Wednesday, August 27, 2008

"I Wouldn't Expect You to Mow the Lawn, Boogs"

He was the jokester. The nerd. The country boy at heart. I was the princess who always had an opinion. The flirt. The restless soul. We met on a Saturday night (actually a Sunday morning) just sober enough to get into our (red) cars respectively and leave Jack London Square (Oakland). Both out for different reasons; me and my friends getting shit-faced in the name of my BFF, Theresa's birthday. D getting equally shit-faced to take his mind off of his grandfather's passing. Star crossed alcoholics if you will.

I used to think D didn't know me. I felt like he didn't understand me and that meant I should resist progressing with him. He's not a kumbaya-er. He doesn't smoke ganj or listen to electric hip-hop and alternative pop. He tends to get into a groove, rinse and repeat without feeling claustrophobic. I on the other hand, have never been much for structure. Or technology. I can barely keep my iTunes straight without having a conniption. And regardless of D's effort, football still makes my eyes glaze over with confusion (although I'm starting to grasp the concept). Needless to say, he and I are opposites on several planes. But our middle ground, that portion of our chemistry that aligns like a sparkling constellation....that part is totally amazing.

Like how affectionate he is when we're alone. There is always a hug, a kiss, a shoulder-rub; always a gentle nudge for me even if we're just watching TV. How he humors me when I nag about what he eats, even though I know he's a perfectly capable and healthy man (who tends to eat Sonics right before bed). How neither of us has ever stopped seeing infinite potential in each other. I think he'll be that amazing father that every kid should have. He's the goofiest man I've ever known personally, and I love that it's so unexpected. You'd never see his brand of sarcastic comedy coming, usually promptly followed by a burst of thundering laughter (at his own joke). I love that we can waste a day doing absolutely nothing and feel totally satisfied. I love that we can go to a nightclub and dance like there's no one around. I love that I've never even come close to seeing him as anything short of a grown man. Never a "dude", a "guy" a "nigga" or "boy". He's respected always and quite naturally. It's true, I'm not a living-single kind of girl. Very seldom have I been left on the market for much longer then a few months. I've shopped, and I've sampled. And I know with all my heart that he's the one I'm supposed to grow old, fat and grumpy with.


Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Beauty & The Spazz

It's bad enough when you can't control the panic that sets in whenever you think about the future. Throw love into the mix. Not just any love. But the real, worry free kind. The comforting kind that settles your stomach and strokes your hair and whispers "hush" to every single insecurity you have inside. The kind of love that heals for Christ's sake. It's bad enough that love already makes you feel like a fool. But for a chronically anxious worry-wort to be in love with your standard "has-it-all-together" prince charming....what kind of twist of fate is that? While he sails calmly into the future my mind keeps running in circles.

Like a little midget who keeps turning the light on while you try to sleep.

It's hard not to feel undeserving. Insecurity like that can drive a girl to do drastic things. Like move to New York. Her own illegitimate form of rehab. Her own punishment for being so disheveled.

I wish I could be his kind of perfect, but the truth of the matter is I'm far from. I always feel a little bit like a failure. I always feel a little bit behind. Standing next to life's prodigy, a man who tackles it all with a smile on his face, someone who never feels defeated...well...let's just say I feel slightly askew.

I'm over-selling, I'm sure. D isn't all that perfect. I'm sure he always feels a step or two behind. We're all catching up to someone else. Eyes moving faster than feet can carry. But he makes it look so damn easy. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever look back on myself and think, "I remember when I was a mess."

Until then, I stay one stumbling step behind. One second away from cracking. Constantly second guessing myself, always feeling like I'm fucking something up or forgetting something at home. Always wondering what it could possibly be that makes him love me so much.

Aside from my good looks, of course.

Of course, don't get the wrong idea. I know he loves me as is. He'd just kiss my (sharp) cheek and say, "It's gonna be OK, Boogs." His voice smiling, eyes singing. Of course he would never think of me as I think of myself. I'm not some spazzed out nut case in his eyes. To him I'm Boogie, the one who needs kisses like grass needs water. Running with her heels to the sky. Like a little black dress with hem undone.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Be Kind to Those Who Flip Their Shit

My savvy but blunt friend, Etienne, asked me the other day kindly what was on the side of my face. "Um...yea I broke out. I'm your basic pimple factory this week," Was my response. He grinned at me and said, "Stop stressin!". What the hell did he know about breaking out from stress? He's a grown, 30 year old man. He doesn't have to deal with jumping hormones or static emotions. He doesn't bloat at the sight of salt, or get red cheeks from worrying about things. I do!!

Anyone close to me knows that I stress out VERY easily. The stress starts at my fingertips, tingling and cold. I can feel it coming on. I ignore it for a few days. I put whatever issue is tapping my shoulder at bay, and try to remain optimistic. Then, like a bolt of lightening it hits. And before I know it, my problem has pimp-smacked across the face. Now that I have no choice by to face whatever it is, panic sets in.



Scientifically, a panic or anxiety attack comes from a person who is basically unable to control the amount of adrenaline that rushes the brain during a state of emergency. That feeling that comes and passes when you hear a loud noise behind you and causes you to jump. Or if anyone has been in a car accident; that feeling that rushed over you right when you heard that fateful "CRASH" and you knew you just fucked up. Anyway, take that emotion and imagine it lasting a good 10-30 minutes. Cold sweats, muscles tension, heart palpitations, dry mouth and the general sense that the walls around you are closing in. When mine hit I usually have a very hard time breathing as well. It's not something I look forward to, it hurts, it makes me cry and feel scared and helpless. All I can do about it is hope it passes soon, try to prevent myself from getting riled up and keep understanding people in my life.




But not everyone understands. People are quick to assume your just a drama-queen. That you just want attention. If only people knew how often I have them quietly or alone. Afraid people wouldn't understand whats happening to me. Afraid people won't care anyway. My least favorite reaction is, "Just try to calm down."



Calm down. Yes, ok. Because I CHOOSE to not be able to breathe or see or even speak and feel as though I'm about to implode. It's fun for me. Leave me alone...please let me ENJOY this panic attack.





This is why I choose not to inform people when they hit. Sometimes I do, when their really bad, and I just need some one to tell me things will be ok, or to hug me or give me a glass of water (or a paper bag...or a loaded pipe...lol).



In my experience the only people who really understand are others who have anxiety problems as well. And maybe it's better that way. But if you know someone who has told you they have an anxiety problem. Especially if they don't flip their shit over stupid things (like dishes in the sink or missing their train), please be kind. Educate yourself on what it means to have an anxiety problem, and try to put yourself in their shoes.



My cheeks are permanately red today, my skin is obscenely bumpy, I'm bloated for no reason at all, I'm starting to get a migrane, I have a cough like no one's biz, my muscles are all tight and dry and I can feel a panic attack waiting in the wings. This is not fun for me.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

I Have Bubble-Guts

I am billowing with excitement and joy today. Not only am I done with the "hard part" of moving, but it's THURSDAY!!!! Which means I get to see my baby is a little over 30 hours. I am sooooooooooooooooooooooooo excited!!!!

He's lined up an incredible weekend for us (my first Saint's game and a great hotel room at the W). But my main venture will be gazing into his deep-brown eyes and getting peppered with kisses. I can't wait to hug him, hold him and squeeze him. I'm looking forward to packing, looking forward to the plane ride (my first flight that includes a meal...small pleasures) and looking forward to seeing D. Mine, once and for all.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Denial?



It is purely coincidental that my nose is all sniffely..
The recent sneeze attack was dust-induced..
I am NOT getting sick right before vacation...
I will be seeing D in top-shape...
The cookies I'm pacifying myself with are calorie-free...
I will still fit into the bikini I bought last week...

I am most definitely NOT sick.

Hell-Sent Room Mates (When Fuck-Tards are let loose into society)


Some things in life you should know as a rule. Don't eat yellow snow; keep your enemies close; and always pay your credit card bill on time. But the golden rule, especially in this informational-available age we live in, is also my favorite; Never (and I mean NEVER) piss off a writer. Especially not a blog-writer.

Such as myself.

Because I have faithful readers, because my blog is now found in Google, Yahoo and about 15 other blog directories. Because I also happen to be a closeted asshole. I want to thank Molly Glen and Raphael Diaz of Bed Stuy, New York for making my last days in a hell-hole apartment so unbelievably horrendous and disturbing.


This, is the story of the Hell-Sent Room Mates.


I met Molly in a women's lit class back home in Hayward, Ca. We became casual friends, going shopping together occasionally and meeting up for coffee. She was cool, laid back and artsy. The kind of friend you like to have because their vices out way their better judgement. It made her human, and therefore very likable.

Once D and I had entered into the last stages of breaking up, and I assumed our relationship was dead and buried I agreed to move to New York with her. She had already moved in August of 06 and I was planning on coming up in March of 07. After emailing back and forth with Craig's list apartment links and figuring out deposit amounts we agreed on a place in Bed Stuy. She claimed it was fabulous, in a not-so-hot location but none the less a steal. I thought that since she was a uppity chick from Fremont, her taste in apartments would be that of a higher standard. My first mistake.


The apartment was cramped, oddly laid out and directly next to an overgrown mouse field. It was tucked away between Fulton and Marcy st. Aside from the fact that it was located near an express train, groceries and shopping I was less then thrilled to say the least. Still, my excitement of being in New York surpassed my doubts about the apartment.

April came and so did Ralphy. Her Cuban-American boyfriend who had a selectively "black" vocabulary (meaning he called people "nigga" when he was in the mood, prompting me to give him my Martin Luther King speech). It was agreed he would "stay" with us, put in on bills and rent but not be added to the lease. I saw him as a silent partner. Only Ralphy rarely stayed silent at all.

The first altercation came in June, when the Verizon bill came. I walked into the apartment with mail in my hand staring down at the open bill. "The cable bill and stuff came." I recall saying. No one looked up or acknowledged I had spoken. "I'm going to call and make sure this is the right amount, but I think they're still charging us for the deposit, it was supposed to be prorated." Again, nothing except a casual, "Ok" from anyone. I went on about mine.

A few weeks later, I came home from work, and before I had even had a chance to put my things down, or pee Ralphy (who, being unemployed, was still in boxers and a tee and lounging on the couch watching TV) asked to see the Verizon bill. I grabbed it from my check book (since I had already paid it) and handed it to him. He mumbled through his thick (ugly) mustache and dragged his finger tip down the page surveying the charges. "Hmmm. See I don't even use the house phone." He began, "So I don't think Molly and I should pay for it." I started to protest, but he started talking again, "So I think we should split the cable, you pay the phone and we'll pay the Internet." I looked at the bill again. Funny. That little arrangement ended me with the bulk of the bill. "Um. I don't know about that, we are supposed to go in 1/3 each on everything." Ralphy started talking some more and my bladder was day dreaming of relief. "We'll figure it out when Molly gets home." I said, and retreated to my room to change my clothes.

Molly never came home. We never spoke about it. No one said shit.

The next day I called them both with no answer. So I sent a text with their portions of the Verizon bill (which I believe was around $60 each). Molly, who conveniently ignores any calls, messages or texts regarding money or apartment business, never responded. But Ralphy, ever the verbal molester, responded quickly. His basic point, "I'm not paying shit." To which I ultimately replied, "I'll simply take it out of my rent."

And thus the war began.

After having Cynthia, Molly's passive-aggressive mother, call me to ask why'd I'd canceled my rent check, and then accuse me of having no integrity; arguing with Molly who quickly retreated to her bedroom after stating in a whiny childish voice, "I'm pissed off" and battling Ralphy over the measly $60 difference that they refused to fork up, I canceled the cable (as requested) and took out an additional $200 for the cancel fee from my portion of the rent leaving me with a total of $115 to give Molly in cash. She was confused (simple math, she told me is her down fall). Ralphy was pissed. And Cynthia was enraged. I was not even slightly amused by the drama.

Needless to say, I made it clear that I would be moving out as soon as possible, and no later than September 30th.

Communication from June to present day became null. If ever a money issue came up that could easily be resolved with 10 minutes of civilized conversation, Molly would hide behind Ralphy and insist that she had nothing to do with anything. Ralphy would say nothing loudly. I would state the facts and make it known that I would NOT loose any money over their ignorance. We ignored each other completely unless it was necessary to speak (i.e. "can you lock the door when I leave", "someone is at the door for you")

Then, my sister came to visit. And the towel incident happened.

Bri and I came home from a hearty evening of hanging out, returning to the hell-hole close to 4am. Molly appeared out of the bathroom, before we even had a chance to take a breath (they like to catch you before you have a chance to sit down). She was huffing and puffing and she looked at me and said, "Did one of you steal my towel?"


Pause. STEAL?? Really? Like that's my ploy for additional income. To steal used, dirty towels from my bathroom and sell them on eBay? Or perhaps I'm so obsessed with her that I keep her towels in my Molly-shrine. Or maybe her racist, schizo ass just assumes that every negro steals. Either way, I was bitter at the jump.

We had concluded that Molly had picked up the look-a-like towel in the bathroom and washed it then replaced it back on the door. The towel was actually mine and I had given it to Bri to use for the week. So when Bri used it that morning and hung it in my room, Molly assumed that the TOWEL BANDIT has stolen her (and by "her" I mean MY) towel. But this was all realized after Molly had a complete tantrum, yelled at my sister and stormed out (as usual) slamming the bathroom door behind her. I was livid.

I announced to her and her ragegy muff-head boyfriend, before slamming the door in her face when she came to fake-apologize, that no one would ever take that tone with my older sister, and that she should make sure and not speak to either of us for the remainder of my her visit.

Fast forward to NOW.


Ring, ring....


"Hello?"

"Hi Molly, this is Ashley. I wanted to go over a few things for my move. First, I told Solomon that I would be out this weekend, but it looks like my new place won't be ready till Tuesday night. If you have no problems with it, I'd like to leave my stuff in my room and move out Tuesday at 6pm."

"Sure, that's fine."

"Also, what out of the things we collectively bought for the apartment did you want to keep?"

"Well you can just have the dishes and stuff since I think you bought those. As for the wine glasses my mom gave me and stuff I was just going to keep that."

*At the time, I wondered why she would think to say that. Why would I take something her mother gave her? Why would she think to state something so obvious?

I came home Monday night with the intention of getting started on packing to be ready to go Tuesday night. I waltzed into my building, and took out my key to the front door. But for some reason my key wouldn't fit. Maybe I had the wrong key. I looked again. Nope, right key...WRONG LOCK.

That's right folks, the towel-hoarding, racist, money-grubbing wackos had CHANGED THE LOCKS. With my things inside.

I was speechless. I called Molly. No answer. After the 13th attempt she picked up and hung up. Tried Ralphy, nothing. Texted. Nothing. Finally, I called our landlord and he said that he was asked by Molly to change the locks.

Wow.

So I went ahead and took the train to my new apartment, as I had to meet my new landlord at 7:30 promptly. When I came back, no one was at the old apartment still. Molly sent a message: "I'll be home at 9:30 pm tomorrow through Thursday for you to pack and move."

WHO THE FUCK MOVES AT 9:30 AT NIGHT?? WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU AGREE TO ONE THING AND THEN COMPLETELY CHANGE IT UP??

I called my landlord, he agreed that I should be able to sleep at the old apartment, get my things and leave without their interference. I called the police, and they officers where pissed off for me. I ended up taking Tuesday off, and moving that morning. I had to show up when I knew those two cunt-holes would be home before going to work. *I found out why Molly had made a big to-do about keeping what was hers, when after noticing that three of my pots/pans were missing and finding them in their bedroom hidden under a pile of crap. I had to dismantle the lock (and of course I made sure that upon leaving I left the door WIDE ASS OPEN just in case anyone in the building wanted to steal a Mac laptop or any number of ugly clothing they surely have)


Thank GOD I have good friends in Brooklyn, I couldn't have gotten through all this without Tia and Etienne. And of course D's support.


Update: I'm in the new place, and it's fab, pics are coming. If u see either of these monkey-face, fuck-tard cunts please feel free to spit or piss on them.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Today is Pissing Me Off

Fuck shit....damn fuck.

I fucking hate landlords....

And shitty ass Bed Stuy apartments....

And rain during the fucking summer.....

I fucking hate rain, and stupid swim suits that I already fucking bought....

And D for always being so fucking busy all day at work....

Friday, August 8, 2008

When Things Tangle Up

My head, which was once clear, is now cloudy. Is now filled with dust-filtered light. Is now hazy. My addiction to chaos, rubbing sordid hands together, is filled with evil pleasures. Am I getting what I deserve?

Months ago, I was a different species. Cold and retracted. Reclusive. Mourning what I couldn't have anymore. Reaching toward the wrong things, with that ever present feeling of dirt under my nails. Like an alien on this planet. One simple twist of fate lead to another. A forced step in the doomed direction lead to a higher self confidence. Confidence to ask questions that ended in periods. To accept the unwanted answer. I heard exactly what I wanted to hear, asked no questions, and promptly took it running.

Now set between wanting and waiting, I'm in this place. While time moves like a dancer, mocking my still feet. If only I could know for sure. If only I trusted myself a little more. With two hands full, like a Libra scale I'm simply waiting for things to balance out, and for progression or lack thereof to make my decisions for me.
Please excuse me while I linger.