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2003-08-04 @ 2:19 p.m.
some moldy, oldies

When I was a kid, we used to play this game and if you lost, we'd dramatically yell, "To the dungeon!" Well, I live there now. Truly. Officially, its only a basement apartment, but it feels like and is starting to smell like a dungeon. Someplace a three headed dog named Fluffy might live. Or try to escape from.

My apartment is incredibly damp. The rug is wet and stained. My tile floor is sticky with moisture. My sheets feel like I took them out of the dryer 10 minutes too soon. When I lay on the couch to watch TV, my butt makes a wet imprint on the cushion. Last Friday I took a pair of sandals out of my closet that I hadn't worn for a while and they were covered in green fuzzy mold. And then last night, in the interest of science, and because I have a sore throat, a headache and feel generally lousy, I pulled out my couch and saw a rather alarming sight. The rug under the couch was dark with moisture and absolutely covered end to end with green and white furry mold. You know the kind you find growing on old food in the refrigerator after three weeks. I just about puked. It looked like the freakin' lunar surface.

And it was just as I was writing my rent check for August. But I did anyways. I'm not quite ready to blast out of here yet. I don't have the money for one thing. So I wrote a brief note to my landlord who lives on the premises. Asked him to tighten the faucet upstairs because of my suspicions that it may be leaking and to also replace the lightbulb in the hallway in front of my door.

So this morning I heard him rustling around outside my door. Put my robe on and went out and had him come in to see the mold. Had already pulled the couch out. I got the "The basement apartments are always wet, especially this year" routine. I told him my theory about the leaking faucet. He disagreed. He said the entire wall would be green if that were the case. He then said I could leave if I wanted. He was sure I could get my rent deposit back (heh, heh, heh, famous last words).

Funny how people are always so agreeable about me leaving places. Apartments. Jobs. And I'm so damn likable too.

He didn't seem to really have a solution to the penicillin plantation under my couch. I told him it was making me sick, with the sore throat. He said, well, him and his wife live on the second floor and they can smell the moisture too. If its one thing that gets on my last nerve its when someone tries to say they're in the same boat as you even though you're sinking on the Titanic and they're on a 2003 Ski jet speeding towards the tiki bar for banana daiquiris. They don't know what its like sleeping on slightly damp sheets. They don't know what its like to have everything stick to your coffee table. They don't know what its like to pull out your portfolio from under your bed and find everything everything stuck together and stinky two days before a job interview. So just shut the fuck up. OK?

Ok, maybe I do know why people are always welcoming the opportunity for me to leave the premises. But I have had a string of incredibly unfortunate incidents in apartments in the last two years. And I think I'm probably starting to get known as the Madwoman of Chaillot here at my apartment complex now. I come up from the basement snarling at kids. I call my landlord and scream about this and yell about that. I guess I do seem a little uptight. But I do have green and white mold multiplying under my couch, under my bed, in my closet, on my sandals and I have no way to escape it and I'm a little pissed.

And my landlord's suggestion today? Open my window. Oh, good one. Maybe I can jump to my death. Oh wait, I'm in the basement. Instead they'll just find my emasculated mold ridden body draped over the computer keyboard and my bony finger ready to edit my latest diaryland entry. It'll be like an old X-Files episode.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty