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2005-07-25 @ 10:57 p.m.
angst, apartments, artemus, its day for A things


To say Iím getting a little angsty about moving in 5 1/2 weeks would be an understatement about now. Why? Well I get angsty deciding which yogurt to eat every day. So deciding to pick up and move my entire household 9 miles to the south and all thatís involved (and thereís alot when youíre doing it alone) is daunting.

You go through periods of elation, like yippee, I wonít have to listen to that fecking fire alarm or air conditioning unit anymore! Woo hoo! And then in your bleaker moments you think, damn, I wonít be able to play Fur Elise on the piano at 2 a.m. anymore, because Iím now living in an apartment complex and my neighbor probably wonít be classical music afficionados like me. And then Iíll think, yay! Iím going to have 3 closets! And a dishwasher! And a garbage disposal! And live next to a creek! And then Iíll start almost crying thinking...but what about my little garden I have out front. Its so pretty right now. I have sunflowers and morning glories and snapdragons and pansies and irises and little succulants that are about to flower and my bird feeder that Guardcat loves to lick her lips at. Whoís going to feed the birds when Iím gone? Will I be able to see the sunflowers bloom before I leave? Maybe I can give them a little Sunflower Viagra to speed things up.

And a lot of this stuff will be coming together this weekend. I have to meet with the apartment guy once again and make this official, because I have an appointment with Section Eight next Thursday and I have to be able to tell them where to send the rent check in September. But I am freaked out. Because Iím sitting in my little house right now. And the A/C unit is off and the fire alarm isnít ringing and Iím saying, hey this isnít so bad. But unfortunately, the paperwork is already in motion and basically I HAVE to move now. Oy! If somebody ever gives you a choice about whether you want to be an impulsive bipolar person, just kick them in the nuts and run, OK?

Because Iíve done this moving thing, many, many, many times before. How many? 37 times to be exact. And Iím not even in the Witness Protection Program (more like the Witless Protection Program, if anyoneís asking). I have this thing where I like want to move alot. I once discussed it with one of my therapists (not ďAĒ), and we boiled it down to this....I think if I move to a new location, that my new surroundings will make my life better.

And to that theory, I can say, without a momentís hesitation....

HA!!


It just doesnít work that way, and I have lived in some of the most hellish apartments imaginable, because of my impulsiveness. Iíve had neighbors threaten my life. Iíve had junkies chase my car. Iíve had broken windows in the winter. Iíve had 3 foot wide holes in my ceiling, where I could see the sky...in the winter. Iíve had neighbors hook their electricity up to my power box and had me pay their bill for 6 months, before I realized it. Iíve lived over couples who fought so much that the cops had to be called every week or two. Iíve had my apartment robbed. Iíve had gas leaks. Iíve had way too many ďdeafĒ people playing their fucking stereo so loud that things were jumping up and down on my counters. Iíve been without heat in the winter. Iíve had ice form inside my windows. I once discovered a peephole in one of my bathrooms from the apartment next door. This same neighbor once decided to bar-b-que some hamburgers in front of my bedroom window at 3 a.m. Iíve had rodents. Iíve been propositioned by maintenance men. Iíve had a closet collapse. One time I was coming up the steps to my apartment and I could hear my piano playing and I was like WTF?? And I opened my door and my landlady was sitting at my piano playing The Tennessee Waltz.

So Iím very weary of moving to a new place and the last time I looked, my case manager requested that I take someone with me, because, she said...she didnít want to be mean, but she didnít think I made very good choices. And she was right. My main problem is I hate looking at apartments so I usually take the first one.

So what I have been doing this week, is absolutely tearing my apartment apart. Why? Because I am a pack rat to the nth degree and I need to shed some of this stuff before I move. So I have been going through drawers, cabinets and boxes and trying to either throw stuff away or get it ready for Goodwill or just re-organize it. I would like to have a garage sale, but again, theyíre really hard to have by yourself and I have to work this Saturday and next. And it would have really been perfect because my Eye-talian landlords are going away for several weeks, so I wouldnít have had to worry about them getting all uptight if, *GASP*, a car were to pull into their precious driveway. Geeze, youíd think it was paved with gold bullion the way they react anytime someone other then one of their Eye-talian Cadillac friends pull in. I was also surprised when the Mrs. talked to me in the backyard tonight and said not to worry about the rent check before they leave. Hmmm. I wonder if sheís letting me use my deposit for the last monthís rent? That would be nice, although I only owe her about $97 because of accrued Section Eight monies. My, how generous! But hey, Iíll take it!

Its amazing though, all the stuff you find packed in your house....pieces of your life that you either forget about or say, oh I remember that. Like I pulled out a red spiral notebook and opened it up and it was one of my many diaries. Unlike most of you amateurs, I have been keeping a diary since 1969. I have just always kept a diary. My first diary was a bright psychedelic orange daisy diary with blue lined pages on which I mainly wrote: ďDear Diary: Today I had porkchops and coke. We went to Thriftyís Drug Store. My mom bought me a Rona Barrett Hollywood Magazine. I found a picture of Ross Martin. I was so excited. I heart Ross Martin. Someday I will marry Ross Martin, and become Mrs. Ross Martin. I heart Ross Martin. Where ever you are Ross Martin....I heart you. Love, witty.Ē

And for those of you who donít know who Ross Martin is, he played the comic relief sidekick on ďWild, Wild WestĒ in the 1960ís. What? Did you really think I would fall in love with the slick and handsome Robert Conrad in his tight little pants and bolero jacket? No way! I was totally in love with Artemus Gordon. I even named my hamster after him. Artemus ďthe HamsterĒ Gordon.

You didnít really think I was a normal kid, did you?

And rather ironically years later, I was at the Marin County Heliport just north of San Francisco and who should hold the door open for me? No! Not Artemus Gordon....but actor Robert Conrad! Ha! It was so funny, my mom and her friend and I were walking into the building behind this little short, puny guy and he stopped and held the door open for us and we all pushed by him and then when we went to sit in the waiting area, we sat across from him and my mom practically screamed out, ďYouíre Robert Conrad!!Ē and he smiled and nodded his head and Iím like ďWhatevah!Ē And then she said, ďMy daughter LOVES your show, donít you witty?Ē And I kinda looked up at the ceiling and then down at the floor (I was a teenager at the time) and then kind of rolled my eyes and nodded my head noncommittally. And he said, ďThank you.Ē And you know he probably thought, ďI bet she was totally in love with me,Ē because he continued to look at me and kind of tilt his head impishly at me until I would look at him.

ďOh, what-evahhhhhhhh!Ē

But anyways, I just happened to find one of my diaries, and it just happened to be dated, well, 29 year ago, TOMORROW. Heh, heh. God, I am so feckiní old, because it was the summer I graduated from high school and I had just started writing for newspapers. And darn, I was just so proud of that fact. I was laying out all the info for my future biographers, you know, for when I became famous. Oh, to be so confident and idealistic!



Isnít that cute? And my penmanship is so nice too! I worked as a movie critic for about 15 years in California. I didnít get paid at first, i.e., this job. Although I did get my press credentials from the state of California, and thought I was pretty hot shit. Woo! An 18 year old journalist with a press pass. Watch out! Coming through. Got me a press pass! Get out of the way. Need to talk to the President. What? Whatís that? You heard that Iím only a movie critic for a tiny newspaper up in the wine country. And your point is???

I was so mad when I left that newspaper for a larger alternative newspaper, they made me give the press pass back. I was totally crestfallen, and even though I wrote for many more newspapers after that, I never again had a press pass.

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