Reader, I hear you: Enough with the ocean pix, Bang Bang. We all know what the ocean looks like by now.
Except Shut It, Reader, because sometimes this is all I have right now. A reminder of the Pretty Things I get to see if I’m not
too lazy too busy to go get beachy.
Things were touch and go last week. I haven’t been writing much just because I haven’t really had as much opportunity as one might imagine. This gypsy lifestyle keeps me on the go, packing and unpacking and finding out exactly what I need to get by with, which in all honestly has become much much less.
It’s a lot of minimal makeup, hair pulled up because did I mention it’s hot?, a few outfits I keep recycling, and the loss of who gives any fucks about my fat arms, I’m wearing sleeveless shirts because did I mention it’s hot.
And oh, p.s., my freckles have said HELLO, Florida Trixie, we plan on sticking around very prominently on your face and arms and any other areas you plan on exposing to the sun. Which brings me to this week’s living arrangements, in which I’ve had many many parts exposed to the great outdoors, because there’s an outdoor shower and I’ve probably offended all sorts of neighbors but stop looking then.
I’m petsitting for a co-worker this week. Yes, I can’t believe she trusts me either after knowing me a week, but it’s working out nicely. She lives in New Smyrna and it’s 10 minutes to work, and I can come home and cook dinner, pack stuff for lunch, make a cocktail or three, get out of the shower and walk naked to the room to get dressed if I wish.
Last week I gave the Airbnb a good college try, and while it was fine, Reader, just fine, I had a Monday Night Breakdown where I mostly cried all night until I took myself out for a $19.95 lobster dinner and two mugs of beer. It’s just awkward. It’s weird to go into someone else’s house and walk in the living room and they’re eating their dinner in front of the telly, and I just try to act small and go to the bedroom. It’s been difficult living very small, without my things, without my people or my cats, and being happy about it. Plus learning a new job on top of all that, which is stressful under the best of circumstances. So yeah, I had a Crying Night last week. I was ready to pack it up and come home just because.
But then things got better, as they are wont to do if you just wait it out. I mean, they don’t always get better just by waiting it out, but I had to at least muster through it and pretend I’m a big brave girl.
The problem with the Airbnb is that it’s just a room, no private entrance, with a shelf in the fridge (and a private bath, because that’s non-negotiable) – and well, basically I need some sort of my own space or it’s not going to work. I’m fiddy two. While I’m all for that college trying, I’m well beyond the college kid age and am not into roommating with strangers. Let’s face facts, I – at times – barely tolerated living with My Mister and I could do whatever the hell I wanted in that scenario.
I want to control the air conditioning temperature. I want the slice of cake in the fridge to be MINE, and not some other guy’s cake. I want to shower and then walk naked into my room to get dressed. Those things, and other things. I just want to scratch and fart and whatever in my own space. Staying at my dads lets me do All The Things, except control the a/c, but mostly it’s okay.
Anyway, I’ve gotten totally off track here, and now I don’t know where I was going with this other than I’m right now eating my own slice of cake that I bought for my own self and I’m sitting on the couch watching what I want to watch on t.v., and writing some nonsense, and the air is down to seventy-damn-four (at home it would be 72), so little victories. It almost feels like normal except I’m eaten up with giant bug bites all over my body and I don’t have my kittehs, who I’ve been told are behaving very poorly at home and I’m looking forward to getting back next week and kissing their whiskers off.
I don’t know. I was supposed to write something not this, but this is what came out. Other things have happened and I promise to share the good spots and not just whining complaining spots. Pinky swearsies. If you’re in Cle over the 4th, let’s see each other. I will maybe bake you a cake, just because I can.