Yeah, I’m a Work Machine.

A boss at a Lame Crap job even once told me so. Exact words. He meant it as a compliment.

Most folks would bristle at the “machine” aspect. I didn’t.

The Move.

The topic d’ jour … d’ month … hell, d’ TWO months!

The many measurements of waiting — two weeks, seven days, three days, 23 hours, 15 hours — are over.

The move’s accomplished.

Most of it.

Still odds and ends — approximately a tight car load — to do tomorrow on final departure. I’m spending these last two nights here on a skinny camp cot with little but cleaning supplies, food in fridge and stereo with one speaker; the other was moved already.

The cot and this folding patio chair are what remains of the furniture.

I hauled a large heavy bag of frozen and refrigerated foods specifically to the new place yesterday, only to to reminded that the electric’s not on until tomorrow!

So back into the car and to the old place it went! Good thing I’m fit and like weight-lifting!

Don’t Get Me Started

You know how it goes. You clean a spot on a wall. Then suddenly you’re cleaning the entire wall! Then you’re cleaning all the rest!

That happened yesterday.

One wall is painted (light navajo) cinderblock. So highly textured. I bent to clean an adhesive smudge.

And, thanks to the bright clean patch, noticed a film of residue of dirt and oils — normal buildup through time. Largely imperceptible to the eye were it not for that patch of clean that I created!

You know the rest of the story!

I get out the Dawn … then the Simple Green … and “degrease” the entire wall! The high texture requires elbow grease for sure! But it looked better. Shined!

So of course … one wall to the next. Suddenly I’m up ’til 2 a.m. scrubbing the walls in the living room … the kitchen … scrubbing baseboards and the bathroom again.

Cuz’ Simple Green (my newest cleaning discovery) is simply amazing!

Oh yeah, I’m standing on a hamper to clean to the ceiling.* {Which fortunately for this task — and only this task! — is low. My tall swivel chair that substitutes (dangerously) as a ladder is already at the new place.}

*Do not try this at home.

Finally had to force myself to set down the rag at 2:15 in the wee hours! I’m a work machine!

All that late-night a day of little sleep that began {too} early …  pick up the rental truck … move … return the truck … run errands … bounce between old and new places … THEN go to work at 7 p.m. to midnight!

A very long day indeed, yesterday.

Keep Moving. And Gratitude.

If I stop, I might not get back up! {haha – teasing}

I’m running overtime on adrenaline and will.

And a second wind. I may be up to my third wind by now. Possibly fourth. 🙂

Anyhow, the move yesterday (Aug. 29)  went seamlessly — from picking up the Penske to the friendly helpers to the loading/unloading! Only surprise was a monsoon that caught up to us.

We stood around under the eaves of the mobile home patio chatting and waiting for it to pass. As we knew it would. And it did.

We unloaded the only piece remaining — the futon and frame — and called it mission complete! They refused to accept cash for their labors but did accept the Costco pizza!

I am soooo grateful for their help. Four people working goes WAAAAY faster than I do it on my own! Every move for the past 13 years straight has been me solo.

Having help — nee, even requesting it — is not in my repertoire or early life experience. Everything I own — furniture too — I moved into my apartment on my own. Thus I could’ve moved out out on my own.

But I don’t have the resources in time or energy or health.

I am soooo grateful to Maggie and Michael and David for giving up part of a Saturday to help … for their lifting and muscles … working as a team and keeping things flowing. Thank each of you again!

You not only helped me on a practical level but you’re helping me learn a LIFE lesson: How to ask for help when help is needed.

{Haven’t proceeded yet to the Advanced Course: How to Ask for Help Because Giving and Receiving Are Life’s Flow. I’ve A LOT to learn in this Basic Course: Ask for Help Because It’s NEEDED.}

Thank you thank you thank you!

Final Thoughts. For the Moment.

Well, there’s still a “living room” wall to clean and final touches. I want as little left to do on tomorrow’s departure. I wanna glide outta here knowing the place looks spectacular. Bright, shining, in perfect readiness for the next tenant.

Pierce Property’ll send in crappy cleaners regardless. And those crappy cleaners will have nothing to do. Nothing. Yet they’ll put on a show of cleaning. Because they’re being paid. (and farrrrrr more than I’m being paid for the most extensive, deepest, meticulous cleaning ever done on a rental space!)

I’m feelin’ the energy zap, the drain, the sleep deficits. Tonight I work from 6 p.m. to midnight. Gonna be a long day (and night).

So I can’t breathe just yet! Perhaps tomorrow.

Adrenaline and will. My fuel. If I could bottle this stuff, I’d make millions!

Truth told, more than that, I’d like to bottle Hardworking-ness. That’d be my gift to the world. Impeccable Work Ethics. Work Until You Drop But Don’t Drop, Just Keep Going!

I wouldn’t make millions! Not even a dime! No one wants to work any more. Or knows how! Not in America.

(10 minutes with my dad would change that. Not going there!)

Fatigue’s got me punchy. So on that sad socio-cultural reality bite, toddles for now.


15 Hours: All is in Readiness

Donations to the women’s shelter. Check.

Sage stick for smudging the old and new spaces purchased. Check.

Odds & ends donated to Best Buy’s recycling program. Check.

Checks from my job cashed and address changed at the bank. Check.

The availability of fresh-baked pizza in the morning right after Costco opens. Check.

The apartment: In absolute readiness for tomorrow’s move. Furniture’s neatly arranged by size and weight in one area of the studio. Ditto boxes.

The tiniest of pinholes, scratches, dings, even those made by former tenants but left unfixed, have been spackled and painted with a paint that I matched to a T.

I don’t want to get dinged for someone else’s damage! Pierce Properties is one to do it. They’re famous/infamous for it.

I can’t abide by mean-spirited unfairness.

I even repainted the closet shelf and small scuff marks deep into the closet’s back because they’re not to be trusted but feared for concocting reasons to claim chunks of deposits.

Nothing’s escaped my eagle eye. Nothing’s been left to chance with them!

Is it worth going to extremes to avoid their penalties for even the tiniest things like pinholes?


Jack’s a Dull Boy

I’ve been all work and no play most of my life and particularly lately. A real workhorse with nose to the grindstone at the job and then at “home” for a while. For two months since I was told they’re not renewing the lease.

Now, with all in readiness, I can relax. Enjoy a proper meal out. A gorgeous and nutritious salad at Wildflower cafe.

I like this feeling. The feeling of incredible accomplishment. Of all things done thoroughly, meticulously and to human perfection. Satisfies the very hard worker that I am.

That I do it all with no help requested or received is a lifelong problem still to be worked on and healed. Maybe. One day. Maybe.

I’d Beat Out Meryl!

If Hollywood handed out Academy Awards for exemplary and commendable hard work and labor, I’d win for sure! I’d outnumber even Meryl Streep in her golden statues!

Since there’s no one to appreciate or even recognize my superb labors and work, I can only pat my own back. And, I’d like to imagine, bow humbly before applause from angels and etheric beings who do recognize good works.

And take myself out for a healthful salad that otherwise I wouldn’t (price-prohibitive).

Sometimes a girl’s gotta be kind to herself and acknowledge work well done.

Extraordinarily rare that I do that. Kindness to and appreciation of the self are NOT in my family repertoire, history or experience. Making the conscious choice to treat myself to a nice meal all the more meaningful.

Well, 15 hours now and count-count-counting with the pit-pit-pitter-patter of anticipation …

Contemplations as the Curtain Falls

The thrusting dissonant orchestra of cicada.

The bells at the courthouse announcing 11 o’clock.

The gentle buzz of air in motion.

The passing roar of a vehicle.

Rush Limbaugh on my radio.

Such are the sounds in and around my space 24 hours before the move.

What’s missing from this picture of the moment?

Thumping and thwacking of the neighbors.

Thumping – heavy footsteps pounding their floors – my ceiling. Thwacking – their incessant swamp cooler

A Calgon Moment

This is one of those rare moments of bliss. Of peace. Of solitude. Of home the way it should’ve been. A space of respite, replenishment, regeneration.

On the contrary, it’s been anything but.

Stress. Incredible corrosive stress and rage, internalized. Enduring this situation and the couple above has cost me a great deal. Distressed, degraded and lost sleep for starters. I don’t want or need to recount the nightmares of living below Sara & “Dairo.”

I need but two things:

  • Move.
  • Let it go. Let it all go.

When I first saw this place, it was peaceful. The hour was late afternoon. Even if there’d been tenants living above (there weren’t at that time), they’d have been at work. Thus the place would’ve presented a false peace.

Landlords should show places in the evenings. Gives prospective tenants a reality bite that daytime viewings can’t.

A Passing Peace

Yes, I love this space right now. At this moment.

How rare this peace. Which, to me, translates into a freedom from invasion and intrusions from others.

I’m a master at fleeing stressful home situations. I’ve been doing it since I was a child. My family was one big fucked-up war zone. It was flight or fight. Often I fought.

When I got older, bigger and my legs stronger, I fled. I lived life in the home constantly on the verge of running away. Wanting to run away and being unable to. Or actually running away.

My home life was hell. Neither my sister nor I have ever recovered.

I understand the street waif.

I am the street waif in so very many ways.

Grief Gone

The grief in “losing” my current space has given way to enormous relief. “Dairo” above has really escalated the Thug action. What an asshole. A real prick. His energies are nothing I’d choose for myself in life. Or in the home. A restful space they do not create!

In exactly 24 hours, I’ll be loading / arranging my things in a Penske rental truck much larger than I need. I’m taking days off from my Lame Crap Job (as yet unannounced) to accomplish this move.

I can’t combine the energy drains, fatigue and stressors of that job with the demands of the move. I just can’t. I’m 58. I must pace myself. My energies aren’t what they were when I was in my youth. It’s not like I’m losing much income by taking these days off from that job!! {I make minimum wage. Big whoop!}

From Light to Dark

Yes, I moved into this space with light in my eyes.

Not only because I was leaving an insane situation (again!) but I loved the space first time I saw it. It resonated. It was as if we’d chosen each other. As if I was meant to be there.

That resonance was degraded by forces not of my making, by circumstances — and tenants — not of my choosing.

The curtain fell. The place turned dark. A violent intrusive energy moved in. From the man above. An energy of I Don’t Care.

I can’t relate. I can’t wrap my head around Not Caring in shared living quarters. Especially tight ones like these are.

I don’t wish “Dairo” (real name = Y instead of the D) ill. I wish him only his karma.

And it’s a bitch, like they say.


I’d planned to take this day off to wrap up the final preparations for tomorrow’s move. However, I’ve been working with nose to the grindstone and accomplished all that last night! Including arranging the boxes in order of size and weight for loading.

I’m nuthin’ if not the Queen — Queen, King and Ruler! — of Meticulous!

So today, my last full day here, I can kick back. Relax. Chill. I hardly know what to do with myself when I’m not work-work-working!! I may treat myself to a movie.

Sara upstairs will be home for her long lunch — I know the schedules of the couple above waaaaaaayyyyyy too intimately!

The peace and solitude I’m now enjoying will go bye-bye. Vanished. Poof! Gone to the thumping of her feet and thwacking of their swamp cooler.

Letting Go. Moving On.

Yes. It’s time to move. To go. To discover a space that is peaceful rather than wracked by discord, violent energies and other sordid shit that makes apartment living the hell it can be.

In unfavorable conditions. With unsavory or fucked-up people.

It’s time for a new chapter. Fresh beginning. Freedom from he who harms.

Them’s my contemplations in this rare moment of equilibrium. Now: 23 hours and, yes, counting. 🙂

A text keeps the wheels rollin’

Whewww! Small disaster averted! Technology saves the day!

Rare that I say that. The proliferation of cell phones and mannerless misuse is a pet peeve.

This morning, however, I awoke to a text.

Cost me 25 cents, like every text save from Verizon, of my bare-bones cheapest-they’ve-got plan.

It’s 25 cents well spent.

“Your Penske rental truck will be ready at 9 a.m. on August 30.”


Sunday’s the 30th! I’m moving tomorrow. Saturday. The 29th!

My original reservation was for Sunday. Then I spoke with Penske about changing it to Saturday. No problem, he’d said.

Did I not make it official?! Was there a miscommunication?! Merely a gentleman’s agreement? Will never know!

Know only that I’ve got 2-3 helpers arriving tomorrow at 11 a.m. People who’ve generously offered their time and muscles for a light, small, local move. I’ll pay them of course with $–  and pizza. 🙂

So Tim at the local Penske’s on it as we speak. Trying to arrange, hopefully, the right-sized truck for tomorrow rather than Sunday.

Had that text not appeared on my cell phone, I’d be up a creek 24 hours from now. Standing the Penske counter inside Home Depot, perplexed, steamed or stressed about possibly the lack of a truck. With 2-3 helpers on their way! On the one day they can all help!

Disaster Averted!

A series of phone calls. The 12-footer isn’t in stock for tomorrow at the Penske nearby.

But a 16-footer’s available.

Overkill for sure! My minimal furniture — most of my stuff is boxes — will look piddly in that Monster Truck!

They are, however, wheels that’ll get my things from Point A to B tomorrow. For that, I’m grateful in light of this 11th-hour snafu.

Plus the moving buddies can come as scheduled. Whew.

Thank you courtesy text from Penske!! Without it, who’s to say whether the move mañana woulda-coulda happened!

It kept the wheels of this move rollin’.

{ginormous exhale}

Thiiiiiis close to the nightmare’s end

I’m in the home stretch.

No pun intended.

In some 43 hours, the 9-month home nightmare ends. Officially. I’ll have the keys both to the rental truck and my new place.

I’m beyond ready to put this situation with the neighbors … their noise … the  crappy construction … their thwacking swamp cooler that I’ve been listening to for two months.

All of it. I’m done. I want out.

A Thug is a Thug is a Thug

You can’t make people be nice. You can communicate. But in the end, a thug is a thug until he decides to be good.

Noise conditions being what they are, in truth, what I want and need is to move away from the energies of the man above. While his girlfriend, Sara is no great shakes either — made complicit by her mousiness — it’s “Dairo” (substitute the D with a Y) who’s made the situation bad. He’s a violent, vindictive, self-absorbed, boastful, arrogant, macho prick. A thug. Even if his “better half” wearing the rose-colored-I’m-in-love spectacles can’t see it, I can. I can feel it through his footsteps. His demeanor.

One day he’ll smack her around. It’ll catch her by surprise. She’ll go into denial about who he is, remain submissive and “try to fix it.” He’ll apologize. Then it will happen again and again. The cycle of domestic abuse is real. And almost predictable.

She’ll stay. He’ll continue to be the dick that he is. By that time, I’ll be long gone. But I’ll remember Sara and her thug “Dairo.” Not fondly. I’ll hope the best for her that she wakes up to what I already know about him. Him, I don’t care what happens to him. He’s bad news putting on a good front. Like violent/abusive men always do.

So I’m absolutely welcoming this move (although theres no denying the work, stress, financial impact, lost wages etc.).

I’m welcoming this move to be free of “Dairo.” And his busty blonde babe with the rose-colored glasses. Poor kid. She deserves better. Hopefully one day she’ll discover that. Hopefully it won’t take too many punches, derogatory name-calling and other sordid forms of abuse from “Dairo” to set herself in motion into freedom and safety.

43 Hours 

Though that’s when the move officially happens, I’ll be bouncing between the old place and new for final smaller loads and cleanup. The space I’m vacating looks magnificent thanks to my M-E-T-I-C-U-L-O-U-S attention to every surface and detail.

When I write that no stone has been left unturned, I mean it! The reputation of my property management company to concoct reasons and lies to keep the deposit precedes them. They’re so despised my some former tenants that they (tenant)  will never again rent from them.

Forewarned is forearmed. If the place clears my EXCEPTIONALLY high litmus standards and eagle eye,  then I feel good about not only leaving the place immaculate (which I’d do regardless) but reducing risk of the landlord meanies.

Well, when I started this post, the upstairs neighbors hadn’t yet returned from work. They’re back now. I know because their swamp cooler is THWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKING. Boring a hole into my head that I do not need.

Motherfuckers. Good riddance “Dairo!” You won’t be missed. And to the mousey Sara, I hope the best for you. I hope one day you wake up and see what a thug prick you’ve settled for and act for better for yourself and others closely involved.


… so close, I can taste it.



A Nightmare, Shared

It’s comforting somehow.

I just gotta.

I gotta share this. Been meaning to for some time and now’s the time on the cusp of this move.

My neighbor — my good neighbor to my side, not above — and I got to yakking a few months ago. He’s this young Rastafarian-lookin’ dude who’s lived here a few years so he’s seen folks come and go in my space.

The tenant before me was an older man in his 50s or 60s, he said. “I’m not good with ages.”  The man was apparently retired or semi-retired so home a lot.

And, like me, was bothered by others’ sounds in these tight (and poorly-constructed) quarters.

At that time, S. & Y. — aka the current Clack & Clomp Couple — didn’t live in the above Apt. A. It was a man in a wheelchair. And he was home like all the time.

The sounds of this man wheeling all around the wood floors drove the elderly man below crazy. So much so that he had to move.

Now, anyone who’s never lived below wood floors can’t imagine what even normal footsteps sound like. They’re thunderous. Like a herd of elephants, as the cliche goes. Wood is an energy conductor that transmits and amplifies x 1,000 every sound.

This becomes doubly problematic in housing when the wood is thin and/or insulation lacking. I guesstimate a foot or two of air space is all that separates the upstairs floor from the ceiling below.

So the body weight that our feet bear combined with the WAY of walking — heavy- or light-footed — are inescapable realities of wooden floors.

Now, the combined weight of the man and his wheelchair AND the motions … I TOTALLY TOTALLY got it when my good neighbor told me about it!! My heart went out to the man in the apartment below (and the man above in the chair).

It just reaffirms what I’ve been shouting to the world. Living under wood floors is HELL!! Unless you’re a dolt with muted to deadened awareness of your environment, you cannot help BUT hear!

I suffer much more than the average person because I can’t stand people above me, never mind macho violent dicks (and their submissive mousey girlfriends).

The older fellow here before me didn’t stay long. Around three months, the good neighbor thought.

I made it nine months with TWO people above. Worthy of a bronze or perhaps even silver medal, no?

In conclusion, I’m in the same camp now with friend Ed. Who after a few times of living under wood floors WILL NOT DO IT ANYMORE. He just won’t. He won’t even LOOK at a place if it’s under someone else.

I get it. TOTALLY get it.

And to that former older fellow who too was driven out by noise, whoever and wherever ye be, I’d like to say: I hear you.

I feel your pain. I know. I understand. Even when the rest of the world tells you you’re crazy. You are not.

What is crazy are these crappy conditions that bring & amplifying every SOUND above into YOUR space.

I hear you, Mr. Unknown Tenant.

And that must feel good to you, to be heard, above the din from above!

I hope that wherever ye live now that it is peaceful … serene … calm … comforting. You deserve it. You earned it.

I wish  for myself now the same.

Five days until the move … seven days until I’m completely out and this is finally behind me.

But who’s counting? 😉

The End’s So Close, I Can Nearly Taste It

My work here is done.

Such speaketh my knowingness this morning as my eyes sweep across the walls in my apartment.

They’re cleared of self-expression — framed photos, vision boards, the odd strands of shiny Mardi Gras beads.

As importantly, if not more so, they’re cleared of flaws — nail holes and pinholes and dings (whether caused by me or prior tenants) oh my!

No stone in cleaning every surface to perfection is left unturned.

As written in post preceding, such microscopic attention to detail is due to fear of my property management company!

Haha, not true. It IS due to Pierce’s reputation of finding things to ding tenants on even if it means bending truth or making up lies to withhold deposits.

Think like the criminal and you stay one step ahead.

That’s precisely what I’m doing as I prepare the space for my departure.

Forewarned is forearmed an’ all that.

In Related News

Soon as this is written, I’m off to submit a deposit and signature on a lease at the new place.

There’s work to be done there too. Not simply moving things in but the deep cleaning of every surface before unpacking.

I’ve never encountered a cleaning crew that approaches, even halfway, my standards and attention to detail.

Plus deep cleaning by my own hands, heart and mind is natural. Normal. Like laying a scent as does an animal. Imbuing a new space with one’s energy. Getting to know the space.

That means moving refrigerators and stoves, if possible, and scrubbing all that dust, dirt and gunk out  off the appliances and out from under.

Deep cleaning means  being on hands and knees with rubber gloves and a rag and reaching deep and far back into every corner and crevice inside cupboards and cabinets.

Getting the buildup of fingerprints and grease off the handles and knobs on kitchen and bathroom cabinets. The Magic Eraser’s great for that!

I could go on and on. Alas, the clock tells me it’s time to go sign that lease!

Really, the point is, though my work here is done — apart from the actual move and end tasks like scrubbing the shower, emptying & cleaning the fridge, the final mopping — it’s not yet even begun in the next place.

Good thing I’m a hard worker! Extremely hard worker! Work and attention to every detail of this magnitude would exhaust most people just thinking about it!

Toodles for now.



The Sunday Post (6 Days Before Moving)

It’s happening.

In all probability. Always a chance something could go awry at the last minute.

However, as of now, odds are in my favor. I meet tomorrow with K., private owner-landlord of the mobile home park, to sign the lease on the rental number 7.

Only then will it become official.

Thereafter I advance to GO. Taking care of multiple address changes, arranging utilities services, cable transfer, etc. and etc. All those tasks that make moving soooooo fun and stress-free. NOT! 🙂

Lately my free time’s gone to disassembling my current space. Removing pictures from walls, patching nailholes and pinholes from pushpins with a product that got rave reviews online — justifiably so. (Forget the name; will post anon.)

Moreover, I’m also painting over every patch and pinhole, either with a foam brush or a Q-tip.

This after collecting many paint chips from multiple stores and setting them against the walls in different conditions — i.e., daylight, evening light — to ascertain an E-X-A-C-T match. Not only in shade but in sheen.

Then after narrowing it down to a few tops candidates, I followed a suggestion read online:

Unscrew the faceplate on an electrical outlet. With a razor or pocket knife, verrrrry carefully shave off a sample of paint. Reattach the faceplate.

Then I bagged the actual paint samples in tiny plastic bags labeled accordingly (living room, bedroom) and took them to Home Depot for a final opinion/analysis by the paint person.

Not on the shade (Light Navajo, according to my meticulously discerning eye) but the sheen. We both agreed: eggshell.

She concocted my shade in a sample-size can, the smallest available. (Since I’m patching only tiny holes, I need not even 1/4 cup!)

I verrrry meticulously applied the paint to a push-pin hole in the kitchen pantry — an inconspicuous spot chosen in case the paint wasn’t a perfect match.

Waited for it to dry.


Thereafter, I proceeded to EVERY SINGLE pinhole and nail hole — many of them not even mine! — as well as ANY painted spot throughout the apartment, including normal wear and tear, i.e., along the window edge sill for one reason:

My property management company are pricks who’ll concoct reasons to withhold the deposit.

Natural detective that I am, if I think like the criminal and stay one step ahead, they can’t nail me.

No pun intended!

{Yes, for double protection, I’m taking photos before the final walk-through too.}

Sure, I’d leave the place meticulous and in ***far better condition than I found it*** regardless. Example: I shoulda photograph all the dead flies in the sills upon moving in.

That said, I have reason to go the extra 100 miles to avert the meanness and the Greed with a capital G that have given my property management company a bad name. A REALLY BAD NAME.

One stars across the board on Yelp and nearly every one talking about how the company screwed them royally outta their deposits.

Forewarned is forearmed.

Fortunately, as the Master of Meticulous (to a fault, some would say), attention to minute details comes naturally.

It’s a genuine asset as I prepare not only to depart and leave EVERY SURFACE of the place immaculate but to encounter the Beast of Greed.

Everything’s in mint condition apartment-wise.

Every possession and paper’s been gone through with a fine-tooth comb and either discarded, recycled or donated.

Most possessions are, as of today, tidily arranged in boxes neatly set against one wall, ready for Moving Day on Saturday.

I’ve cleaned all windows, inside and outside.

I’ve moved the refrigerator and stove and on their backsides cleaned off any bit of dirt or dust; I do that regularly anyhow so no biggie.

I’ve removed the stove’s electric coils, scrubbed & shined their catch-bowls AND INTO the stovetop’s innards themselves.

Think of any and every surface in an apartment and I’ve cleaned it to the cleanest condition it can get!

Baseboards. Tops of baseboards. Deep into every crevice and corner in cupboards and drawers and along every floor.

I did them all when I moved in. Did them again while living there. And am doing them again upon leaving.

Meticulously.NO stone left unturned!

And still.

And still I keep scanning for something, ANYTHING that I’ve not touched that my landlord could possibly ding me on. I’ve even repaired a few small holes in the ceiling left by prior tenants so I don’t get fined by Things I Did Not Do!

Even the carpet looks great! Reason: I don’t wear shoes in the house.

After I go, the “cleaning crew” (who did such a shit job before I moved in) will have nothing to do. Literally. Have. Nothing. To Do.

They’ll do it anyway. Because that’s what they’re paid for — and at a far better wage than mine I might add!

But that’s neither here nor there.

Here is: The Long Goodbye to My Current Abode.

The There is: My New Space that Officially Becomes Mine Tomorrow.

Y. E. Y!

Counting the Days Until the Nightmare Ends

It won’t be long now.

Thwack Thwack Thwack.

The incessant dronish sound like a broken belt striking the underside of a car hood. Like the relentless ticking of a timer on a bomb.

Eight more days.


The upstairs neighbors are home. Their every footstep is amplified x 1,000 and transmitted into and through my apartment.

Into and through by body. Into and through my head.


Who’s wearing the shoes with hard soles? We talked about this, S. and Y. — the couple upstairs — and I. At length. On my birthday in March.

I knew he doesn’t care. She appeared to at the time during that discussion about their noises and possible solutions. Her actions are reason to reconsider how caring she really is.

“We take our shoes off,” she’d said.

Uhhhh, no. You don’t. You do not. Shall I record the sounds for you?

Pages upon pages have been written primarily in my journal but here too about this Nightmare on A. Street. {A = the first letter of my street name.}

That’s due to change — officially — in about 48 hours. I meet with K. to sign the lease and hand over a deposit Monday.

It’s not until next Saturday — a week from now — that I move my stuff in.

I’ve already reserved the truck — Penske.

I’ve already lined up the helpers through my health practitioner-galpal.

I could do the move myself.

Every item in my place I moved in myself with no help. Hence I can move each out. Dragging across the pavement if need be.

This time, I’m choosing to receive help. I’m doing that because:

(A) my injured hurting shoulders cannot withstand heavy lifting.

(B) I have to learn how to ask for help when it’s needed. Receive help. I have to unlearn what my father beat into me: DO EVERYTHING YOURSELF. Repeat: EVERYTHING. YOUR. SELF.

It’s an ongoing life lesson and I’m far behind in learning it! So far behind. So asking for help WHEN I TRULY NEED IT is a small step in a journey of change.


It’s Saturday morning.

I rise Saturday and Sunday mornings with mitigated hope. Hope mitigated by disappointments. Anger. Rage. Like the rage of a caged tiger who needs to set free, released back into the wild that is his homestead.

Hope: for peace. For space. For solitude. For freedom from the Clack & Clomp Couple above.

Disappointment: They’re home. S. and Y.

Damn I wish they’d go away for the weekend! Or even the day. It’s summer. They’re young — 27-ish. They shouldn’t be sitting around like old folks in a rest home!

It’s only when they go that I get peace.


That’s him. I recognize his footsteps.

He’s a dick. A thug. I can’t stand him. I know who he is by the energy in his footsteps. I can tell. I feeeeeeeel it.

THWACK THWACK THWACK. Their swamp cooler’s on.

Along with their heavy walking, another indication they’re home.

The thwacking’s immediately above my head. I can’t escape it or flee it except by leaving. Which I do A LOT A LOT A LOT.

The TWACKING’s everywhere. It swallows up all the air on my patio and inside my apartment.

“My” apartment. Ha! I don’t live here. Never have. Courtesy of naive S. and her thug macho boyfriend Y.

Eight More Days

Just eight days until the end of this 9-month nightmare.

And it HAS been a nightmare. From Day 1 when they moved in; simultaneously, so did they.


I put on Pandora — Simon & Garfunkel’s now playing — and place a a speaker {a beautiful speaker it is too!} beside the window adjoining the patio in an effort to drown out the godddamn fucking THWACKING of their swamp cooler.

It’s having no effect. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

The metallic THWACKING is that loud. That obnoxious. That driving. And that echoing as it bounces off the walls of the next building.


It’s like listening to a jackhammer in slow motion for hours on ends.

Hours and hours, over and over again. THWACK THWACK THWACK! Either the upstairs neighbors don’t know. How can they not know??! It’s THEIR SWAMP COOLER!!!

Or they don’t care.


Dream On!

I want to sit on my tiny patio and listen to: nothing.

“Nothing” as in:

* The air flowing through the thick canopy of the giant tree here. I shall miss this grandfather tree.

* The beeping of horns, the passing roar of a motorcycle, a dog barking, the courthouse bells chiming on the hour and half-hour, the live music or cheering crowds during an event at the courtyard square — a weekly, nee daily, occurrence during the fine weather!

* The sounds of life.


* the all-invading dominating sound: THWACK THWACK THWACK.

Fuck. Them.

Eight days.

That doesn’t mean that in eight days, their sounds leave my life. No.

I’m moving most of my stuff then.

But I the person shall remain at the soon-to-be former apartment for some time for the final tidy-up. That’s another story. Another post.

It’s Pierce Property. They ding you for nail holes! Nail hole: $10 repair. Another nail hole: $10 repair.

Pierce looks for ways to keep your deposit. They’re famous for it — in not a good way!

If they don’t find them, they’ll invent them. So: TAKE PHOTOS! They’ll be your only evidence that the apartment WASN’T left in the condition that they claim.

My Closing Thoughts

I’m sorry I lived here. Not because the space is terrible or ghetto or the worst I’ve endured. It’s not.

I’m sorry I lived here as long as I did — nine months — because nothing good came of it. Not really. Not for me.

I stayed a few months too long. Shoulda been out after about 6 months. Around April.

Of course, hindsight’s 20-20.

I was still riding the optimistic that things could work out after the long talk about noise with the neighbors in March.

My good nature fucking got the best of me again.

As did my need to stay put for a year. A veritable lifetime to me, who’s moved how many times now? Like 53? I’ve lost count.

I wanted to believe that S. and Y. would do the right thing. The considerate thing. The neighborly thing. The good thing.

They didn’t. Especially he didn’t.

He’s a dick. A thug. A macho asshole.

And she’s in love and blind.

“One cannot sew a silken purse from a sow’s ear.”

Eight More Days

Eight more days of Thwacking and Thumping and “I Exist and You Don’t Matter” disregard from him. From them.

This is less a blog post than a journal entry.

Oh well.

A part of me feels like I’m losing my home. Understandable. I’ve poured enormous energies into making this space as positive as it can be.

And as I can be within it.

Yes, it’s a pairing. Spaces are no different from individuals and the relationships formed with them are real. So very real.

But it’s not my home. Not only because it’s a rental.

It’s not my home because it could never become so. Not under S. and Y.

One week from this very moment, a rental Penske truck shall be in the driveway.

Three or four of us shall be loading my laughable amount of furniture — laughable as in hardly any! — and boxes into the truck. Destination: a few miles away.

The nightmare’s closing.

The courthouse bells are just now chiming … 1 … 2 … 3 .. to the noon hour.

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry I must leave you behind, birds and hummers whom I feed so very joyfully.

I’m sorry I cannot be here to continue to enjoy your throaty song, summer cicadas.

I’m sorry, Apt. B, for the neglect from former tenants (not me) and any in the future.

And I’m sorry, Apt. B., that you must endure, as have I, the truly obnoxious and self-centered and even violent footsteps and energies of the residents above. I feel your weariness. I feel you beaten down, as am I.

It is {past} time to go.

Waiting for Godot. I mean, the green light.

It’s not a done deal. Yet.

But odds are that it’ll become so soon — certainly before month’s end.

I speak of course of my new place.

Searching Searching Searching …

To say the search for new housing has been a challenge would be a gross understatement! A challenge on every level: availability, affordability, cost, competition.

It appears that the 1-1/2 month search {egads!} is at last over {!!) and the rental mobile home’ll be it.

While it’s not everything I’d want or envisioned {literally} on my vision boards, it’ll do at this time.

One thing’s certain: It’ll be an adventure!

I’ve never lived in a mobile home park before! I did spend some length of time in an RV when my dad and stepmom lived the RV lifestyle for some years. That was a good hoot for them! For me too! Was amazing how the three of us made it work in a little space!

Anywho, after the RV experience plus 10+ years in Japan, I’m no stranger to small spaces! Not. At. All! My anti-clutter nazi is more than adept and practiced at what most Americans would consider abhorrent: NO place to put anything! haha You may definitely call me Ms. McGyver in what I make shortcomings work!

Soooo … there’s {mitigated} relief in having found a place! Especially in the most arduous season of space-hunting. That it took more than a month speaks to the severity of the search, not my lack of dedication and efforts!

P.S. I hope NEVER to have to look for a new space or move in July again!!!

Bittersweet Bye-Bye

Though there are positives and attachments to the space that I’m leaving — the sweet — there’s also rage and relief in putting the upstairs neighbors S. & Y. behind me — the bitter. I’ve penned and/or blogged voluminously on the torture of being beneath this couple, their sounds, wooden floors, thwacking swamp cooler (that’s still not fixed!).

It was bad from Day One, 9 months ago, and NEVER improved except during their all-too-brief holiday absences.

A part of me wants to give ’em the big ol’ finger with a shout of FU! when I drive away for the last time!

Another part of me wants to sob for what I endured.

Another part of me wants to shoot, with a rifle, holes into their floors (my ceiling) and yell: “Get some fucking rugs and make it easier on the poor soul stuck living under you!!”

Another part wants to just wash my hands of the whole miserable affair and move on to bigger and better — which to my definition means domestic peace without assholes in my space.

And he is an asshole, Y. the upstairs neighbor. Don’t care to elaborate; just leave it at that.

Gracious Goodbye

And the really big part of me wants to — and DOES — say thank you to the space. {p.s. It’s not its fault that it too is stuck beneath BAD CONSTRUCTION!}

I do appreciate the space and I thank the space for allowing me to be there for 9 months. I’m also sorry for the neglect at the hands of many tenants before me.

I know my studio feels the effects of all the good energies I poured into it. The deep cleaning of EVERY SINGLE SURFACE. The scrubbing away, on my hands and knees, of a decade of ground-in dirt into the kitchen linoleum.

Many are the things, big and small, that I brought into the space to raise it from a past of tenants’ neglect and unappreciation into the best it could be. Under the circumstances.

So I leave with love from myself and apology on behalf of prior tenants who’ve been less than kind or attentive to the space.

And Now …

Now I wait for word from the next landlord about the space she’s agreed to hold for me. I’m relieved and ready and just waitin’ for that green light … for, what, move #54? I’ve lost count.

Peace in my own space. A space for me. A space without neighbors and roommates consuming it. A space where I can breathe. And just be.

About two weeks until the big move … but who’s counting?! 😉