Spending my Saturday night with one of Manfred Real Estate’s virtual professors, and getting my mind blown by the fascinating world of property Insurance. Who wants to girate on drunk tourists in Lake George Village when you can e-learn about dwelling policies?
Enough people have contacted me inquiring about whether I’m dead or alive that I suppose it’s time for an update.
I’m alive y’all.
But I did just move into a studio apartment in the back of someone’s woodshop in the middle of the woods (and mere steps from the log cabin my office is in). So there’s spotty cell coverage at best.
Living in a cabin in the woods was so not the plan. But since my parents are selling our house, I had to jump on the opportunity to rent this place so I won’t be homeless again when the house sells.
I’m so over being a transient that the woodshed gave me a sense of security and serenity. I mean what’s more rejuvenating than peace and quiet and pitch black nights and a close proximity to all the power tools needed to construct and defend a small fortress?
The other day I was dropping off some personal belongings (stilettos and beer) when I heard a THUNK behind me after shutting the door between my “apartment” and the rest of the woodshed. That THUNK was the sound of my door slam causing a rifle that had been hidden between the wall and the juke box to become dislodged and fall to the floor:
On one hand, I’m unnerved by the fact that there are firearms and loads of ammunition within six inches of my door. On the other hand, there are no other people around and I’m not completely confident that my pepper spray would stop an axe murderer or large wild dog, so I’m weirdly comforted by the fact that I’m living adjacent to a small armory.
This ain’t Manhattan anymore.
The daytime isn’t so bad. I can literally roll out of bed and into work, which is desirable to me. And it’s really safer for everyone when my time operating a vehicle is minimized. You know me and cars.
Also, there are friendly country store patrons and woodshop workers loitering around to mingle with. Like earlier this week when I was getting dressed and an elderly man wandered into my apartment looking for someone named Spunky. (We later found Spunky, who was quite attractive and explained how my apartment used to be his workshop).
Fate could not have pushed me further from normalcy. If ever I was meant to write the next great shit-your-pants horror screenplay…this is it. Deliverance meets Lost meets Wrong Turn meets fucking Cujo. Gah.
More later, I’m off to commence my new nightly routine of engaging all of my security alarms and dousing the perimeter of the room with Raid Pest Killer spray.
Hi Panty People.
I’ve been MIA lately because I’ve been a total construction worker. We’re renovating our office (new floors, walls, ceilings, technology, cleaning the massive hoard that’s been accumulating since the late seventies, etc.) and somehow unbeknownst to me, I was sucked into managing the entire project, painting, applying polyurethane to walls, filling gaps and cracks, sanding, laying tile, network administration and just general jobs that I can’t do in my signature pencil skirt and high heels. It’s been a learning experience.
Have been doing renovation work for 10-12 hours a day and am admittedly quite impressed with my stamina. The endless hours of manual labor also help with my sexual frustration and general rage towards life. 1 year ago I was formatting Investor Presentations at my cushy hedge fund, and this year I’m mixing sheetrock mud. Brilliant.
Can you even tell a difference in the before and after? Ugh I fucking hope so. That’s my blood, sweat and tears, especially around the built-in shelving.
So on my day off today I was enthusiastic about coming to the coffee shop to work on my online real estate licensing course (so I can make more money at work, and sell our family’s house following my parents’ split). Surely there wouldn’t be annoying couples at the coffee shop. The coffee shop is for emo artists.Wrong. So wrong. Coffee shop packed with couples discussing vacation plans and shit they like to do together and just generally pleasant topics. This displeases me.
What displeases me even more is that a very loud and bubbly former classmate walked into this coffee shop, and after she bounced from table to table conversing with everyone she knows, I’d juuuuust breathed a sigh of relief that she didn’t regognize me with my new hair (am now brunette, used to be very blonde) when she caught my eye and cornered me at my table. The cheery tone of her voice countered the uncomfortable small talk questions she loudly asked over shop’s background music.
“Why are you here I thought you were in Manhattan?”
(I was, then I moved to LA and it didn’t work out so I’m back here trying to start over)
“Where are you living?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
(No, that’s why I’m here alone catching up on work, haha!)
“What are you doing for work?”
(I’m working in real estate for now.)
“Omg me and my husband need to buy a house!”
(Well I’m not exactly licensed yet. I’m studying for it)
“When are you moving back to the city?”
(I don’t know yet, playing it by ear.)
“So did you hear I got married? Do you go out a lot? Did you hear so-and-so is having a baby today?!”….
And so on and so forth. I’m sure you’ve had a similar awkward exchange with someone from your past too. It’s a bitch. I fucking knew the blonde highlights were a bad idea…I think I need to re-dye my hair back to black.
On the bright side, I haven’t seen The Omen in about a week, and several of my co-workers have said that if the city doesn’t work out, I have a promising future in construction. And no, Twisty Kristie hasn’t helped me with the renovation work because she’s “a realtor, not a handyman!” But thankfully the dirtiness and chaos has kept her out of the office temporarily. Holler.
I wish I had more entertaining things to write about than being stalked by a sketchy omen (like being stalked by a handsome stranger)…but this is where I’m at right now. Oh don’t judge me.
Last night I once again pulled my Ghetto Echo into the driveway and not a moment after removing my keys from the ignition, I had the shit scared out of me when a violent thump sounded against my windshield. A handsome stranger it was not. It was the satan cat. Again. Sprawled against the glass, giving me the stank eye, and plotting his attack.
Who gets stalked by black cat? And not like semi-acceptable passive stalking where he just chills in/around my property. No…this stalking is fucking aggressive. As you can see from the photos, The Omen is trying to force itself on me. I was literally stuck in my car for ten minutes trying to exit because every time I cracked my door, the little bastard tried shoving his body parts in.
In continuing my tries to be a more optimistic person, I’ll just assume that this does not mean inevitable death, but instead means that good luck and/or many suitors will be aggressively forced on me by the universe. I’m going to be penetrated by prosperity! Bring it.
Twisty Kristie is my evil co-worker. Twisty Kristie HATES me. When I came back to town and told my former employer I’d like my job back, Kristie cried, caused a scene in the office, and began plotting my ultimate demise.
I tried to extend the olive branch to Twisty Kristie. I explained to her that I was only in town for a pit stop, did not want to replace or displace her, and I expressed with sincerity my hopes that we could get on to help rather than hinder each other. Twisty Kristie nodded in agreement and suggested we even go out for cocktails to “get to know” one another. Twisty Kristie said we were cool.
Twisty Kristie LIED.
In fact, it was the very same week of that heart to heart that I took Twisty Kristie up on her offer to get drinks. We were getting along famously — she even introduced me to her bartender friend Dragos who enthusiastically supplied us with free, fiery tasting spirits. And after I began feeling warm, tipsy, and fond of Twisty Kristie, she took off with my purse (and phone and wallet and cash and ID) which in turn led to the near-molestation incident at the car show that got me kicked out of my Meema’s house.
Twisty Kristie maintains that we’re girlfriends, and that she only left with my purse to “protect it” because she didn’t know where I’d “gone” (about 9′ away from her, to the dance floor). That was back in September. Since then, Twisty Kristie has continuously (and stealthily) tried to unhinge my professional standing by:
-Secretly deleting my work
-Sending company-wide blast emails about everything I do “wrong” (like put yellow labels on hanging file folders that “should” have blue labels)
-General smack talk (like how I’m cold and sociopathic because I don’t cry over work-related issues like she does)
-Intercepting and destroying my messages on my days off
-Discrediting everything I do, from my method of purchasing paper towels for the office bathroom to how every property photo I take looks “cartoonish” and “cheap”
And most recently (drumroll)
-By posting scary pictures of me on Facebook
I went to a local happy hour last week with a bunch of people from my company, and remember Twisty Kristie being particularly adamant about getting a “group photo!”, then smiling at me afterwards and telling me how cute I looked in it.
A few days later at work, several other co-workers made mention to me that Twisty Kristie had uploaded a picture of me “looking like a mutant” on Facebook (where she’s connected with most local people in the real estate profession). Since I don’t have Fbook, I haven’t peeped the pic, but others have described it to me as “scary,” “deformed looking” and appearing as “if I was badly burned in an accident and an eyeball melted off.”
I’ve been hesitant to blog about Twisty Kristie because God forbid she find herself here online. Well I officially don’t care. You can steal my purse, violate my beautiful spreadsheets, convince people that I’m a heartless, career-obsessed soul-sucker…but girrrrrllll once you take it to the social networks, this shit’ll get nastay!
Unlike TK, I refuse to stoop to the level of tarnishing someone’s professional image. But there are other ways to get sweet, sweet revenge. And as it says on my resume – I’m a skilled creative strategist.
Bring it, B. Bring it!
What is the meaning of this? I pulled into my driveway after work last night, grabbed my purse and my 6-pack of Bud Light, and went to exit my Ghetto Echo. Upon opening the door, a fat, black pussycat shoved its body into my car, and refused to exit. I don’t kow whose cat it is or where it came from. It was unphased by me yelling at it (“Bad cat! Ohmygodwheredidyoucomefrom!? Out! Go!”) or me swatting it with papers, clothing, stillettos, coffee cups, and whatever other debris clutters my car.
I would say that this is an obvious omen of impending chaos and doom, but I’m really trying to be more positive. Wiki claims that black cat sightings vary in meaning. Most Europeans think that if you see a black cat, you’re fucked. But the Japanese think black cat sightings are super awesome, and as an added bonus, if you’re a chick approached by a black cat, you will have many suitors. Finally, Celtic cultures claim that black cat encounters are hella lucky. Coincidentally, I’ve been talking about scraping together the funds for a trashy Irish
weeklong pub crawl vacation…so I think this is a good sign that I WILL make it to Dublin and I WILL get lucky there. Hell yes.