FOR THE WIN.
Of course, there are some difficulties with this whole crazy plan:
1) The intership would have to happen next summer. Or I would have to decide to add an extra year of school - thus a five year degree. Which means more money spent on college.
2) I would have to make sure the U actually will allow me to get credit for this internship. Otherwise I can't do it.
3) I would have to have AN AMAZING RESUME AND NOT FUCKING GET NERVOUS AND MAKE MYSELF LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT.
4) I would probably have to learn how to drive, since transportation around L.A. sucks.
5) I would have to figure out where the hell I'd be staying in a town I've never been to.
Oh, yeah, and this....
6) I WOULD ACTUALLY HAVE TO GET THE BLOODY INTERNSHIP IN THE FIRST PLACE.
The requirements seem pretty loose; they don't make any mention of needing any previous experience in TV. But I have no idea what I'm competing against. Maybe all TV interns just want to go to the Daily Show or the Colbert Report and so it won't be as competitive as it could be. But then I think about all the kids who are majoring in communications - and all the ones who aren't - that would totally love to do this. AND I FEEL TOTALLY FUCKED.
But I am not giving up. NOT THIS TIME. I'm going to go for it. It's what I want to do - the only thing I really want to do, other than write and blog and watch movies and British TV shows and talk about hipster music. So what if it's a big mistake? I've got a lot more to make (thank you, Gossip Grows on Trees, for that awesome line. For that, I shall introduce you to Radio K).
Just as I was leaving for band practice tonight, the doorknob to our apartment came off in my hand. [Львица] attempted to fix it after she had ALREADY fixed it before. See, when we moved in, the previous tenants had gotten locked out of their apartment on the their last night on the building. So after we moved in, [Львица] got the new knob and figured out how to fix it.
Except that [blue-eyed Mr. Fix-it] and his assistant [the other one] weren't convinced that [Львица] had done it properly. So they tweaked it.
Now note that it doesn't work. It was fine before they messed around with it. SEE, MEN, YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING.
So now I am currently locked in my apartment, as I cannot get the door open with the knob off. If there are any other disasters tonight, they'd better be solvable without needing me on the other side of that door...
There was a strange, percussive sound coming from our apartment this morning. At first I thought it was a strange, very different rock song coming from [Львица]'s radio. But then I realized it sounded like water runnnings. As I walked into the bathroom, I noticed there was a giant leak coming from the ceiling.
Ah, old buildings.
It was the second leak that's appeared since Sunday. And now I'm beginning to feel bad karma about this job again. The good news is, things seem to be back to "normal" for now. But it's one thing after another, and another, and another...
Can't either of us leave for a day without chaos erupting?
As I stated previously, the BBC show Torchwood has begun to take over my life. So much so that this strange unidentifiable bugs that inhabit our apartment building have earned the name "weevil bugs" even though they don't look like the actually weevil or the weevils from the TV show. But calling them weevil bugs at least incorporates how alien they look.
An actual weevil. I could make a Master and Commander reference, but I'll spare you.
A weevil from Torchwood. I think this one is named Janet.
What we're dealing with.... gross gross gross gross gross gross.
Upon looking for images of our little "weevil bug" I have since discovered that our strange creature is in fact centipedes. WHICH I LOATHE. Seriously, they are one of my least favorite insects ever. FUCK. Well, I'm still going to call them "weevil bugs." Because for some reason naming them after aliens from a TV show somehow makes them less terrifying than calling them by their real names. Unless they start actually looking like weevils... *ugh*
Anyway, I digress. Point is, I'm obsessed with this show. It's killing me that we know that the main character Jack Harkness can live forever but we don't really know who he is, what's happened to him, how he joined the organization Torchwood. Thus the reason the show is so damn addicting. But over the course of watching the first season (we're into the second season now, yay!) I've noticed something - though the show focuses on relationships with Jack that usually involve men, the writers have also hinted at heterosexual relationships (note season 1, episode 5 - "Small Worlds," for those who are as nerdy as me :p). Which reminded me, strangely enough of another sci-fi/fantasy series I'm interested in - namely, Cassandra Clare's The Mortal Instruments series.
So here's a basic play-by-play as to how [Львица]'s and my first day as official building managers of our apartment building went. It's obviously not everything, but it's as close as I can come. Watch out, this fucker is gonna be long.
8 am: I wake up, think about getting out of bed, get out of bed, eat. I think about waking up [Львица]. I will regret this later.
9 am: [Blue-eyed Mr. Fix-it], the assistant to the building's repair man, knocks on our door, looking for [Львица]. I regret not waking her minutes earlier. I wake [Львица], she gets dressed and goes out to tell [blue-eyed Mr. Fix-it] what needs... well, fixed. We give him a list and we're suddenly on the clock.
9:30ish: [Львица] eats breakfast while I go to find the keys to the other apartments. I find them, label them, and discover a bunch of the keys to both the apartments and the lock box are missing. I am concerned.
10:00 am-ish: [Львица]and I make labels for the mailbox, so the new tenants will know which is theirs. In the process, we spell several wrong. Oops. We then tape up signs in the rooms with move-in information for the tenants.
11 am-ish: Our boss's sister and father, who help him run the company arrive to help sort out move-in stuff. I am given a bunch of random tasks by my boss's father, who tells me to change light bulbs in fixtures where it's not the bulb, it's the wiring in the fixture, and to put up a shower curtain in a room which is locked (and without giving me the shower curtain he had in his hand). Somehow, the painter also arrives to fix up some painting issues, though we weren't expecting him. Tenants begin arriving. One finds a hornet's next in her window while trying to put in her A/C unit. I find the previous building manager to kill the hornets while I try NOT to give people the wrong set of keys to their unit. One family finds their apartment not clean enough, even though it was one of the cleanest unit vacated, and spend two hours cleaning before moving in. Another mother complains about ice build-up in the freezer, much to the embarrassment of her son. She later tells us that the apartment is not "move-in ready" and that they came a long way and that they are expecting better. [Львица] and I try not to kill anyone. We cleaned for HOURS in the previous two days, having only four people - the two of us and two friends from school. If we wanted to thoroughly clean each unit, as we did for 103 or 1 or 4. But that took five hours at least per unit. And we have 23 units. So, five times 23 is... 115 hours. We only had 48 between the time people left and people moved in. Maybe a little understanding would have been nice.
1 pm-ish: We begin to notice that people are complaining about windows - A LOT. We decide to make this our project for the year. We let the painter into unit 306 to do some painting over mold damage. He says it's the worse mold he's ever seen. We know our bathroom is far worse so we show him ours. He remarks that it looks like aliens are growing in our shower. Exactly what I want to hear about my new home :(
4 pm: A friend of ours from high school moves in. We help him carry stuff and explain that we spent a hell of a lot of time cleaning his unit and that we tried our best. Oh, and that he also has had water damage to his room and that it's going to have to be looked into. We walk by the laundry room and find that the painter has cleaned out his gear in the sud-saver sink, left paint chips in the hair catcher that's in the sink (why there's one of those in the sud-saver sink, I can't tell you) and that someone has started laundry. We note that the laundry machine disposes of its water into the sink, which is clogged by paint chips, and soapy water is going everywhere. We clean it off, pissed off at this turn of events.
7 pm: We vent about our day. We have worked 10 hours straight. Shit.
8 pm: We go out to get dinner, feel exhausted, return home. We contemplate quitting our job.
11 pm: We go to bed.
That was day one. Day two was less exciting but still rather dramatic. For one, I had to clean unit 4 as the tenants moving in refused to move in until it was cleaner. [Львица] and I, however, have decided NOT to quit our job. It was a terrible first day, but things are going more smoothly now. Knock on wood :P
