Scratching where it itches

Perhaps it was talking to someone about my grandparents the other day, which led to my opening up Ancestry.com again after so many months away. Looking at the many photos I have scanned and stored in iPhoto (the few that I scanned out of at least a dozen photo albums which are now gone, probably clogging up a landfill somewhere), made me sad. All that hard work doing the Ancestry research out of boxes of photos, clipping, letters, newspaper articles — now all gone. I’m grateful that I transcribed so many of the letters and copied the photos and organized as much as I did before the move and the loss of all my stuff. Without that, I’d literally have nothing left of it at all.

With all this, I couldn’t help but engage in much thought and brooding regarding the present state of my so-called family. How do I reconcile that going into the next phase of my life without my siblings?

I came to the conclusion that I must consider my parents ONLY as my family. The siblings are merely biologically related, that’s all. One set of parents, two families.

Now I just need to find a way to explain this to a total stranger — some way that sounds less emotionally damaged. (haha!)

It’s actually quite liberating to think of it that way. My parents had them, then my parents had me. Separate, but equal genetically if not socially. It’s grown out of the same notion that an adopted child might consider the people who raised them as their parents rather than the biological petrie dish parents who donated the DNA. In other words, there is more to family than mere genetics.

For me, it turns the situation on its head. None of this is my fault, really. How sad that my siblings could never accept me. They are missing out on SO much! They’ve lost so much by turning their backs on me. This was so reconciliatory that I wonder why I never considered it before?

For the better part of my life, I have worked VERY hard to make my relationship with the siblings work. It was HARD work. But as I was never part of their group, I was never admitted to their little club no matter how I tried. We are 100% blood-siblings, but we were raised a generation apart. You can’t correct for the fact that the three of them were raised in the fifties and sixties, then me in the seventies and eighties. Totally different.

From the beginning, they wanted nothing to do with me. By contrast, from the beginning, I was trained and expected to worship the ground my siblings walked on, forever in their shadows. Is there any wonder why I am stalled in such a state of confusion? Who am I if not the person constantly compared to them, trying to live up to their many accomplishments, or subject to suspicion and punishment based on their crimes. That is truly how I have ended up where I am today; tried and convicted for crimes I never committed, punished for someone else’s wrong-doings or simply because I am unable to meet an impossible standard.

So I did what I had to do, finally: I let the three of them go. In doing so, I feel at once unfettered and lonely. I was an only child, but not alone until now. On my mother’s deathbed, she admitted to me that she was terrified that I would irreparably break away from the others. She never wanted my sister and I to fight — it was a huge regret of hers that she’d cut off one of her sisters out of her life for many years. My mother wished to protect me from that same remorse by forcing me to be the one to apologize when my sister and I fought, though it wasn’t my fault. My sister never received the same advice. In the absence of being scolded and never being told to apologize no matter how severe the infraction, is it any wonder that sis developed into a person who values only her own self worth, at whatever price — even at the expense of my dignity?

Eventually, my spine hardened. I stopped putting up with the abuse. Much to my surprise, allowing the relationship to die off was easy. I just had to let go. There was no chase. No apologies. No grand gestures. Just silence. It was no more difficult to lose that bond with my sister than it would be to let go of a helium-filled balloon. Like that balloon, I watched our relationship quietly rise away from me, higher and higher, carelessly float away upon an invisible breeze, getting smaller and smaller until it was no more than a speck upon the skyline before it disappeared.

And I was free.

To mix my metaphors for a moment, for me, a family is like a house where you are welcome to come in without knocking — where you are safe, always welcome, with no questions asked. I used to have this old wooden sign hanging in my kitchen that read “Home Sweet Home — where you can scratch where it itches.” That’s all I ever really wanted; I hope I can find that again, this time, on my own terms.

 

The living and the dead

I found out this morning that my DCbro and SIL have moved to, of all places, Wyoming.

Or as I’m calling it… WHY-oming?

Initially, I was puzzled about this. It made no sense. Why would they go THERE of all places? They don’t know anybody out there at all. Why move away from their families? Away from everything they know and say they love? Then I remembered.

My DCbro and his wife are primarily motivated by money at every angle. I remembered that back when I was checking out Texas, they were asking me about it since they were considering moving to another state when they retired in a couple of years (which would be, about now). And since Wyoming IS one of those states with no state income tax, and the standard of living is considerably cheaper than the DC area — well, it ALL makes sense.

Cheap bastards.

Full disclosure here: I haven’t been on speaking terms with my brother and his wife since July of last year, so I’m a little bitter.

His wife used to say she was motivated by family matters — that always covered her true motivation’s tracks. They moved here to NY allegedly to be close to HIS family, but the underlying reason was her greed. Her company was offering here a huge salary increase and holding out the carrot of a promotion as well. A few years later, they moved away, again allegedly to be nearer to HER family, but ultimately, it was just so she could get a promotion. She was bound and determined to become the first female CEO of her company, but it was never to be. Her move actually ended up stunting her. See, her children became teenagers about that time — her daughter, particularly troubled, had no supervision with my SIL and Bro working all the time, and got into a great deal of trouble. SIL’s company didn’t look kindly on this — no high-paid executive of theirs could have those kinds of family problems waiting to blow up as a PR nightmare.

Long story short, SIL and Bro have always been greedy, money-driven people, and the people in their lives have paid the price. However, now that they are retirement age, it seems they don’t have to pretend to be all about “family” matters anymore. Grandbabies be damned, they’re moving — and of all places, to the middle of the frickin’ country. All their “family” members now reside back on the east coast, no longer a car ride away.

On the one hand, it’s kinda nice to see them finally drop the act. I mean, it’s refreshing to see them be who they are. But then again, I’m disappointed that for all they’ve been through, they haven’t learned ANYTHING.

I remain a bit angry about it all for some reason. Maybe it’s knowing what a waste it is. Knowing that they’ve learned nothing. I don’t know why I’m upset. The fact is, we haven’t spoken since July last year, and as far as I’m concerned, we’ll never talk to each other ever again. It’s strange having all these feelings bubbling up inside; anger, disappointment, rage, fear, disappointment, sadness, loss.

I wonder, what our long-lost relatives would think of our shattered family? So distant, so depleted of love, so hopelessly broken. What would my own mother say, who treasured family above money and all other matters? What would she think of her eldest daughter, her two sons, and her youngest — none of whom talk to one another except to exchange occasional pleasantries (and me, outcast from them all)?

Then again, it doesn’t matter what the dead think. The living make their own poor choices, and suffer the consequences. The dead don’t care.

As for me, I’ve decided I don’t give a rat’s butt either. I’m probably just mad because it’s stirring up every emotion I’ve suppressed over the past six months, and I don’t appreciate that. Whatever happens, I hope they get what they deserve (whatever that may be, good or bad).

 

Another day in the salt mines

You know, it’s a funny thing that a few short months ago, I loved my new job every bit as much as I now despise it. Finding a replacement is complicated by the holidays of course, so I’m screwed on several levels. In my old job, as I grew to hate it more and more each day, I could call in sick or take vacation days just to get away. Not so with this job — there IS no sick or vacation time to be taken. Our schedules are different every week — this week, I had Friday off, but I tried to get Tuesday off too by saying I had “appointments” that I couldn’t move. Well, what they did was move my “off” day to Tuesday instead of Friday so I wouldn’t lose any extra time. Swell.

In a way, it’s a good thing. It keeps me angry so I won’t puss out about getting another job. It’s also teaching me a certain amount of sticktoitiveness that’s been missing in my life. I don’t get away that easy I guess.

Also interesting how this place deals with holidays. My boss gave me a $10 gift certificate to the coffee shop across the street in a card that said “Thank you for all you do.” Uh, yeah. But according to your assistant manager, I don’t do shit, so… no wonder I’m so confused. The assistant manager (who hates me) gave me a card with a scratch-off lotto ticket inside. I never get these things, so I’m not sure, but I may have won a dollar. Hooray? The third manager gave me a card stamped with his name and the standard “Merry Christmas” sentiment. And the headquarters managers? They gave us all each a $3 box of Russell Stovers. No big Christmas bonus then, I assume? Haha! Our store decided to have a noontime Christmas “Party” that I had to work through — but of course the managers enjoyed it and so did all the folks who work in the back. Again, I suspect that this is how MOST place handle Christmas Parties when the working folks are just minimum-wage schleps. Still, I thought it was kinda rude, and since I was in a pissy mood anyway, I decided to hold off on my break until mid-afternoon so I could enjoy the leftover party foods once everyone had cleared out.

It was one helluva long shift too — six hours when I normally do four or five. You wouldn’t think that’s much, but since I was busting my tail to run a million racks of new clothes onto the sales floor, I was in constant motion. I decided to put a sticker on my uniform for each rack that I completed — I had about 20 stickers congested on my uniform by the end of the day. It was a good thing too because the manager saw me, asked what they were, and when I told her she smiled, clapped and gave me a hug. Baffled, I said, “I do this work every day, I just never wore it on my chest before.” She thought it was a clever thing — I was just happy that I wasn’t in trouble.

By mid-day, my feet were killing me! I was hobbling for the last couple of hours, and when I got out at 5, I still had to RUN toward the bus stop only to discover I j-u-u-u-st missed the damned thing! DAMMIT! So I had to book it over to the next bus stop that catches the bus on the way back. I walked, then waited, fifteen minutes in the cold rain muttering to myself about how much life sucks when I saw the bus coming. I stood up right under the bus sign and waved my hand with my silver bus pass (it’s supposed to reflect the headlights so they can see me better at night) and do you know, that motherfucker drove right past me? Honest to God, it was like I wasn’t even there. I was swearing up a storm like a character on “Deadwood”. I pulled out my phone and called the bus depot (yes, I have their number on speed dial — there was no way I was walking home) and told them what happened — they actually made him turn around and come back for me. How do you like that? Finally some justice.

The bus driver (who was a sub) swears he didn’t see me. All he said was that neither he nor anyone else on the bus saw me out there jumping around and waving my reflective bus pass. I think the guy was talking to one of the passengers and wasn’t paying attention (I’ve seen that happen before). At any rate, he said he thought he heard someone yelling after he drove past… haha… I just told him “no problem now” and thanked him for coming back for me — after all, everyone’s allowed a mistake or two. He made it right in the end. No sense chewing the guy out. After all, he’s just as sub — and why spread the misery I go through every fucking day around, just because I’m having a shit day?

I got home and was soaked to the skin and shivering like mad. I couldn’t get warm. I had a little leftover General Tso’s Chicken, took my meds, and crashed under my heating blanket (my one early Christmas present that I gave myself — best thing ever!). I woke up shortly thereafter roasting. Jeez, I can’t get it right.

The JesusFreak that I’m doing the illustration for also finally got back to me this evening with changes. Changes that are NOT going to get done tonight — yet she wants everything so she can finish her book and mail it out to her kids in time for Christmas. Uh,… what? Yeah. But whatever. I’ll finish her changes tomorrow sometime after work (providing I don’t experience a repeat of today’s idiocy), then she can do whatever she wants with them. I’ve stopped caring about everything.

I just want Christmas to NOT suck. I want to have a lovely day, warm and safe, with no phone calls from bill collectors or any other people whom I owe money to. Just a nice low-stress day please. That’s all I want for Christmas.

Well, that, a car, and a BIG pile of money! LOL!

Probably will get the former and not the latter, but oh well.

 

Christmas is coming and Mad Margaret is getting thi-i-i-i-i-n-ner

I guess I will start with the good news. I remain gainfully employed at the thrift shop. Though the way they plow through employees, I don’t know how long this will last. Turns out, they fire people there so often, they are only “fully staffed” for the occasional week at a time. They fire people based on rumors — not things they themselves have witnessed — so it’s a miracle that I’ve lasted as long as I have. Having been there 6 months, for them, is virtually a lifetime. Since I’ve been there, one girl was fired based on a rumor (she denied it), another fired for showing up at work under the influence of alcohol (she admitted it), one of the girls in the back room was fired because she was caught setting items aside to purchase for herself (the regional manager caught her, which is the ONLY reason the girl was fired because they ALL do it. The poor girl was simply unlucky enough to get caught). A man who works in the back was fired because he was injured on the job, and took too much time off subsequent to the injury (he couldn’t afford to go to a doctor to get a note). Another girl was fired because she had too many writeups regarding shopping on the clock (again, they all do it, but she was unlucky enough to get caught). And now, a girl was fired because — initially, she was taking too much time off for being sick (she had a doctor’s note, but the managers didn’t like her taking so much time off and were just waiting for a ‘real’ reason to fire her), but then management had a stroke of luck in that one of the Mystery Tattlers said they smelled alcohol on the girl’s breath. It was all over after that.

And that’s just what I know about. A friend of mine who works for a lawyer said I should pass some of these cases along to her boss because these jokers could be sued off the planet for defamation of character and wrongful termination. I told her that I think they haven’t been sued yet because who would bother hiring a lawyer for some crummy-ass minimum wage job? Not to mention, who could afford to?

Last week, I was written up because someone on staff saw me pull a newspaper out of the trash and cut the coupons out of it — and tattled on me to the assistant manager (who hates me). Mind you, those very same coupons are provided by the REGIONAL manager who encourages us to give them out to needy customers. However, our grumpy assistant manager hates the coupons because the store loses money — and has told us that we are not to give any out unless specifically asked for one. I never realized this meant that I couldn’t cut them out of the newspaper in the garbage — would you? Doesnt’ matter. But get this: the Assistant Manager said that because I was clipping those coupons, and that’s not technically part of my job, that meant I was “goofing off”, which I have been warned about before, therefore, I was being “nonproductive” and earned a writeup. Yeah. Really. It’s just as stupid as it sounds. I was flabbergasted. And because whoever the mystery tattler is, they have it out for me every bit as much as the Assistant Manager does, I’m constantly being called in the office and being accused of stuff I didn’t do, like goofing off or passing work on to other people which is patently untrue. This gives them ammunition — in the form of the number of writeups I get — to eventually build a case to fire me. Over a rumor. Yeah. Seriously, I don’t care how many bargains I get in that place, that’s crazytown and I’m not putting up with it. Give me a couple of weeks — I’ll either leave of my own accord, or they’ll fire me based on the Mystery Tattler’s rumor-mongering.

Because the Assistant Manager was such a pompous asshole about the whole situation (a coupon? Really?), I made no secret of my intention to seek other employment. I said, “You come to me with this… complete idiocy… with no evidence! Nothing but someone else’s word — someone who refuses to go on the record to stand by their remarks. You have never witnessed any of this alleged ‘non-productive’ behavior for yourself. I honestly don’t know what to tell you. I work hard here. I bust my ass every single day. I do not goof off. I do NOT pass work along to others! I don’t know what to say except to welcome you to come on the floor and watch me for yourself. Observe me. If I’m doing something you don’t want me to do, TELL me. But I don’t want to be back here in another week with another mystery person telling you I’m goofing off. This is completely unfair! If YOU are not happy with me, I honestly don’t know how much better I can do at this job. I go home every night confident that I did everything I could every single day. I am honest and ethical in all my dealings here. I am PROUD of the work I do here — and if you disagree, after all this time, then I should start looking for other work right now.”

At this point, the assistant manager set my file down in front of her and replied, “Oh no, Margaret, don’t misunderstand. We like you and we’re really happy with you as an employee. You just need a little work in this area. Maybe we should look at this as a ‘growth point’. Maybe I do need to be on the floor more. Maybe I do need to watch you and the other cashiers. We both need to grow from here.” Ugh. Smug. I was allowed to write some comments at the bottom of the writeup sheet, but that was all. The deed was done.

The situation has become untenable. I refuse to put up with that childish, petty bullshit. And if the REAL manager, who DOES like me, isn’t willing to intercede in this vindictiveness, there’s no point in going to upper management to complain. I just need to leave of my own accord and on good terms with the REAL manager — then at least I’ll have a solid reference going into the future.

On the home front, I am now in the itsy bitsy apartment going on two months. The Brainiacs in the apartment nextdoor have finally decided to leave me alone, so our relationship is now under cold detente.

My dog Blondie died last month the day before Thanskgiving. He developed a stomach bug that wouldn’t go away, and he was in tremendous, ungodly pain for three days, forcing me to choose to euthanize him. He was my baby — I’m heartbroken, still, and find myself occasionally still crying about it so … well… as Forrest Gump might declare, “that’s all I have to say about that.” I can’t talk about it anymore.

On to other things…

Financially, I’m barely keeping my head above water, but thanks to a few fortunate turns of events (such as Christmas Greed on Ebay), I’m managing alright. People are willing to spend this time of year, so that plus access to items via my job at the thrift store, I’m not rich, but I’m okay.

For resale, the main thing I have access to through the store is clothing. I don’t know shit about designer clothing — anyone want to educate me, please comment on what names I can look for — but I do know a few designer names. One in particular that I recall from when I was skinny is “Seven for all Mankind” jeans. We get that stuff in pretty often. When I see it, I buy it and resell on ebay — a $5 investment can make me anywhere from $20-$50. Occasionally (rarely) more, but it’s still not bad.

Then there’s the jewelry. The jewelry case is part of the checkout counter at the front of the store where I am stationed. Occasionally, if the managers are busy, they will give me the jewelry to put out (that means I get first dibs on what I can buy). But — that’s not all it’s cracked up to be for various reasons. Initially, I found very little if any gold or silver. Thinking that was pretty strange, I looked into it — turns out, the manager of the thrift store was letting her husband (not an employee of the store, and a known dealer!) go through the jewelry under the guise that he was “organizing” it before it hit the sales floor; funny how all the gold and silver magically disappears in the process. Yeah. Not joking. How’s that for being a bunch of big cheating bastards? Well, for whatever reason (either she got caught doing it, or he’s just off doing other things), he hasn’t even made an appearance at the shop for over a month. Thus, the assistant manager, who doesn’t know jack about jewelry, has been tasked with organizing and pricing it. She hates it and does nothing but grumble and complain — but for me, this is GREAT news because — you guessed it — turns out there’s gold in them thar’ hills. Not pounds of it, but a few chains, earrings, and the occasional bracelet… it adds up. Even the broken stuff (which normally hits the trash) has been hitting the sales floor instead and — you guessed it — there’s gold there too! The minute those shiny sparkly things hit the case, I’m all over that like an Ethiopian on a Big Mac. This past month, I’ve found about $500 worth (only spending about $10-$15 to buy it). I may not be able to hit garage sales anymore, but as long as the manager’s husband stays away from the jewelry, I might do just fine.

Speaking of not hitting garage sales, yes, I’m still carless. That’s another reason I’m seeking out new employment opportunities. I HAVE GOT to make more money. Even with the occasional gold find, it’s not enough for me to actually “save” money toward larger purchases like the car. So if I can get a better paying full time job, I should be able to afford a cheap car within a couple of months (I hope).

Being car-less isn’t the end of the world, but it makes getting around a lot more difficult. I am losing a bit of weight though from walking everywhere, and I’m in better cardiovascular health than I’ve been in years. My apartment is located within a few blocks of downtown, so I can walk most places that I need to be. And where I can’t walk, I can take the bus. Public transportation hasn’t been my gig since I was about 19. As a teenager, I used to take the bus everywhere. What else was a poor teenager with no driver’s license and disinterested parents to do? And honestly, once you get the hang of it, taking the bus isn’t all that bad. I don’t know how buses are elsewhere, but here they are very well cared for and clean. The bus drivers are very friendly — always willing to help too. One driver in particular is quite nice and will drop me off at my cross-street if it’s the last run of the night (though it’s not technically on the route). About the worst part of bus-ing it everywhere is not the drivers nor the bus itself but the other passengers. Lots of elderly, poor, and disenfranchised ride the bus. And the occasional nutball who talks to him/herself or –worse– begins talking to me ad nauseum about whatever passes his fancy. Ugh. To cut the convos to a minimum, I usually put my nose in a book, magazine, or my cell phone — that keeps most nuts at bay.

But to be honest, the absolute main problem with being car-less is TIME. Everything takes so friggin’ long now! Getting to work — an 8-minute car ride — is an hour to an hour-and-a-half ordeal. I have to walk to the downtown station, then catch the bus which goes all over town before it gets to my destination, then I have to walk from there to the store. We’ve been lucky that the winter snows haven’t arrived yet, but when they finally do, this could get a lot more complicated a lot more quickly. Still, it’s not THAT bad. I don’t have to pay car insurance, car payments, or pay for gas. Bus is a buck per ride, or $10 per week for unlimited rides (that’s the bus pass I have).

As for laundry, forget it. I don’t do laundry unless you count washing things by hand in the bathroom. The laundromat is NOWHERE along the bus route, and about a half-hour walk from my house. No way, no how. What little I do is washed by hand in the tub.

Shopping is also complicated. Not only am I watching my pennies, but I watch how much I purchase. I used to hit the grocery store and buy BAGS AND BAGS of whatever groceries. Not any more. One or two bags max, and nothing heavy like bottled water or soda. Why? Because regardless of whether I’m bus-ing it, I still have to carry things at least a few blocks to my house. Last weekend, I overestimated the amount I could carry and almost passed out from the weight of everything. No joke. I feel like a pack mule most days.

And traveling out of town? Not happening. I can’t hit the out-of-town stores unless I have an entire day to kill transferring from bus to bus to bus. And visiting friends? Not happening. My friend Cee and her sisters live in the outskirts of town — only about 15 minutes by car, but a complete impossibility by foot (unless I have a couple of hours to kill). She normally invites me over for Christmas dinner, but I’m guessing the invite won’t come this year because — who’s going to be willing to pass on the spiked egg nog so they can pick me up and drop me off on Christmas? Probably nobody. Oh well.

Luckily for me, regarding the gold, I have Cee’s sister who meets me at work to pick up my gold finds, then takes them to our out-of-town dealer and gets me the maximum trade-in value.

That’s how I’m surviving.

As for Christmas, any of my long-time readers know that I have NOT been in the Christmas Spirit for a number of years (since M and I broke up basically) for various reasons. The good news is, this year, I am, at least a little, in the Christmas Spirit. This may be due in no small part to the fact that the store has Christmas Music playing 24/7 now. You can’t help but feel a little Christmassy after the 400th time that Der Bingle croons “White Christmas”. But however it happened, it did, and I’m grateful — it feels like starting over fresh, and reminds me of the first Christmas I spent on my own. I was 19 or 20 and was renting a small house on the lake. I had a tiny 2-foot tree, much like the one I have now. It was the prettiest little tree that I put together, and even though I felt lonely, I had my little dog (long since deceased) and for me, that little tree represented a little sprig of bright sparkly hope for the coming year and the future at large. I kept that little tree and put it up every year after that (until the storage company sold it and everything else I used to own this past fall, but we’re not talking about that now).

But now — NOW it’s a fresh start. Again. A new tree for a new life — this time, one lived on my OWN terms.

Yes, I’m back to hating my job, but I’m semi-confident that I will find something new and soon.

I took an illustration job this week to do some drawings for this crazy Jesus Freak author’s little kid’s book that she’s written; that gives me hope too. It’s nice to put pencil to paper and generate ‘art’ again, even if it is for a ridiculously cheap price. Even that feels strangely good too, even though she’s been a demanding high-maintenance client. Why is it always the ones who pay the least that demand the most?

And while I miss Blondie, I still have my redheaded step-dog who is blossoming into his own dog too. He is no longer following Blondie’s lead, so he has to find his own way around life — and he is doing splendidly! But I notice some loneliness in him. I hope to get us another dog, perhaps this spring when I can spend more money and time — not only to train another puppy, but to get into a better apartment that accepts dogs. Apartments that take dogs are rare, but given time and money, I should be able to find something.

At any rate, this is enough of a break from my illustration work. I have some drawings to finish, so I must get back to it. A pack mule’s work is never done.

 

Stranger Danger

I am tired.

Working for a living, even if it’s mindless dreck, is exhausting. I’m on my feet, walking around, at my job for about 6 hours a day. My boss likes me, so she’s been signing me up for as many hours as I can get (I need the money). PLUS, I’m on my feet for about an hour before and after due to travel by foot and by bus between home and work. AND I’m on my feet to walk to the grocery store, the pharmacy, and any other shop that I need to hit.

Not that I’m complaining about walking around per se. I actually love the exercise. Yes, I said love — because it does not suck, and I have to admit I really like it. I feel better, I look better, and I have a lot more stamina than I had before.

BUT

The side effect is, my feet are sore. I don’t have proper footwear for all this walking. My running shoes, originally purchased about 6 years ago for the purposes of occasional exercise, are about 1/2 size too small. And after almost 5 months of CONSTANT use, they’re literally falling apart now. I need new $150 sneakers and can’t afford them.

That’s at the core of the problem. While I don’t mind the walking, I don’t have the money to afford the comfort needed to  keep me healthy.

And being in pain is exhausting. Last night, I really needed to list things on ebay when I got home at 6:30pm, but I was so completely wiped out, after I fed the dogs and myself, I fell asleep. Yep, fell asleep. I awakened around 11:30 to let the dogs out, but then went back to bed.

You can’t get much done when all you do is walk, work, and sleep!

And then there’s the nutball nextdoor. You might remember me mentioning The Brainiacs — the crazy young couple who share the same hallway with me and complain that I make too much noise coming and going. Well, there’s a new bump on the ever growing rocky road we’re on. After several more incidents where the kid has screamed at me in the hallway for making noise, I finally had enough. I’ve tried everything within my power to soften hallway noise — from hanging things on the walls to oiling squeaky hinges, to walking barefoot and trying to carry the dogs down the stairs to reduce the noise I make and try to be a good neighbor while still maintaining my own rights to come and go as I please.

Mr. Brainiac — who is, in fact, nothing but a skinny 20-year old kid — is as unstable as an improperly made bomb. I have never had a moment where I felt he was acting “normal”. He looks like a meth head and he acts like he’s on crack. He complains about severe insomnia — saying that whenever I’m “clomping around” the hallway, I’m waking him up. He refuses to do anything about it himself — everything is my fault. The other night, when I was verbally attacked at 1am for waking him up (the dogs woke me up because they had to go out; I was no more happy about it than the kid was) — I asked the kid what specifically woke him up? What awful thing did I do that was so ridiculously loud? All I did as far as I know was open my door; at the point he yelled at me, I hadn’t even gone down the stairs yet. Turns out, that’s all it took — opening the door. Specificially, turning the lock was what woke the kid up. What?

Yep, he’s certifiable. I mean, it isn’t as if I haven’t tried. The fact is, the kid would complain if I dropped a pin out there.

So, fuck him. I had enough. I took a couple hours of my own insomnia to write out in detail every incident and set a time and date stamp to each one. Then, I called the landlord in the morning to complain about the kid, and to tell him that, at this point, I’m considering it harassment. The landlord agreed with my story, but added… the kid is NOT the “tenant of record”. Oh? Yeah, some OTHER guy is. This kid is the result of a sublet! Oh great. I have no idea how all this is handled now, but it certainly explains why the kid hasn’t called the landlord on ME yet. At any rate, the landlord assured me he would handle the situation, but I do not feel safe. What if this kid wants retribution? He certainly seems unstable to me.

So I called in my friend “google” and found out a few things about my new neighbors.

First, the kid is a convicted felon. Nice, huh? Yeah. This past spring, he was arrested and pled guilty to aggravated assault. He and a gang of friends chased and beat up some 17-year old kid; they subsequently dragged the kid to their apartment where they held him hostage and continued beating him. Why this kid is walking around out and about and not in jail is anybody’s guess, but the paper reports that the apartment building where all this occurred was shut down due to the number of violent incidents happening there; it was about that time he moved in here. Despite the fact that the landlord reportedly does not rent out to people with a criminal record. Yay.

As early as 2009, the kid was a fairly successful high school athlete in the cross-country running program. Fast forward two years later, he’s a high school dropout, living in an illegal sublet with his girlfriend, trying to get his GED, looking scrawny, sickly, and drawn with a serious attitude, insomnia, and anger management issues. Don’t even try to tell me he’s not on meth. Oh, lovely.

Second, the guy who supposedly sublet the apartment — the “tenant of record” — is also NOT a nice guy. He is a known child toucher and all around mentally unbalanced jerk — except, he’s somehow managed to skirt the law and get the child touching incidents reduced to non-child-touching violations. The last one occurred as early as this past year, reduced to second-degree harassment so he could walk among us without having to be on the sex abusers’ list. Nice, huh? Oh yeah. And it gets better.

A friend of mine, turns out, is a cousin of the “tenant of record” so she knows all about him. She told me that, under NO circumstances should I engage him in conversation. “Always be busy,” she said, and get away from him as fast as I can. He’s not right in the head and very unpredictable in his behavior. He’s in his 50′s, and he’s been doing this child-touching stuff for years. Particularly into young boys, this situation is exactly the “tenant of record”‘s MO. She told me he probably knows this Brainiac kid because he’s molested him before — or, most likely, traded sex acts for drugs. He’s into that too, or so my friend tells me.

Lovely, huh? Yeah. Goodie for me. How fun is this new neighborhood?

And consider, this is JUST what I know about the guy(s) in the next door apartment — not the tenants in the other six units in this building!! Good grief.

So anyway, that has me stressed to the gills. I carry a knife on my person at all times now, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. I don’t have a gun, but a knife can be just as effective if used right. I’m trained, but I’m way out of shape now; thus I may not be able to kill someone, but I can scare them pretty well on my way down to falling on the ground if I have to. I’ll at least cause some damage on my way down.

And that exhausts me too. Never able to relax, you know, always thinking “Did I lock the door?” and rightfully paranoid that I might come home some evening to find the kid waiting in the hallway to pounce on me. And I’m so worried about my dogs. What if this bonehead tries to do something to them?

That’s exhausting too.

In related news, we had our first real snowfall last night. It’s pretty, but it’s probably going to cause all kinds of headaches in the travel department. I’m told the bus schedule can go totally haywire in the winter. That is a HUGE problem for me since that’s my number one means of going to and from work.

This morning, I have to go to the grocery store to cash my meager paycheck and buy a few groceries before heading off to work. Of course, I’ll be walking there. With my steak knife in my pocket.

Wish me luck.