Today I screamed at my landlord, “YOU ARE A TERRIBLE LANDLORD.” Then I slammed their door, stalked back to my kitchen, slammed my door, locked it, closed the curtains, turned up Bikini Kill as loud as my tinny little speakers would go, and counted my breath while I rolled ganache until I calmed down.
Needless to say, the sinks were not fixed today, nor was any assurance given to me that they would be any time soon. And have I mentioned that the oven is broken and my landlord basically stated flat-out that he wasn’t going to fix it? How can I have any respect for someone who, even though you’ve given them months notice and even found them another tenant, refuses to fix big giant huge problems in the kitchen they are renting out, even when they’re aware of how it’s causing their tenant massive problems?
I just can’t get into the mind of a person like that.
In other news, we got the letter from the lawyer about the sidewalks and it is beautiful and has been duly passed along. Lawyers, people! They’re sort of awesome, aren’t they? This letter is so perfect and glorious, I have half a mind to post it here. I feel so lucky that we were able to convey our feelings to a smarty-pants guy who then translated our “this fucking sucks!” whining into an actual awesome legal document. I should do that for most of my conversations, actually: puke them out in expletivey rough draft form, have someone smarter come in and tighten them up, then enter the world with polished, poised sentences at the ready.
Also today: I looked in the mirror and my eyes were insanely dilated and I wondered if someone had slipped me a forget-me-now or something, then some Googling taught me that maybe I am just traumatized by my entire life right now.
The point of this blog post was actually just to check in real quick and say that things are looking up and thanks for your nice comments and emails and things. Let’s move toward that.
One thing though, before I stop whining: I’m really confused about why my skills at dealing with what is truly pretty much minor trauma are so poor. Why am I so obsessed with this sidewalk?? It’s so annoying that it’s getting me so upset. (The work sink/oven situation, on the other hand, is making me murderous with good reason.). Anyway, thank you, universe, for giving me something to work on. I guess.
OK, for serious this time, I have high hopes for tomorrow. I am taming the mountain of Easter orders, Jacob comes home soon, and Spring seems like it’s really and truly here. Also the only fresh produce I’ve bought in forever, an avocado, is finally almost ripe. I’m eyeing it obsessively.
Also, we own the building! Even with all the stress, that little fact is a constant nugget of joy.
Also, here’s a photo of Jacob looking without much interest at some Warhol Brillo boxes at MoMa.
And here is me looking at some Yoko Ono/Fluxus “Bottoms.”
The lesson: I’ve been out of my little airless stress world before, and I’ll be out of it again. One day soon, I’ll stop worrying about money and sinks and ovens, and I’ll be looking at prettily cellulited asses again.
A girl can dream.
Love and squalor,