Smoking Section

When I moved into this apartment earlier this year, the management took pains to remind me that this is a "non-smoking community" and that they don't tolerate smoking inside the apartments. I assured them I was not a smoker and got this look from one of the staff members who made it a point to say again, "yeah, we absolutely do not tolerate smoking here."

Hm.

Four months later, I'm still trying to figure out what it is about me that says "look at me, I'm a closet smoker" that I'd get a double-warning like that. Anyone who knows me knows I'm so far from being a smoker that I can't even convincingly fake lighting a cigarette for film. Maybe it's because the management knew I was coming from Vegas - vice capital of the West Coast - that they felt the need to remind me. I'm sure everyone's convinced we all smoke, drink, gamble and frequent brothels down there. While I have no doubt some fine Las-Vegans actually live that way, I assure you I do not. I don't go out of my way to eat organic and vegetarian and also work out five or six days a week only to negate any said healthy efforts with cancer sticks. So imagine, if you will, how positively hilarious I am finding it that, while I may look like some sort of deviant smoker, my inconsiderate neighbors really are going against the community rules and smoking willy-nilly in and out of the apartment. These people smoke 24-7 like they're on some sort of holy mission to self-destruct and take anyone else who is stupid enough to live near them out, too. (That would be me.)

There is no standard air-conditioning in Washington, I've learned. And this summer weather, while pleasant, can get a bit sticky. So if there's a cool breeze outside and it's 80+ degrees in your apartment, you open a window to try to get some cross ventilation going. Not quite so pleasant, however, when the McSmokersons downstairs are out on their balcony having one of their puff sessions. I don't know which brand of cigarettes they prefer, but the second-hand these fuckers produce is particularly heinous. In college, I worked the guest services desk in a resort on the strip and had patrons blow smoke in my face while I tended to their needs. I didn't flinch. I've done the club-hopping nights in Vegas, too, and not once in all those years did the smoke-ridden atmosphere ever interfere with my ability to have a good time in spite of it. My Japanese grandfather - may he rest in peace - smoked his whole, long life and I can't recall being particularly bothered by it when we visited my grandparents. I've even had friends smoke around me - albeit away from my general direction - and it never irritated me or became so bothersome that I felt I had to get preachy and remind them of the dangers of smoking tobacco... on friendship, that is. I was tolerant. I felt that, if you were considerate about the habit and smoked in designated areas, I really couldn't harbor any bad feelings about it.

Well, I think I'm starting to change my mind. Or, at least, am having it changed for me. Living upstairs from chronic smokers and down the hall from obnoxious ones who leave butts everywhere is seriously making me feel right fogey about this. The kicker about the McSmokersons (and what sets them apart from the pesky kids down the hall) is the fact that I know these people are smoking in the apartment. Rainy days are their special "Let's Smoke Inside" holidays but, even on a clear day, I can be on the balcony outside to get some air and then ultimately return to my office to find it rank like a retro Vegas hotel room. The carpet in here seems to be saturated with the stench that is seeping up through the ceiling and, in my hall, the smoke comes in through my heater vent (which I can't close but have taken care to block off with a picture frame - can't wait until winter when I'll need to use it again).

I can't bring myself to complain to management. I hate being difficult even though I'd like nothing more than to go down to the office, point a finger at the staff and shout, "A-HA! Think me a problem smoker, do you?" I just don't see myself renewing my lease at the end of the year, so it seems like a lot of hassle. Also, I haven't quite mastered my "A-HA" yet.

So I'm living amidst smokers and I'm not liking it all that much. Silver lining? It has made me more efficient in my chores. Hell yes. See, I get up early in the morning - especially on weekends - and I vacuum. Sometimes I rearrange some of my heavy furniture to freshen up the place. And getting up early allows me more time to do morning calisthenics in heavy shoes. Or do my weekend laundry with the clunky washer and dryer that always seem unbalanced and unusually loud. I also get more time to play fetch with my dog and her favorite, heavy rubber ball around the living room. *thunk-a-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk* Go ahead - try to smoke me out, McSmokersons. My dogs wake me up at five a.m. almost every morning.

And, since I think I got way too preachy there for my taste, here's a smoking-appropriate chimp clip to, uh, lighten things up a bit. (Actually it's rather heart-breaking... who gave "Charlie" the damn cigarettes in the first place?) Though it feels like I do already, I imagine living in an apartment above smokey monkeys would be seriously stinky - don't you?

Hugs for guns...

I've been gone a while, haven't I? Been keeping busy with the whole "settling in" bit but mostly feeling retarded because of how long it's actually taking me to settle in. Yeah, I'm ridiculous. And the fact that the process is still ongoing is doubly lame. But the weather in Washington is positively gorgeous lately (I took the below, poorly-composed photo downtown in my excitement... never before have I seen so many happy, pale peeps willingly burning in the sun at once; never before have I understood how wonderful it is to get a dose of much-overdue Vitamin D) and my psychotic dog is easing out of her loud and nerve-wracking separation-anxiety phase (a whole missing blog or two I'd happily spare you), so I have been enjoying the time I'm taking in my attempt to ease in.












I also haven't had much to say. Am laden with writer's block. Which isn't always a bad thing - frustrating, but not bad. Been getting a lot of reading in. When the blockage gives way, I'm hoping I'll have stockpiled plenty of inspiration in my downtime. IF the blockage every gives way, however, is anyone's guess.

Here's something hug-related. I meant to blog about this back when the article was actually new. True to form, I'm posting it a couple of weeks late:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/28/style/28hugs.html?_r=1

W. T. F. Right?

So adults (and some kids, too, in all fairness) find hugging faux pas. Superficial, even. Surprise, surprise. I don't know - I'd happily prefer teens hugging one another excessively between classes as an alternative to, say, gunning one another down in the hall. Wouldn't you? Handshakes and high fives are boring. Facebook is making us more socially awkward in the real world. For me, a physical hug beats *hugs* any day of the week and twice on Thursdays. Honestly (and this is coming from someone who always put lessons first in her school days), who cares if you're a minute late for class if you come across a friend who could use a good squeeze?

Slow news days. You gotta love 'em.

I am quite full; may I be excused?

Okay.
This one's going to be LONG and all over the place, so please bear with me. (Or just don't read it.)

Allow me, first, to set the stage a bit. I am typing this from the floor of my new and very empty apartment. The last place, mind you, where I'd care to be sitting right now but the only comfort I have at the moment since a truck full of my belongings is delayed. So I sit - keyboard in lap, computer on floor and monitor propped up on a cardboard box - with nothing else to do but to type to try to cope.

What crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy days these past five have been. My quintuplet of craziness began this past Thursday with moving day. Since then it's been meal after meal of character building borscht. Let me break this down:

Menu for Day One:
3 insanely slow-moving movers
23 rolls of Cha-ching tape
2 nervous dogs
Side salad of teary goodbyes
5 hours of delayed driving

From the wee hours of the morning until late afternoon it was nothing but shrink wrap and packing tape (at eight bucks a roll, mind you) as a team full of dudes - bumbling, slow-as-molasses dudes - tried to get what was left of my twelve years worth of shit on to a truck. Granted there was a bit to load, but these boys gave new meaning to the word plodding. Neanderthals could have had it packed up sooner and with less tape. I had planned to be on the road by noon or so and make it to my hotel while there was still light (I hate driving at night... Lasik victim). Never mind the fact that the longer these guys took, the more antsy my dogs became. And the more antsy I became just watching them... watching them tape everything! All that tape made for a hefty addition to the bill in packing supplies; nice one, dudes. I had expected extra costs, but not like this.

So I finally get on the road and am on my way to California (significantly lighter in the pockets). I check us in to hotel number one and think it'll be nice to get rest, knowing that my things are loaded and I'm on my way. No such luck. I must have been wired at that point from over-exhaustion, if there is such a thing. I toss and turn all night. It doesn't help that I find myself glued to footage of a tragic plane crash in Buffalo that happened a few hours earlier, either. I greet the next morning with no sleep. None. But I figured that I've driven tired before, I could do it again.

Menu for Day Two:
Extreme Exhaustion
Rainfall
Fog
Sneak-up-on-you Snow
2 even more nervous dogs
1 faulty car alarm
Dog poo galore

Day two brings weather-related fun. It starts with a bit of rain in the morning, which clears up by the time I hit Sacramento. And then does a 180 in a matter of an hour or so. More rain. Wind. Fog. And then, my new personal favorite: snow. Mother of God, snow. I have never driven in snow like this before. It came out of nowhere and scared the piss out of me. Meanwhile, buried somewhere beneath the heaps of crap I have loaded in my car, are the tire chains my sister and brother-in-law took care to get for me for the trip - you know, just in case. But I am stuck on some scenic route winding through Oregon and I am too afraid to stop for fear my car won't be able to make it through snow and we won't be able to make it to our destination for the day. I'm driving in this snowstorm and I'm just praying. If you know me, you know I'm not religious at all. But I'm thinking to myself, if there is a patron saint watching out for clumsy, half-Asian drivers caught in bad winter weather, let him intervene now and get us all to our destination in one piece.

He does. Somehow we make it in one piece - my poor, tired car slathered in dirt and melting snow. I check in to hotel number two and park the car in the lot and just as I stumble with the dogs out of the car, I hear a muffled "bleep." My faulty, no-good, piece-of-shit, aftermarket car alarm - a car alarm that likes to occasionally activate itself and has never worked right since the day my warped ex-boyfriend installed it as a "surprise" gift - my car alarm turns itself on. And I see it flashing, from outside my locked car - with everything for me and the dogs for the night locked inside. The best part of my aftermarket alarm is the aftermarket clickers that come with it. They never work properly either and are notorious for draining their batteries. And the one that's on my keyring right now? Drained, of course. The other, spare set is taped and double-taped in a box somewhere on a truck with the rest of my life. I panic - I have no screwdriver in that size to replace the battery and no way to get a battery without tripping my alarm and killing my car engine.

Luckily - I am a blatant hopeless wreck and the hotel staff takes pity on me. They drive me around to sort things out and I am able to get access to my car. All is right with the world. And just as we have unloaded and are going up to our room, my Weimaraner decides I haven't had enough excitement for one day and decides to poo in the halls of the hotel while on the run. The security cameras must have picked up some excellent comic footage of me frantically running after her with doggie bags up and down the halls.

And even with the events of the day? Still no continuous sleep. I get a couple hours here. A half an hour there. I am far too tired to sleep once again.

Menu for Days Three and Four:
Hors d'oeuvre of slippery roads and fog
The Driving Dead
15 trips up and down stairs
2 totally and completely nervous misplaced dogs
1 very heavy computer

The next morning I find myself completely devout and holy - praying for good weather so I might not have a repeat of the day before. My nerves are shot at this point. And lo and behold, there is fog and slippery roads on the way up through Oregon. But we trudge through, and no sooner than we are through the bridge and in Washington than the sun comes out and the weather clears and it looks like the makings of a beautiful day.

Tiredness catches up with me at this point and I am the driving dead on the road. But after a lengthy and (thankfully) uneventful drive through the state, we finally reach our destination. My dogs are totally anxious and on edge at this point. To my chagrin, I find I cannot leave them in the apartment alone without them barking up a storm. So WE unload the car for fear they might get us evicted on our first day. Unloading a car full of supplies with one extremely hyperactive dog and one extremely tentative dog in tow is a challenge I wish upon no one (unless, of course, you enjoy being pulled in two directions at once with no free hands to steady yourself while going up and down three flights of stairs numerous times).

And so we spend our first uneasy night in an empty apartment. I am a friggin' zombie at this point, but still animate enough to appreciate how lucky I am to have made it there with all of us intact. I get a few hours of continuous sleep - finally.

The next day sees the arrival of my computer from work and me attempting to set up office in an empty apartment. All I want to do at this point is get back to work - get back to some sort of norm. The computer arrives, but FedEx doesn't DREAM of toting the three heavy boxes up to my apartment for me. Instead, I am left to drag more boxes up more stairs on my own, sans dollies or handles or extra hands or what have you.

I am a mac girl 'til the end. I love apple computers. But I was cursing Steve Jobs and this gloriously gunmetal two-ton motherfucker by the end of the day. How I made it up the stairs without dropping and trashing thousands and thousands of dollars worth of equipment is beyond me. Perhaps there is a patron saint of exhausted girls balancing massively bulky boxes who was watching out for me yesterday.

Menu for Day Five:
1 encouraging start
1 discouraging discovery
2 flea-infested dogs
1 massive freak out session

I started today thankful that I might get back to normal once and for all. I get some work assignments today and am trying to get back into the swing of things (albeit from the floor... not only are my mover slow to pack, they're slow to deliver, too) when I make a horrible discovery. At some point or another, my poor dogs have picked up fleas. Hotel One? Hotel Two? Apartment? I don't know. All I do know is that my little one walks in to my "office" while I'm working today and just sort of stretches and looks at me for a second and I notice one - a little moving critter. And then another one. And I do what any other hot-blooded hormonal female rightfully does in such a scenario: I royally freak the fuck out.

I mean - there are NO fleas in the desert. And I've moved these poor girls here and exposed them to fleas, no less. They're shifting around right now, trying to find comfort in this uncomfortably empty apartment and it's all my fault. Bad dog mom. Bad dog mom, indeed. All afternoon I've been an emotional wreck. And I've been cleaning non-stop - the dogs, the apartment, loads and loads of laundry... me. I mean that would be the cherry on top, wouldn't it? To be that "new girl" with fleas. How can I ever expect to make new friends here as icky Flea Girl?

And while we're on the topic of friends, the one true one I had in Vegas and left behind has been amazing. Like insanely amazing. She packed me food for my trip, left me notes of encouragement and sprinkled gifts in my car - I mean, we're talking Goodwill Fairy here and I love her all the more for it. And the kicker is she spoon-fed me through this flea crisis this afternoon. I, of course, repay her by blubbering like an idiot over the phone, "what am I doing here? I should never have left my comfort zone." True to negative-thinking form. Some new beginning, eh?

I haven't slept well in a week. I am physically and emotionally spent. I know I've written a LOT here yet again (note to self for future: quit whining so damn verbosely) and I am slightly apologetic for it but also relieved in knowing I've shared. I feel awful that my first feelings in my new place are ones of doubt. Have I made the right choice in coming here? Are all these bumps I've encountered along the way signs that I shouldn't have come? Or are they just helpings of lumpy character-building goodness? If so - I get it already. I am quite full as I've had one too many servings. I'd like some time to digest.

Whatever the case, I'm too tired to figure it out. We shall have to see what tomorrow brings (well, fumigators and more nervousness from the dogs as I get to remove them from their home yet again) and hope for the best.