My neighbors think they can make some bucks off of the wetta. They see that I'm doing some heavy-duty renovation, and the dollar signs blind them to the fact that that I have no money. Hello. I work for the public schools. I'm too young to have worked up a decent savings, I don't have a trust fund. And I'm a little bit boho, to boot. I'm self-sufficient, always, but I am poor!
One guy, Rick, who lives around the corner, approached me this afternoon as I was taking the dogs out for a stroll. He practically begged me to hire him, said he's got three kids and another on the way (eventually met his very pregnant wife, who stumbled over in her stocking feet), said that Christmas is coming up. (I hate Christmas. So many reasons. Bah-humbug.) He mentioned karma, and tried to guilt me into hiring him. He asked me if I was married. "Well, that's money right there!," he said, when I told him I wasn't. WHAT?!? I must look like a fucking money tree. An unmarried money tree. If one more person in this grand state asks me if I'm married, I'm going to start wearing a cheap-o cubic zirconia on my finger to fend off any unwanted inquiries. I'm sick of it. For the last time, NO, I'm NOT married, and don't intend to be any time soon. Not nearly! I'm only twenty-four! My biological clock has hardly ticked! (Later addendum: Just received the official deed to my property, which states, precisely, "Katherine [full name], an unmarried woman." In fact, it says it a few times. WTF? And it's written in bold. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering that single women weren't allowed to hold a credit card until, like, the late 70's or something. Still creepy, though, no? I wonder if a deed must state whether or not a dude is unmarried. If so, it would probably change the terms...something more like, "unburdened bachelor," or "swinger, sans ball-and-chain.")
Two little girls came over today, just before Rick, to meet the dogs. One of them told me that her mom is 24, and that her birthday is on Halloween -- two days b/f my own. The kid was SEVEN years old. This is the NORM here, baby makin' while you're still wearing braces. I don't get it. But all of these marriage inquiries are really pissing me off, like I'm supposed to have some muscle-y due helping me out w/ the heavy labor. I've always done everything myself without complaint, and I don't intend on that changing.
It's hard for me to pity Rick, as much as he tried to convince me I should. The fact is: yes, socioeconomically, he hasn't had nearly the advantages I've had. It's a different situation, I realize this. YET, there are SERVICES! He and his wife didn't have to have four friggin' kids! That was their choice. Not mine. I don't have money to hand out. And I don't want that reputation. I did, however, think of offering Rick and his family xmas dinner. That I'd do. By then, I hope, the house will be somewhat straightened-out. I'm not into bogus, unsentimental, meaningless gifts, or caroling or lawn ornaments or flourescent xmas lights stapled to the gutter. More than the glitz, I loathe the religious fervor. I am, however, an advocate of good food and good company -- which I think gets lost in all of the other hoopla. So, maybe I'll have Rick and his family over for xmas dinner, and buy some gifts for his girls (even though I hate all of that commercial xmas shit...ugh, I shudder!).
My other neighbor (next door), Roger, says that the ceiling tiles I've been pulling out may be ridden with asbestos. EXCELLENT. PSYCHE. I've been wearing my mask and goggles, but, no doubt, I've been exposed -- if they are, in fact, contaminated. I read the asbestos report b/f I bought the place, and it looked clean, but I should review. What happens, anyway, if you're exposed? Will I suffer brain damage or grow another toe? Turn green? Scary stuff, surely.
Roger is supposed to come over tomorrow and scrape up the rest of the linoleum in the kitchen. I scraped the first layer, but there's still one stuck on. A pain in the patuckus to rip up. Now I know what he meant by, "I'll work w/ you, if you work w/ me." Wink, wink, wetta.
I'm realizing that my grand visions are going to be far more difficult to accomplish than I anticipated. In my (future) bedroom, alone, there's so much to do b/f I can even slap paint on the walls. Much of the electrical wiring here is out of code, in that it's not fed through the walls, but outside of the walls. It's illegal AND unsightly. I think I can sledgehammer through the plaster and lathe and sling it up through to the attic. Lots of work ahead. Oh, to sleep in a real bed, in a real bedroom! Thinking of red and off-white, and an office in the walk-in closet...?