September 26th, 2016 No comments

She was using my neck to brace herself. Brat.

She was using my neck to brace herself. Brat.

Ages ago (or, at least, it feels that way), a woman I thought I was friends with posted on her (now defunct) blog about how I didn’t know how she took her coffee, so I clearly didn’t know her.

She didn’t flat out say she was talking about me. It’s possible she even pretended she was talking about someone else. I can’t remember.

I do remember that, at the time, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out who she was talking about. And I didn’t really care. I was wrapped up in my own personal drama (who isn’t?), and a rant about how a cup of coffee proves you don’t know someone wasn’t really at the top of my list of things to worry about.

There was a deeper message about how you can’t get to know a person by reading their blog which (maybe intentionally) completely erased all of the time we spent talking outside of our blogs, and the time we spent commiserating about our psychotic boss, and the amount of time I spent defending her to our psychotic boss (to my own detriment) to make sure she didn’t lose her job. Read more…

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One Mouse Humanely Removed…Sort Of.

September 21st, 2016 No comments

So we were watching Lucifer, when we heard this crash.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked the man of the house.

“I don’t know. I hope it was the cats,” he replied.

We both got up, and he walked into the bedroom.

“It’s the mouse,” he yelled, and then proceeded to just stand there while Priss chased it around the room.

I knew it was going to be my responsibility to get it, because he can’t handle mice. Or bugs. Or most things that are creepy crawly.

He knew it, too, as he just stood there in the doorway, preventing me from getting inside. Read more…

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Mouse Poop Ruins the Morning

September 16th, 2016 3 comments

The morning started off great. Gave Master a blow job. He got me off.

…then I opened the silverware drawer.

Our new house is an old farmhouse built in the 1800s, so I expected mice. I just wasn’t expecting them this soon. Bleh.

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Move to the Country, Change Your Life

September 12th, 2016 1 comment

This is about the amount of counter space I had at the old place. Here, it's about 1/3 of my counter space. I was able to do all my prep on another counter and still have room next to the stove for everything else. I fucking love this kitchen.

This is about the amount of counter space I had at the old place. Here, it’s about 1/3 of my counter space. I was able to do all my prep on another counter and still have room next to the stove for everything else. I fucking love this kitchen.

We’ve been making some pretty major lifestyle changes since the move.

That sounds like crazy talk, since we’ve only been here a week and five days. How can you make lifestyle changes in a week and five days? Will they even stick?

Some of them have been forced upon us by the move. Others are things we’ve wanted to change forever but haven’t had the mindset to do so.

And Schenectady is such an enabler.

The #SchenectadyDoesntSuck crowd will try to tell you that’s not true, but most of them don’t actually live in Schenectady. They live in the small outskirt towns, where the blight GE left in the wake of its mass exodus doesn’t quite reach. They only go into Schenectady to work in its offices that don’t generally employ native Schenectadians, or to enjoy Proctors, or to take advantage of Schenectady County Community College’s programs.

They’ve never watched in disgust while the news reported blatant lies about how the government and rich business owners are improving the neighborhood where they live. Read more…

There’s a problem with the chore calendar.

September 8th, 2016 No comments

His new favorite spot.

His new favorite spot.

It’s no secret that I hate doing dishes. I mean, I’ve been washing dishes by hand since I moved out of my parents’ house at 17. Washing mound upon mound of dirty dishes by hand, spending (sometimes) all of my free time up to my elbows in dirty water is fucking depressing. If I can get away with it, I’ll leave dishes in the sink for days, and feel wholly justified…and a little disgusted with myself. But justified, nonetheless.

At some point, shortly after my ex and I moved to New York, we bought a used portable dishwasher, but it never worked right, so I never used it. Instead, I did dishes for four toddlers, an overgrown toddler, and myself by hand after every single meal (or at the end of the day depending on what was going on). And then, when I was in rehab, my “friends” sold my dishwasher and kept the money. I haven’t had the money, or the inclination, to buy a dishwasher since, and low income housing doesn’t generally have neato appliances like dishwashers, so I’ve been doing dishes by hand for 19 years.

It still throws me off when I realize I can say I’ve been doing anything for more than 10 years. Read more…

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The State of the Move

September 7th, 2016 3 comments

The view from our bedroom.

The view from our bedroom.

So today makes a week.

Last Wednesday, we were breaking our backs loading the U-Haul, trying to calm yowling cats on the ride in the U-Haul, unloading the U-Haul, and then dying.

Okay, so we didn’t die. But for a minute, it felt like we were going to.

My knees seem to be healing up nicely. After carrying boxes and furniture up a ramp, down a ramp, and up stairs, they felt like they were just going to snap. But they didn’t. And now, though the bad one (that has been “the bad one” since I woke up on the day of my 6th birthday skating party and couldn’t put any weight on it) is rather creaky, they’re mostly back to normal.

My hands, however, are not. The tips of my fingers have been pins and needles pretty much every minute since moving day. They start to feel normal if I just let them hang by my sides for an hour, but who has time for that? Definitely not this little gray duck. I mean, I live in this big, beautiful house, now, and it just demands that I clean it constantly because it would be a damn shame to let it get messy and be less beautiful.

I’ve never felt that way about a house before. Read more…

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