2003-08-11 @ 9:27 p.m.
OK, I just took a clonopin and it hasn't quite taken affect yet. I just got home after a 7 day gig of house sitting. I had come home briefly in-between to check mail and phone messages, but what had transpired while I was gone was like something out of a 1950's horror film. "The Slime that ate Cleveland".
I live on the East Coast and we have been having a stretch of humid weather. And of course, if you read my diary you know my basement apartment has its own micro-climate and a dew point of about 87. The rugs are wet. The floors are wet. My sandals in the closet have sprouted moss. And I discovered, quite by accident, that I had mold growing under my couch. Which is under the living room window. Which is under the faucet, where the kids play incessantly. Anyone else see the connection? I do. But no one else does. I'm like the invisible septic tank where the entire apartment complex drains.
So I come into my apartment today. After spending 7 days in nice houses with hardwood floors, above ground, with no micro-climates, and the first thing I see is gobs and gobs of cat fur all over the living room. I had just left the cat off 1.5 days ago. It was frightening. It looked like the aftermath of a cheetah snagging a gnu. Fortunately my cat came running out. So at least she was alive. Just a little less furry. But it was extremely damp in the apartment. Hazy. Foggy. Like the Golden Gate Bridge on a summer morning.
My Mom had called me at my last house sitting place and told me my landlord had called her there, wondering where I was.
HUH? What is this, a rerun of a Twilight episode?
Well, I didn't really buy that. I think my Mom called them and told them they better get their ass over to my apartment and bring the Hazmat team to clean up the crud growing in my living room. But I went along with it since I know she's trying to help me.
The carpeting fairly squished underfoot as I walked in. I went over and pulled out my couch and saw the most horrifying collection of yellow, white and green gunkalicious fuzz ever. It had not so much grown sideways, as upwards. Getting thicker and more ER wound-like. I winced.
It took a while, but my nitwit maintenance man Al finally showed up around 1:45, along with junior maintenance boy. I had graciously moved all the furniture so they could get to the "fuzz". Now Al, who I think might be a distant relative to the "Slingblade" guy, looks at me, thumbs tucked in his work pants and says, "This is your fault, you know. You should have opened your winders."
Well.........ya know. Ya just don't poke a hot sweaty, menopausal mega-bitch, whose carpet looks like Steven King's worst nightmare.
I did pretty well, but I did tell him, that in fact, I do open my windows, when the little Barney bastards aren't running around screaming.
Har, har, har. I didn't SAY Barney bastards, I was just thinking it.
And then he says, "Well, your apartment is the only one in the entire complex with mold."
OK, roll the footage of nuclear bombs going off, buildings getting destroyed, steam coming out of cartoon character's ears...
Could this possibly be because the aforementioned little Barney bastards leave the fucking faucet on for days on end and it leaks down into my apartment? Hmmmm?????? Unfortunately him and Ma Kettle love the kids in the complex so much, the tiny rugrats can do no wrong and I am just a sorry mold-making meanie in apartment 6. I used to love kids. I still love a couple of them.
But today as I was sitting on the couch, after my carpet got steam cleaned (which made my apartment twice as foggy), talking to my mother, some of the little brats came running up to the faucet, turned it on full blast and were burbling and screaming with delight.
Well that just about made me loose it on the phone. Before I knew it I was screaming to my Mom, "I want those freakin' little bastards AWAY FROM THE FAUCET!!" I screamed it so loud the landlord probably heard it two buildings away.
I sorta felt like Peter Finch in "Network" when he grabs a microphone and yells, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" Except, well, I'm just this weird bipolar girl who lives in a soggy basement apartment with no money and no options and her meds aren't working very well, and she's in love with a married man and she didn't get the inheritance she was supposed to from her dad and her car is falling apart and she can't seem to overcome these huge obstacles like lack of confidence, lack of self esteem, believing in herself, which is actually a little different from self esteem and she seems to think things are totally hopeless which really ticks off her shrink, but what does he know about disappointment, he drives a Passat and lives in a nice house and is loved by his wife and kids and goes to Disneyworld once a year. It just gets old after a while. And you get pissed off over little things like having a kid turn on a faucet and mold growing under your couch. What can I say?
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty