blackbird.jpg (30437 bytes)

2005-04-20 @ 1:23 a.m.
watermelon blues


Day 13 -- No rain -- Desperation is slowly setting in. Reservoirs are drying up. Stores are being overrun with people looking for bottled water. Demand is so high, that yuppies arenít even looking for EVIAN labels. Theyíre just grabbing anything that looks wet...





heh, heh...I mean wet....




And running off with them down the aisles. Its really annoying. But 13 days without rain. Wow. I thought maybe it had something to do with the death of the Pope. Because the days seem to coincide somewhat. I thought there was something slightly apocalyptic about it. Like maybe after not having any rain for 13 days, we might be getting ready for a plague of locust or something, but now that theory is all shot to hell, because we now have a new Pope and still no rain.

But whatís weird is, the new Pope looks like my piano teacher from when I was a kid. Mr. Spencer. He was this crumpled old gentleman, who used to eat Oreo cookies while I played the piano. He used to get crumbs all over the upper piano keys. Little brown cookie crumbs. And he used to lick his index finger and gingerly dot the crumbs off the piano keys and eat them. And if I played really well he would give me a cookie. Of course I donít think the new Pope is really my piano teacher, because besides the name difference, Mr. Spencer was about 93 years old when I was 10, so that would make him about 130 by now. Not that some of those cardinal guys didnít look that old.

So we had our warmest day of the year today. I think it hit 83. Yowza. No wonder weíre in a severe 13 day drought of epic proportions. But its been glorious. 13 straight days of sunshine. Itís also totally freakish. I know thereís gonna be like a tornado or earthquake coming soon to equal things out. I really wanted to go out in the garden the last couple of days and start planting things, but we are supposed to be turning colder by this weekend and getting...you guessed it...SNOW.

So I just enjoyed everything the best I could today. I did have to meet my talkative client today. She injured her foot and was on codeine and wasnít as talkative and I had to practically be a nurseís aide, helping her in and out of the car, holding her crutches, carrying her food at the restaurant. I guess sheís a pretty nice girl so far, but she has a really gross habit. She talks with her mouth full. Just totally eeks me out. Its like watching a giant thrashing machine chop up cows and worms. Plus I canít really understand her with her mouth full, so Iíll say ďwhat?Ē thinking sheíll wait until she finishes, but sheíll just keep chatting away.

After I dropped her off, I was near the garage where I got my brakes fixed last week, so I decided to head over there, since my brakes are still making this horrific squealing noise. Plus a ka-thunk noise. Both of which my car didnít do before I had my brake lines replaced. I walked in and the old Eye-talian guy just looked at me. I told him about the squealing brakes. I had called him last week about it, but had been too busy to get there. So he said, well, lets go drive it around the block and Iíll listen for the squealing.

Would you believe that son-of-a-bitching car didnít squeal once?? It did ka-thunk, but he said that was probably the muffler. The muffler? Iím only a dumb girl who doesnít know anything about cars, but why would it be the muffler? It didnít ka-thunk before I had the brakes fixed. Did the brakes and muffler conspire to make me crazy by making suspicious and nerve-wracking noises? And also last time I had a ka-thunking noise it was my brakes. I have practically new brakes. Theyíre less than a year old. Why are they suddenly ka-thunking noises right after they worked on the brake lines? But since Iím such a whimp, I just thanked him for checking out my car and he said to check in with him if they squeal again.

And then yes, one block from his shop they went...squeeeeeeeeeeeeeall!!!!!

Fruck!

Dear Car Fairy (or Oprah)....I really, really, really need a newer car. Maybe something built in the new millenium. Maybe something that doesnít go squeal or ka-thunk. Or make that weird vibrating noise underneath. Iíd love to say Iíll just go down and buy a new one, but of course you know I donít have the money. Nor do I have any credit. So I really need a miracle. Or a telethon. Or a winning lottery ticket. Or a successful art career. Or a rich boyfriend. Or all of the above. Whatíya say? Pretty please. I promise I wonít make fun of Jessica Simpson anymore. Or say mean things about Paris Hilton or Married Guy (see how committed I am). Well, ok, never mind. If youíre going to be handing out miracles, I guess we should really be wishing for rain or something, huh? shucks.

I did have my appointment with the Section 8 office this week. I actually had the damn appointment Monday. But is my time important? Apparently not. Because I drove all the way over there, leaving work, in the middle of a meeting, only to go up to the window and have this woman say, ďOh, your appointment was cancelled. Weíll have to reschedule you.Ē

Would you like to know how long Iíve been waiting for this appointment? Since June 2001. Yup. Almost 4 years. Was I a tad upset? Yeah, just a weeny bit. I had been so nervous about the appointment that morning that I had taken one of my anti-anxiety pills. I hadnít been able to sleep the night before either. I had been so afraid that my car was going to have one of its drama queen problems and I would miss my appointment and then they would put me on the bottom of the waiting list. But she did reschedule my appointment for Thursday. God I hope my car starts.

And whatís funny, though not really, was that I had never talked to my Eye-talian landlords about taking Section 8 (its a rent subsidy from the government) and was really nervous about asking them. They arenít real friendly to me. The husband, Grumpy Corleone, is always a total asshole to me. His wife is slightly better, but basically the only time I even vaguely see her, is when she sticks her liver spotted claw out the screen door to grab my rent check. She doesnít even open the door all the way. She just grabs the check. I find this kind of annoying. Iím an excellent tenant. I always pay my rent on time. I take really good care of the place. Iím quiet. I like to garden and the yard always looks really nice in the summer, and yet she wonít even talk to me. Last summer, in fact, the only time she said anything to me was when she saw my sunflowers growing and she came over and asked if they were weeds.

I did finally ask them about Section 8 about a month ago when I got a letter from Section 8 telling me they were going to contact her. And I was like, ack! It took me like 3 days to get up the nerve to ask her. The wife said okay to the Section 8, but then when she walked into her house and discussed it with Grumpy Corleone, she called me back on the phone and said it would be okay, but only if they didnít have to make any repairs on the apartment. Well, thereís a surprise, especially considering how this winter I had sheets of ice covering the insides of my windows and Grumpy was blaming me and didnít want to do anything about it. And it was like zero degrees out. Man, some people are so fucking cheap.

So I really donít know how this is all going to play out. This place is only ok. I like that I am alone in my own little house and donít have to contend with neighbors who are right on top of me, but this place is incredibly small and cramped. I only have one tiny closet. I have no storage. I have no place to do my art work. I live next to a noisy fire station. My house backs up to this huge medical center air conditioning unit which sounds like Air Force One taking off everytime it starts up, which is about 1000 times an hour in the summer. And its very hot. There is no shade and its all windows and because of all the noisy elements (the a/c unit 10 feet from my bedroom, and fire station across the street) I really canít leave my windows open at night, so it is sweltering. So simply put, I want to move out.

But like all other things in my life, I donít have the money to do it. I keep trying to save up money to move and then the car breaks down. I try to get a better paying job with more hours and I get a reject letter. And everytime I talk to my mom I get the ďFind a Rich BoyfriendĒ speech. Like I really have a choice there, momsy. I canít even find a poor boyfriend. I canít even make eye contact with winos. I remember once ďAĒ was going to take me over to the yuppie grocery store, which is right near his office and have me walk up and down all the aisles, making eye contact with every single person in the entire store. Ha! What a travesty. I couldnít even handle it when he came and sat on his coffee table, knee to knee with me once and made me have eye contact with him. I practically had a panic attack.

I just really donít have any solutions. Cars. Apartments. Jobs. Theyíre all confusing. The only thing Iím happy doing is art and writing.



(painting is much larger than scanner)



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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty

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