Friday, March 15th, 2013
It’s Friday — let’s listen to some music. I discovered IVY in 2000-2001 when I was going through a decidedly earnest semi-raver downtempo/chillout phase and used to pull songs I liked off movie soundtracks and Ibiza party compilation CDs.
I got hooked on Dominique Durand’s whispery, French-tinted voice and Adam Schlesinger’s pop sensibilities (same Adam as in Fountains Of Wayne, whom I love), so the band kind of stuck with me. I’ve got every album and I saw them live when they played the Casbah in 2005 with Astaire (now called blondfire, who I also dig).
If you’re not already familiar with IVY, I thought you might like them, too. Enjoy in order or on shuffle.
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Monday, March 11th, 2013
Mikey and I bought a mold testing kit yesterday and set it in our bedroom/bathroom area. So far, there are tiny signs of mold growth in the petri dish, but despite their “as early as 48 hours” results, I half expected to wake up to tribbles with all the breathing problems we’re having in this apartment. We hate this place. Hate it. Hate it with the burning fire of a million suns.
But, regardless of the mold results… we’re moving! Early next month, we’ll be comfortably ensconced in our new abode. I gave our notice yesterday, though I don’t know for sure if they’re going to let us out of our lease or if we’ll have to fight the lease break fee. They’re pretty nice, but I have a stack of ammo if they push me; I’m not worried about it.
The rent is high in this city — which is tough… at least for the more “luxury” apartments (which means just about anything built in the last 15 years with a W/D and amenities). I could buy a house for the price we’re paying in rent, though it wouldn’t be as nice of a house as the new apartment. I figure if we can swing this rent for a year or so, we can afford to buy a house — like a financial responsibility test drive. Of course, this assuming the market doesn’t blow sky high and median home prices go to half a million dollars again.
You can rent places for less — even houses, but unfortunately, the houses tend to be on the tiny side (smaller than an apartment) or haven’t been updated since 1974. There are a few prospects out there that I’m going to take a peek at, but we’re comfortable with our choice of where to live. Some people may think it’s “uncool”, because our chosen area of town is kind of near some business parks, and it’s not much of a “neighborhood” vibe. But it works for us — it’s close to mike’s work, it’s 5-10 minutes anywhere I want to go and the complex is really quiet since it’s near corporations. (Read: College kids don’t want to live there.)
Same square footage as our current place, but it’s utilized much more wisely… and built within the last decade. It’s a newer place — in fact, I used to live there before we moved to Nevada. This time we got a larger 2 bedroom unit and even though it’s north-facing, we get a lot of light, which we’re super happy about. And a washer & dryer — no more Stranger Pubes in the lint trap!
We get a view of the on-site dog park, which makes me happy and there are a lot of sidewalks in the area for walking. Plus, they expanded their on-site gym with all new equipment and upgraded their pool area to include more bbqs and cabanas with free wifi and flatscreen TV’s. I’ll be working from the pool this summer, by god! (though I’ll have to hide my adult beverages in a sippy cup or something — no booze or glass by the pool. Tres tragic!) Oh! And the best part — there’s no one above us or below us (just our garage), so we don’t have to worry about bothering anyone, really. (What with all the wild partying and Hip Hop Abs I do.)
It has it’s quirks, like any apartment, but after this joint, the new place might as well be Shangri La. After this, I’m putting a moratorium on domicile bitchery — unless we have good cause. I don’t want to nitpick this new place, I just want to be happy… even if the fridge does open on the wrong side.
Monday, February 25th, 2013
With a title like that, you’d think I have a brood of kids. I don’t even have one — not of the human variety, anyway. But I discovered this past week that I am, most certainly and somewhat uncomfortably, a mom.
Lulu was really sick this past week for the first time in her almost five years. What started out as the sniffles on Tuesday ended up with her staying overnight at the vet on Wednesday for gastric stasis — likely brought on by the stress of the vet visit the day before. (She’d never been given syringe medication before, so she kind of flipped out.)
Given how dangerous this can be for rabbits, I was beyond concerned. I was positively obsessed. Despite trying not to worry, to take my mind off her… I couldn’t. I’d heard stories of how quickly bunnies can go from stasis. They just “give up” from the pain. And I was terrified because she’d been swooped away by the vet so quickly without me getting a chance to really kiss her and say goodbye, so I was scared she might not come back.
We have one of the foremost rabbit vets in the country as our doctor, and the tech staff there is really great, so I knew she was in good hands, but that didn’t stop me from checking her room every 10 minutes, forgetting she wasn’t in there. Or revisiting the same scenarios in my head and talking them out to Mike, who was probably ready to toss me off the balcony at that point, but didn’t let on. (Thanks for that.) I knew he was stressed, too, so I appreciated his calm while I fell apart.
It may seem small to people with human children, especially those with kids who undergo major medical procedures or live with challenges every day, but to me Lulu being sick or potentially gone was huge. Everything, really. When I spoke to the vet and they told me they’d like to keep her overnight, my voice cracked as I asked if she would be left unattended overnight. And then I had to get off the phone because I was afraid I would flat out cry and officially become Crazy Bunny Lady, though certainly they’d seen much worse based on what I’ve seen at some rabbit events. Rabbit appliqued crocheted sweater vests make a few tears seem less crazy.
When Lulu was able to come home the following afternoon, I hovered. I fretted. I checked on her 18 times in as many minutes. I have never been more anxious to see poop in my life. I realized I was “helicoptering”… and that I was probably putting out too much anxious energy, so I had to chill out. We even left for a bit to give her some peace and I could eat my feelings.
Admittedly, in the past, while I tried to sympathize with friends who worried like maniacs whenever they were away from their kids, I never quite “got it”. I love my friends (and their kids), but when I’d hear moms say things like “I hope their father hasn’t accidentally set them on fire” for the 30th time, you start to think, “Lady, relax. What can possibly happen? Have a drink before I roofie you.”
But I get it now, moms. (File that under things I never thought I’d say.) I could’ve used a roofie* or like, a tranquilizer dart.
To some, Lulu’s just a pet. But when you haven’t had any pets of your own in your adult life and you’re likely never going to have kids, you can invest a lot in your pets. She’s a member of my family, my best girl, and ultimately an investment of 10 years of my life.
Never in a million years did I think going to the swap meet for a tacky birthday gift four and a half years ago would result in the best thing ever.
* Relax, I’ve been ruffied before, I’m allowed to throw it around casually if I want.
Friday, February 8th, 2013
Last night, around 8pm, we were sitting on the couch playing Mario Kart while Lulu cavorted around the living room. Suddenly, we hear the assertive rapping of a key on our front door. *Rap rap rap*
I rarely answer my door unless I’m expecting a package. I don’t know if it’s years of living alone or what, but I just don’t answer my door unless I am expecting someone. I especially hate when I look through the peephole and whomever is out there waves, as if I know them — or they can see my shadow blocking the peephole.
Since moving back into an apartment, we’ve gotten a lot of solicitors… to the point that I’m considering hanging a sign on the door: “If you’re selling anything, do not ring this doorbell if you like your balls.”
Anyway, so we didn’t answer it. About 30 seconds later, he raps again — harder this time, but still with the keys. We ignored him. Within 30 seconds, he rapped again, even harder and then rang the doorbell a few times and knocked again. I mean, what the hell?! When I was a kid, I was taught it’s impolite to 1) pop over to someone’s house unannounced and 2) show up at someone’s after 8pm unless you were invited.
(Which reminds me, about a week ago, a few people ran up the stairs to our place and rang the doorbell like they were visiting a frat house. They rang 3-4 times, giggling and chatting. When we didn’t answer, they disappeared. Still curious what that was about…)
So, now Lulu was all freaked out and I was getting pissed off. I peeked through the keyhole and naturally, the guy waves and says, “It’s your neighbor, Ernie!”
I don’t know any of my neighbors, so I thought perhaps it was my neighbor, Ernie, so after throwing a few looks back and forth with mikey, we decided to open the door. Perhaps he had some of my mail or maybe my car had something wrong with it… I don’t know! So, I opened the door.
Ernie was selling newspapers. He assures me that he is my neighbor (yeah, sure) and that he “handles the newspaper on the property for everyone” and could he interest us in the paper? I said no, thank you, we’re Internet people. And despite me trying 6 (seriously, SIX) times to get him to go away, he kept interrupting me at every turn, “But what about just Sunday? What if you want coupons? It’s only $3 a week!” Dude, I don’t want the effing paper. Please go away. He even said, “What about for the rabbit?” who he saw while craning his neck to get a look inside our place through the 4 inches of open doorway I was standing in.
I practically had to slam the door in his face and after he left us, we heard him key-tapping doors up and down the hallway, louder and louder with every try.
But really, is this how it is now? They’re worse than telemarketers, showing up at your home way after business hours and then cop-knocking on the door until you answer it? Jesus Christ! Aren’t you just supposed to knock and when no one answers you go the fuck away?
I called the apartment office after he left, leaving a message on their voicemail. I rambled and trailed off a few places, so I probably sounded like a moron, but it’s because I kept getting distracted by his incessant knocking on people’s doors. I could hear him calling out to people, “I’m your neighbor… Ernie!”
I thought the office should know that someone is going around using them as leverage, claiming to be working for them, selling papers on the property. Let’s hope he’s not just casing apartments.
No one wants your archaic news media, ERNIE. Fold it into a kite and go fly that sucker.
Monday, January 28th, 2013
They’re doing work on our apartment building again this week. This is the umpteenth time we’ve had to endure interruptions on the property and I am anxiously awaiting mikey to land a new job so we can get the hell out of the place.
I’m thrilled to be home in San Diego. I love looking out the window and seeing green trees and blue sky, spending time outdoors at farmers markets and cocktailing on patios, but I am totally not loving where I chose for us to live. I picked the place — I mean, we discussed it first, but mikey trusted my choice site-unseen, and I feel bad that it sucks.
The biggest issue is not that it’s old (I like old), it’s that it’s poorly maintained and they duped me. Total bait n’ switch. I gave them specifics: I work at home so I need it to be quiet with few interruptions and hassles and we grow hibiscus, so we need sunlight on our patio.
The unit I saw when I toured the property was bright and airy, but ours is north-facing, so it’s dark all day long and freezing, even when its 75+ degrees out. Mike calls it our 3rd floor basement.
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