Same Old

“Plus Ca Change, Plus C’est La Meme Chose.”
(“The more things change , the more they remain the same.”)
— Alphonse Karr, Les Guepes, January 1849

I’m still here, folks. Suzy has not (as yet) left the building.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with being Little Orphan Suzy. I have a lot of regrets about my relationship with my mother, as well as the sorrow at losing her. There’s no easy way to work through these things, and as you know, I’m not a big fan of the hard way or the long way in anything.

Speaking of which, I haven’t given up on my beautification project. Reason dictates that it’s easier to fix up the outside than the inside (either physical or psychological), but as anyone who has ever lived through renovations will tell you, it takes longer and costs more than you’d ever think. There are sudden, inexplicable work stoppages. Things that should have been done weeks ago are not finished, or half-finished. Sudden problems are discovered. And then there’s the noise and the mess.

The road to hell (aka the gym) is paved with good intentions, especially mine. I only went once last week, and the only other real exercise I got was dancing to Blackalicious at a small club. The club cardio was probably cancelled out by the two Cosmopolitans I had, though they were each just a tiny puddle in a huge glass. If gyms had martinis, I’d probably be more likely to go, but even my poor math skills tell me that 1 workout+2 martinis = no thinner (though definitely happier). And there you have it: the conundrum of this girl’s life. One of them, anyway.

Others:

– What to do about my temperamental computer, which had a temper tantrum last week and lost my email for that week, along with changing the URL of my blog (it must have felt like being incognito for a while). Other computer-related issues are that the track pad doesn’t work, necessitating the use of a mouse with an iBook, and only one USB port (that used by the mouse) works. The iBook is about 4 years old, but I think computer years must be even longer than dog years, and mine is about 90 now, hobbling around on a cane and being ornery.

– What to do about the upstairs neighbors. Their G-rated nickname is the Trust Fundies, due to their outstanding youth (about 25) and sense of entitlement (boundless) and apparent disposable income despite lack of obvious employment (ditto). Their dogs are still howling and barking, and when the guy who lives above them had the temerity to complain, Mr. Trust Fund went psychotic and the neighbor fled in terror. They have informed me that they are having a catered party on Friday, meaning: don’t complain about the racket, even if it goes on until 3 am.

Of course, it’s catered. These are the same people who spent $5,000 on hardwood flooring for their rented apartment and have their windows professionally cleaned, despite their youth. Can’t they afford to put their dogs in daycare, so they don’t howl and bark all day long? The only consolation I have is that Mr. TF and both dogs got thoroughly skunked a couple of days ago. Thanks, karma, but I’m kind of looking for a bigger gesture here.