Got a letter from the landlord today. Was briefly terrified that it was, "we're going pet-free, you'll have to move," "the neighbors complained about you feeding strays/ working from home. You'll have to move." No, it was just, "Your rent is increasing by $20/ month." Which is fine, I've lived here nearly three years and $20? Pfft. The standard where I spent most of my adult life, Chicagoland, is, "rent increases every year (or every other year if the market is super-soft) upon renewal of the lease." But it's odd to me: six weeks of notice, and not on my lease anniversary or anything, no "you have the option of moving without breaking your lease if you don't want to pay this much," no nothing. I guess that's how they do it here?
Rather vexingly, this comes on the very day that the supplement that I find most helpful in controlling my ADD is no longer on Groupon's site, and I shall have to pay full price, $1.60-ish per tablet instead of .60/ tablet. Eep! I really wish I could afford a real psychiatrist, or that I could find one who would work with me on the ADD rather than insisting that I must treat the co-morbidity of depression first. Which is not realistic: that's not how depression with ADD works, I'm told. However, large doses of vitamin D, especially with B-complex and meditation on the side, are VASTLY more effective and have fewer side effects than any anti-depressant I've taken, and depression mostly becomes problematic and dangerous for me for literally eight hours a month, three months a year. ("Well, why don't you get your PMDD treated, Laura?" Because the usual treatment for PMDD is birth control pils, and the brand they use tend, not to take away not the PMDD but the respite therefrom. On the pill, I'm PMS-y ALL THE TIME. My daughter actually recently came to me independently with the same insight on her body. Besides, medical consensus is that PMDD is not a thing anymore.) So, bleh. Life gets more expensive. But on the gripping hand, I am grateful to have found this supplement. I really, really like it and its effects upon my life and cognition.
Today, and the next three days, I have off, if I don't choose to answer my work's pleas for warm bodies. (I may: they're offering point reductions). I have voiced my dissatisfaction with my ill fit with the schedule I have before, but it does afford one very nice thing: after ten days of work, the pleasure of half-waking and thinking muzzily, "Is it time to get up? No... not unless I want it to be." Oddly, I did get up at the same time as usual.
I just found an etymology I like. I thought the phrase "spitballing" for "hastily brainstorm something, which is probably problematic or a little icky," was new-ish, but it apparently refers to the act of muzzle-loading by using one's mouth to spit the ball into the musket, thereby increasing shot speed, but vastly reducing accuracy.
1. People buy scented candles (I have bought scented candles), but I can think of few things that smell nicer than the smell of hot, plain candle wax, especially when used to read by near a nice mirror; 2.I saw the teensiest skunk tonight. I opened the door, thinking it was Ringo the possum (of whom I wanted to get more pictures) or the local stray cat (whom I think might be pregnant, and needs more food and to be lulled so I can get her to a shelter). Slightly longer than my hand, and a tail bigger than it was, with an expression of, "I am fierce and not surprised or scared! This is EXACTLY what 'fierce and not surprised or scared' looks like... right?" I closed the door to let it calm down and adjusted my camera, and Ringo had taken its place (I think Ringo had been waiting it out--- Ringo is never late); 3. I rather like daisy fleabane; 4. I keep being surprised by how nice my own skin feels. In the wake of thyroid awfulness, it was falling apart, rough like Sith repellent. Now it is velvety smooth and supple and so unbroken! 5. More kudos on the Frost piece. I can, apparently, write a very nice account of an uxorious foot rub!
... I saw a crepe cake, and became deeply excited to make one.
I found a recipe for "buttermilk crepe cakes" online, and made it with a beautiful brandied-chocolate buttercream... only to find that the "buttermilk crepes" in question were nothing but American-style pancakes. I was so pissed off, I gave the frosting to someone else and ate the flapjacks in a mood of savage gloom. (I realize the participle dangles, but that imagery improves it and I'm not so sure it's untrue.)
To this day, a decade later, even after pretzel pancakes at the Bongo Room (which come smothered in creme Anglaise and are despite and even because of this quite delicious), I am not certain if I was sensible or a fool to pass up the experience of pancakes thickly layered with frosting.
Another masturbating caller tonight. I didn't even request a break afterwards. Usually, it hits me pretty hard; in the wake of my rape, my ex's friends decided I was deserving of retribution, and either organized a phone tree or straight-up posted my work number on 4chan. I worked the night shift, alone. I was recovering from being raped, and I had told myself that if I had not been so foolish about breaking the rules, this would not have happened to me, so I was being super-hyper-lawful-ultra-mega-good, and we were Not Allowed to hang up on anyone who claimed to be prospective customers... it was a rather difficult time to be the Leewit.
Normally, this sort of thing knocks all the wind out of all my sails. I'm pretty proud of my below-the-waterline self for keeping on...
The internal voice that is rarely wrong whispered to me yesterday. saying that no matter how much time passes, I'll still be the same distance from ever getting romantically or sexually involved again. Which is to say, it's never going to happen.
I love the single life. I hate being in bad relationships. I don't think I am any good at relationships, and I think it would be selfish and irresponsible of me to try with so many spectacular failures in my past. This is a good thing, a very good thing. What the world needs now is lack of drama, sweet solitude.
The situation with my cats reminds me of dating in Chicagoland.
My cat and I were thrown together at random; I found her injured one day while walking down the street. I don't think she is particularly fond of me, beyond treat and mousie-game time. She actually has a pretty good life, as small mammal lives go. I do, however, kind of think that somewhere, there's an owner she'd be really, really happy with; someone she could be cuddly with, someone who made her purr without the aid of a brush.
Meanwhile, in my head, the two strays I feed listen to her sad tales of miserable woe with wide eyes. "Sometimes, she only has THREE VARIETIES of treats instead of seven. She only cooks for me once a week, can you imagine? And it's almost never fish, and sometimes she tried to just put it out in front of me, without the proper ritual of shred-and-dangle. And, ugh, she just DOES NOT GET how I want her to throw mousies for maximum enjoyment (although she's learning some good tricks with ping-pong balls, I'll give her that). SOMETIMES SHE WASHES MY BUTT. She's constantly screwing up the weather, sometimes she makes it rain for days, or lets it be cold for months. She won't let me go out when there are tornado warnings, and she doesn't appreciate the half-mice I hide around her. My human is the WORST." And the strays are like, "Dude, you are so lucky. How much would I love to have a warm place whenever I wanted it? And your human is unreally good at petting and gets you the good catfood that makes the whole house smell like a mermaid's asshole potpourri."
And it's like dating, because no matter how nice I try to be to her, she is just with the wrong person, and will never be truly happy, in full feline/primate partnership as Bast intended, with me. And yeah, don't get me wrong, I adore her to bits and feel truly privileged to have her in my life. I would have died a dozen times over without her to live for and she is perfect beauty. I just remember the cats that I've had that I truly bonded with, and look at those strays begging to sleep on my feet and wish there were an Ashley Madison for cats, where they could meet their soul mates and shed the bitches that don't treat them right... bitches like me.
You can tell when Hal the Wonder-Kneazle has sneaked into the house while I'm on the phone and cannot give him his pets, because I run around the house like a maniac with a spray bottle, sniffing the walls...