ordinary extraordinary

Sweet Ride

The LD and I have been tossing around the idea of carpooling for some time now. We live less than a mile apart and generally work the same hours, but for some reason we haven't quite made the leap to ride-sharing yet.

Today, when prices crossed the $4/gallon mark at our local gas station, I got this email from him:

Gas is expensive. Really expensive. It would be cheaper to fill my car with Voss Water. Are you interested in carpooling? I own an irresistable '99 Mustang. Sweet ride.

Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that I bought an SUV right before gas prices started to spiral out of control? Yeah. Great choice. My response:

Yes! Can't wait to go for a spin in that "sweet ride."

So, as of Monday morning, I'll be carpooling a few days a week. Hopefully now I'll be able to afford to eat again.

Authenticity

Go read this.

No, right now, because John Mayer just shot an arrow straight to the heart of modern society:

I haven't spoken very much out loud these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share the perspective with you.

. . .

What I'm about to write isn't about fame or success or celebrity or the media. That's my business.

This is about us all.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic.

. . .

This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right.

Plagued

On Saturday I discovered an orange tree, a grapefruit tree, a tangerine tree and a lemon tree on the property. The landlord would rather that we pick and enjoy the fruits than leave them to fall and rot on the ground, so I gleefully hauled out my ladder and filled up my pockets. I sat down in the shade and ate a couple of the (delicious) tangerines immediately; I will never get over the joy of being able to eat something mere moments after picking / cutting / harvesting it.

You'd think that, having eaten my weight in vitamin-C rich citrus fruit this weekend, I would have been victorious over any plague that came looking for a fight.

Alas, I was not and I am reminded once again of how much it sucks to be sick when you are a grownup.

Remember when you were little how you'd suddenly start to feel ill in the middle of the day, and the school nurse would cluck and fuss over you until someone arrived to bundle you up and take you home? How you'd get tucked into your bed and cool hands would brush your hair from your fevered brow until you fell asleep, and how when you woke up someone would be there with a bowl of soup, or a cool glass of ginger ale? Even though you were sick, you felt a little bit better because there was someone there taking care of you.

Yesterday, I drove myself home at midday and sat behind an accident on the 134 for 45 minutes while I shivered in spite of the sun booming through my windshield. I stopped at the store to buy orange juice, soup, and honey and used up my last remaining ounce of strength dragging my purchases inside the house. When I woke up from my nap it was dark, that cats were yowling for food, and I had to haul myself out of bed to feed them and me.

Sigh.

Sometimes, this adulthood thing is not all it's cracked up to be.

Spring Forward

Sizzle totally climbed into my head this morning to write her post about moving on:

But it is never easier to ignore your gut, to not put out the effort to live your best life, or to challenge yourself forward.

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. It's time for me to move on, too.

I don't know quite what's gotten into me lately. Maybe it's the vibrant new energy of spring unfurling all around me, maybe it's the surge of energy created by having to uproot my entire life in the space of a week, or maybe it's just time; whatever the motivation, I'm ready to take the leap.

At age 30, I'm tired of having a day job to pay the bills while I stuff my passion projects around the edges. Don't get me wrong, I'm lucky to have a reasonably stable and well-paying job that I enjoy (most of the time), but I didn't get into this line of work because I love it - I did it because I have a knack for it.

Specifically, I did it because once upon a time an incredibly cruel drama teacher told me that I was too fat to act, but perhaps I'd be a good stage manager since I was so organized. I was too vulnerable to his "wisdom" to realize how fucked up that statement was, so I dutifully began stage managing and convinced myself that I loved making schedules and run sheets just as much as I loved writing and performing.

It's amazing how firmly you can convince yourself of something, isn't it?

I bought my own line of bullshit so completely that when I got to college, I dropped out of the School of Engineering to "follow my passion" and get a degree in Stage Management. Interestingly, the essay that I wrote for admission to the School of Theatre described the dreams of a very small girl who wanted to be an actress and a playwright. This did not strike me as odd at the time; I went merrily along to get my Stage Management degree and embark on a winding career path that took me through live theater, Broadway tours, large scale events, and finally to the technical & logistical side of live television.

It took me fifteen years to realize that there's a difference between loving something and having a knack for it, but now that I have realized it my job chafes like an ill-fitting shirt; I find myself constantly squirming and pulling at it, trying to make it fit. But it's never going to fit, so I think it's time to discard that shirt and go shopping for a whole new wardrobe.

Leap, and the net will appear.

If only I could find the silverware...

When I woke up in my new home on Thursday morning, there was a brief moment when I had no idea where I was or why every part of my body hurt. Several scenarios flashed through my brain before I remembered: I moved!

I would like to take this opportunity to say: this was my last self-move. Though Teece and I were rockstars who had the U-Haul loaded, unloaded, and returned within 7 hours, I'm really just not interested in doing this myself again. Next time, I'm hiring movers.

That being said, the whole day really did go remarkably smoothly; I even managed to back the 7'5" wide truck up my 8' wide driveway without 1) using my mirrors or 2) hitting anything! There was only one moment there at the end of the day where we both completely lost our minds and inadvertently trapped Teece under my mattress as we were trying to get it out of the truck. Naturally, one of my new neighbors chose that exact moment to walk up the driveway and found me filthy and giggling maddly as I tugged at a mattress that also appeared to be giggling. She had a sense of humor so she offered to help rather than backing away slowly to call the men in white coats.

I love my new place. Even though I'm up to my eyeballs in boxes and this morning I had to make a PB&J sandwich with my cake server because I haven't found the flatware yet, I love it. I can't wait until I'm settled in so I can start entertaining.

Of course, I'm going to need to find the dishes first.

Hmm.

The Sweet Intake of Breath

I have a place to live!

*deep breathe*

I signed for the keys a couple of hours ago, which is convenient since my house is in boxes and I'm picking up the U-Haul on Wednesday morning.

Phew.

Sometimes, the Universe just has your back.

Trying To Remember To Breathe

Q: So, amandarin, you've survived your two most hellish months at work and finally have some free time to yourself. What are you going to do?

A: I'm going to Disneyland find & move into a new home by next Wednesday at 5pm!

Panic... rising... can't.... breathe... GAH!

As I referenced in my last post, my beloved home was sold recently. Since a For Sale sign was never posted and no notice of sale or escrow was ever distributed, it came as quite a shock to the residents when we received letters that said essentially:

Dear Tenant,

Hi, I'm your new owner and I'm really looking forward to screwing you at every possible opportunity! I'm going to say that I want you to continue to live here, but really I'm hoping that eventually I'll make your life so miserable that you'll just give up and move out in frustration and disgust. Then I won't have to waste the time and money evicting you.

To start, I'd like to reduce your amenities, make no significant improvements to your units, disrupt your lives, and charge you 50% more (or 75%, if you've been living here awhile) per month for the privilege. I clearly over-inflated the value of the property to my lender and now you, lucky tenants, get to foot the bill. Please bend over and take it. Or don't; I don't really care.

Also, the rent is due today. Please make your check out to the name I have not included, and deliver it to the address that I have not listed above.

Sincerely,
Ms. Douchebag Extraordinaire

You can imagine how well THAT went over.

Unfortunately, there's absolutely nothing illegal in what she did. I live in an area of Los Angeles County that is not rent-controlled and I have a month-to-month lease; she can raise the rent at any time and in any increment as long as she gives us 60 days notice. She's also not required to make us all sign new leases, so there is no guarantee that she won't just keep raising the rent every two months until she's driven us all out - persecution and harassment are much cheaper than eviction proceedings.

Turns out, it's just not illegal to be a douchebag.

When we (the handful of residents who share the property) had all recovered our ability to speak in anything other than obscenities and invectives, we gathered in groups of two and three to discuss the situation. The general consensus is that our homes aren't worth that much money per month, and that we're not interested in giving money to an owner who didn't even bother to buy us dinner before expecting us to put out.

Ultimately we were all much more angry over the destruction if our community than we are over the loss of our physical houses. At least we'd at least have a couple of more months to enjoy each other's company and find new places to live... right?

Last night we all came home to letters that said essentially:

Dear Tenant,

I'm completely underwhelmed by your lack of response to my first letter, so I've decided to throw you another curve ball! In spite of the fact that no one has ever reported a problem with termites or other vermin, I'm going to fumigate your units and garages.

Next week.

Please remove most of your belongings from your houses and garages by next Thursday, and please find someplace else for you and your pets to live until the end of next weekend. I'll pro-rate you three days of rent - that should totally cover the inconvenience! I'll get that money to you at some undisclosed time in the future.

The guy from the fumigation company will be around tomorrow (Ed: That would be today, folks) afternoon to answer any questions and give you the supplies you need. I didn't really feel the need to give you any advance notice about this - you don't have jobs or anything, do you?

Sorry about the inconvenience (but not really).

Sincerely,
Ms. Douchebag Extraordinaire

The legality of this latest letter is tenuous at best so I have a lawyer who is doing some research and will advise me on my options, but let me make one thing crystal clear: If I have to pack up myself and my cats and move out of my place I am sure as HELL not moving back in four days later. No fucking way.

Of course, I still need a place to *go*.

I looked at a place earlier in the week for which I filled out an application last night. I also called and left a follow-up voicemail this morning to make sure that he'd gotten the application, and to ask if I could please pick the keys up on Tuesday. If I could have batted my eyelashes over the phone, I totally would have.

I haven't done much (read: any) comparison shopping, but at this point I really don't care - this place is cute, affordable, in a nice neighborhood, and available so I'm keeping my fingers and toes crossed that I can be moving into it next week.

In the mean time, I'm trying to remember how my lungs work because I am FREAKING OUT beneath my calm, cool exterior.

*breathe*

*breathe*

*breathe*

In Short, Part II

I survived red carpet season, I've had to re-schedule a first date three times because of work drama (both his & mine), my car needs work that I now can't afford because I have to move in the next 60 days*, I'm still training in any time that is not devoted to working or sleeping, the deadline for an agreement that I made with Keith is still looming over my head (though he graciously offered me an extension in light of circumstances), and my hard-won raise pushed me into a new tax bracket so I actually owe the IRS money this year.

And yes Mr Anonymous Email Man, I know that my blog header says 2007. Neither I nor the fantastic artist designing its replacement have had much time to think about it yet. You can stop emailing me now.

(Is it just me, or do people get hung up on the WEIRDEST THINGS?)

Phew, March looks a lot like February so far. I'd be completley lost without my wonderful friends; they are keeping me sane.

And now, back to the trenches.

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*My property is under new ownership and though the new owner isn't exactly evicting us, she is raising the rent by $500 a month. We're welcome to stay and pay it, of course. Um, no.

In Short

The Writer's Strike is over, red carpet season rolls brazenly onward, Valentine's Day approaches menacingly, I'm fighting a losing battle with the neighborhood ants over ownership of the kitchen counters, I'm training in any time that is not devoted to working or sleeping, the deadline for an agreement that I made with Keith is looming over my head, and I just applied for a completely fantastic job.

It's February for certain.

And now, back to the trenches.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Sunday afternoon, February 3rd.

It's cold outside (for Los Angeles, anyway) and pouring rain. My new Crock Pot is full of delicious smelling chili ingredients, which are slowly but surely becoming chili. The cats are snoozing peacefully on my bed. The Super Bowl is on in a little while, and after the game I'll head down to Costa Mesa to see Demz, my favorite Road Dog. The Bossman is snowboarding until Tuesday, so the work week promises to start comparatively peacefully.

Today, life is pretty good.