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Validated and Creeped Out

I don’t know whether I need to re-evaluate my trust in people or keep a more careful eye on “Em.”

Things disappeared in my apartment. Stupid things.

Like a DVD from Netflix. Unwatched, thus unopened. Which means you couldn’t tell what movie was inside. Except I knew, cuz I’d ordered it. Ready?


Yeah, that Flashdance.

And there was the pillowcase. Just one. One black pillowcase.

And a pair of pants. Nice black slacks I’d worn to work all of one time before they disappeared. Nice black slacks that finally fit me after I lost about 5 pounds.

Gone. All of these items gone. From my apartment. And not just from my apartment, from my bedroom.

I questioned Em and she was clueless. Which meant it was someone else. Someone who had access to my apartment. Unless my mom became a klepto after I moved out, the only other person with a key was the apartment manager. The manager who lived next door to me. The manager who assured me no one ever went in my apartment without my permission and who said no one else had reported things missing. So I had the window locks upgraded and nothing else disappeared. I thought maybe I’d just misplaced them and I’d eventually find them.

And then I moved. Which meant packing up everything in my apartment.

Guess what I never found?

So, the upside? I’m not so disorganized that I lose random things.

The downside? Someone took my things. And unless stuff starts disappearing again, I’ll never know if it was Em throwing away things because she was mad at me or if it was the apartment manager.


To Write Or Not To Write

A little catch-up here:

“Em” and I moved. Our lease on our apartment was up on August 7, so rather than stay in a place that we didn’t like and pay an extra $100 a month to do so, we jumped at the chance to move into a house. My grandparents‘ house! Last year, just weeks after I signed the lease on the apartment, my grandparents moved out of their house and up to the Alzheimer’s residential facility they are in now. I was very disappointed that I could do nothing to help with the house as I was now locked into a year-long contract. Fast-forward a year later and I’m finally in!! A four-bedroom, 2-bath single-story home that is over 50 years old. That means it has two large lawns, a spacious back patio, a very lengthy driveway, a garage and no air-conditioning. But it’s a house. With no neighbors above me to have an ant problem that overflows into my house. If I get bugs, they’re MY problem. And I’m ok with that.

But because it’s a 4-bedroom house and it’s just Em and me, we had to rent out another room to make it affordable on my income. Unfortunately, we didn’t know that the house was going to be rented instead of sold until after all the kids attending college had made living arrangements. None of my friends needed a place, or if they did the rent was going to be too much.

It turned out a roommate was looking for us. A friend of mine from my church was in need of a room. We get along pretty well, have known each other for a long time, and my daughter loves her. So it seemed, from an outside perspective at least, that it would be the perfect arrangement. But I had my reservations, mostly about the age difference. You see, “Jean” is at around 80-years-old.

For the most part we worked out who would do what chores and what some of our expectations are, but we (and by we I mean me) are running into some things that just don’t seem to be working themselves out. Like how to deal with the next-door-neighbor’s dog that starts yapping around 10:00 PM each night; apparently that’s my job, to talk to the neighbors about the noise. The yapping doesn’t bother me and barely even registers in my head when it starts. But it bothers Jean and she would prefer that I talk to the neighbors instead of she.

Other things we (and, I) are dealing with is the parenting of Em and personal space. Jean originally wanted to spend at least an hour with Em each night, reading to Em, having Em read to her, hanging out. I think that got idea got squashed when I explained that Em and I don’t get home until after 6 each night and she has to be in bed by 8:30, so that leaves little time between showering and dinner and getting ready for the next day to give Jean some “Em time.” And Jean wants there to be a rule that says if a bedroom door is open, that means the occupant is available for company and to walk right in; to me an open bedroom door means “It’s freakin’ hot in here and I’m hoping for a cross-breeze.” I was raised to knock on a bedroom door and wait for a response before entering, regardless of whether it’s open or closed.

But all of this pales in comparison to the internal dilemna I’m having in how much I can/should write about living with a roommate. Normally, if it was someone my readers didn’t know, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’d use a pseudonym like I do for everyone else and write on. But many of my readers will figure out who my roommate is (she hasn’t told many people because it’s a delicate situation and I’m not going to tell folks unless they learned it from her). For all I know, my roommate reads this and I don’t want there to be additional tension because of a vent-session I did on here.

I’d like to say that I’ll just limit my postings to sermon notes, my ex-husband and Em, but in reality, a lot of things about Em will happen at home. Where my roommate is.

I haven’t decided whether or not to censor myself. It’s hard enough writing this because I know that some of my readers will already know who my roommate is and when I see them at church on Sunday, they’re likely to look at me with different eyes, or at least watchful eyes.

I just don’t want to upset or anger anyone. Writing my complaints about perfect strangers whose hygiene habits made for creepy-crawlies in my apartment is very different than writing about my gripes about a roommate who has a very full social calendar with quite a few of my readers.

I’d like to say, “To hell with it, it’s my personal blog and I’ll write what I want to.” I really wish that were the case. But it’s not personal if it’s on the web.

I don’t know what to do.

cinnamon rolls

Lazy Saturdays

As a single parent, it’s sometimes hard to balance fun and housework. I can’t afford a house-cleaner, so all scrubbing, cleaning, mending, mopping, laundry, etc. falls on my daughter and me. It can take a long time to get everything done and it usually eats up the whole morning and part of the afternoon. Which makes getting anything done OUTSIDE of the house impossible. And fun? What’s that?

So Em and I have a schedule. Every other Saturday, the Saturday I DON’T get my paycheck, we do laundry and housecleaning. The laundry room is literally on the other side of Em’s bedroom wall, so if no one else is using it, we can get all of our clothes, sheets and towels washed and dried in an hour-and-a-half. While the laundry is going, I vacuum, clean the counters with 409, Windex the kitchen table, scrub the toilet, clean the bathroom counters and the shower and Em sweeps and mops the kitchen and bathroom floors and dusts the whole apartment.

It’s a lot of work for one day, but it ensures that the NEXT Saturday (the payday Saturday) is free for doing other things. Like today, for example. A free Zumba class for me in the early afternoon, a late lunch with a friend, the ever necessary oil change for then car and getting supplies for Em’s project for school. And before all this I got to sleep in, make “homemade” cinnamon rolls and just enjoy the morning while Em wrote and colored thank-you notes to folks for some gifts she’d received.

A regular schedule is critical to kids, it helps give them stability and a sense of control. And a schedule is critical to parents to make planning easier.

And a schedule helps things get done so you actually have more “me” time other than the few hours after the kid goes to bed each night.

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