Turds

One day. Actually, not even one day. About 12 hours until my parents are here to help me move. Update:  I'm suppose to be moving into my cousin's group house tomorrow, but I got a text earlier today saying that the girl whose room I'm taking over is giving them issues again. Get out, you crusty turd! And yet, I still don't have everything packed.

Speaking of turds and my cousin - that started off weird - she and I went to dinner on Monday. On our way back to our neighborhood, we heard someone yelling off to right while we sat at a red light. I looked over and made eye contact with this very irate man who was yelling, "DO YOU WANT TO MOVE". I had, oh, I don't know, four feet between me and the car in front of me to aid in this very annoyed middle-aged, Ravens gear wearing, peeved white guy's parking attempt - which I only noticed once he was screaming at me. So I put down my back window to talk to him.

"Do you want to ask nicely?" I replied calmly.

"NO, YOU BITCH. YOU NEED TO MOVE."

"Well, then I'm not moving," I said confidently like talking to a tantruming toddler, as I popped on my hazard lights.

Hazard lights: Automobiles' gift to let you do any damn thing you please.

The light turned green. As he tried to park again, within inches of my car, he began to shout any and all expletives at me: cunt, dickhead, douchebag and then called me stupid. He delightfully added, "IS THAT HAIR COLOR REAL OR DO YOU DYE IT," trying to poke fun at my wrongfully-assumed dye job and intelligence (because everyone knows blond jokes are true - like duh.).

This attempt, of course, was quickly thwarted when, in unison, my cousin and I snapped back: "It's natural, actually!" And giggled a little. I then called him a turd.

Of all things during this ridiculous, heated, District of Columbia main road, Memorial Day evening, road blocking debate, I called him a turd. ...I've really got to work on my insults.

At this point he had said he was going to follow me home somewhere between calling me a cunt and insinuating that I'm stupid and dye my hair blond. Because I want to live, I said, "Well then I'm definitely not moving now," getting a bit concerned for our safety. The pleasant drivers behind me adhered to my do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want blinking lights I had clicked on when this whole thing began and went around, nary a yell or a beep - this time as I was actually doing something obnoxious. He called me stupid again and I said I have a masters degree (it's all I could think of) and what does he do. He said he was a lawyer. "Oh. That makes sense," I snarkly remarked. He said he was going to sue my ass. "For what?!" my cousin and I replied again in unison.

"FOR BLOCKING TRAFFIC." Apparently you can sue someone for blocking traffic. I'm sure he was a real lawyer. Better call Saul. After we pointed out that wasn't sue-worthy, he threatened to call the police.

"Go ahead," I said, "I'd like to tell them you said you were going to follow me home, so that they can escort us."

"I NEVER SAID I WAS GOING TO FOLLOW YOU," he screamed back.

"Yes you did!," we again said in tandem. "And she has a witness," attested my cousin.

"OH YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND?!" he spit back, as we looked at each other dumb-founded at the entire situation and his latest insult. He pulled out his phone and called the cops.

"The's a woman on Wisconsin and she's blocking traffic," he said into his phone, calm as a mellow hippie. After a moments more discussion, he hung up, looked over at me pleased with himself and then went on parking. I didn't believe for a minute that he actually called the police - nor did I care because it would have been preferable - and as he began backing into the space (please note I hadn't moved my car so it seems possible he could have done this from the start), I felt comfortable enough that he wasn't going to follow me home and kill - or "lawyer" - me and away we drove.

"That was a weird one," I said to my cousin as we rounded the corner.

"Yea," she responded. "Does that kind of stuff happen to you a lot - like, is that normal?"

"I don't even know anymore," I replied. And back home we went so I could continue my packing for both a transitional summer and cross country move, while keeping an eye out of my windows to make sure my car wasn't vandalized or someone tried to crawl through and kill me for stopping at a red light. I regaled my roommates of six more days with the tale; one had driven by us while this all went on. I'm glad there were witnesses because I don't think people believe this shit anymore.

Anyway, I'd better get back to packing because a few months back a few friends offered to help me. They even defended me against a girl who was very anti-help-me-move; all we got your back, gurl. And suddenly, they're nowhere to been seen. Turds. 

Twenty-Eight Days, Denial or Blind Faith

There she went again with her writing lull, sigh my faithful readers. It’s true. I have sucked at keeping up lately, but remember, I’m homeless soon!

I’m so busy and moving and stuff-doing that I forgot to RSVP to a wedding. WHAT A JERK! I even forgot to pay my credit card on time; for the first time in a decade. And even though my record is fairly spotless aside from these last few months of: 1. an auto-pay malfunctioning and causing a late payment and 2. Life making me a day late for another payment, they don’t care. Credit Bureau are like car insurance companies: your past forever can be spotless, but the moment you get a ticket, BAM! You’re down 50 credit score points and up $50 a month on your insurance premium.

So I guess I’m driving cross country in my same ol’ car. Which is fine by me (I love her), but for the first time ever, her oil change is late. (I'm sorry, BBT!) And even later when I had to push around this week to take care of a baby raccoon we found in the basement. (More on that later.) But there just never seems to be enough time to do stuff. And also relax. (I have no idea how people have kids. The raccoon was nearly needy enough.) In the midst of all of this, I still took five hours out of last Saturday to sit outside in the newly beautiful weather and read. (Dude! Everybody was banging everybody in the 60's!) And then go on a four hour hike Sunday. Relaxation is just as much on my checklist as anything else. I still have lots to do, but ‘nothing’ is also on that list.

All this in addition to my gift for procrastination. Even still, this moment feels different. In the past when I had to move, I would begin to panic months in advance. I'd need an answer and I'd need it yesterday. But I'm homeless in 28 days and choosing to hike three miles instead.

I did decide on a new plan: stay in DC until the end of summer to save up money so I can travel across country and look for a job with a little financial safety net instead of, oh, $6 dollars and an 80 points lower credit score. However, the room I hope to sublet – at my cousin’s house down the street – has a girl in it who – just from the looks of the room – is a total fucking disaster and unlikely to be reasonable or actually follow through on anything she says, like, oh say: “I’m moving out and not paying any more rent”. (Did I mention she teaches 4th graders?) And, oddly, unlike myself in previous lease-end times in my 20s, I’m not panicked - yet - even though the moves I'm making now are much larger.

I know have heard that as you get older, you’re supposed to have your shit together more. I shouldn't be considering that if I fold down my back seat of my compact sedan, if sleeping in the trunk would be comfortable and plausible. I shouldn’t have the desire to get rid of everything and hope all of my stuff can fit in three Tupperware bins and a suitcase. I should be wiser than to think that everything is just going to work out; move forward with the little knowledge I have (pack; get ready to leave) and have faith in the total unknown (where will I live; what will I do). These should be the musings of a 20 year old, not a 30 year old.

But, here I am; totally busy and barely fazed by the complete unknown in front of me. Maybe I just don’t have to time panic. Or perhaps it’s denial. I’m shooting for more of a blind faith and the calm of maturity. All stress is good for is wrinkles, acne and heart attacks anyway. Twenty-eight days...