Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones

Wednesday evening, in a hurry

I'm having a really hard time writing, but I know exactly why: I can't write longhand anymore. I used to be able to write pages and pages in pencil, and now I can't, and you know why? Because I'm used to typing. And you know, it's not even that I can type faster than I can write; it's because typing means I'm thinking with both hands. I swear I read this somewhere--typing engages your left hand, and therefore the right side of your brain, in a way that single-handed writing just doesn't. And it's one thing to have a sudden inspiration and struggle to jot it down quickly enough, but when I actually want to sit down and try to work, particularly when I'm not sure what I want to say, but I'm not at my keyboard, I feel kind of thick and stupid. And I realized yesterday--it's because my right brain is tied behind my back, as it were. I'm trying to time dashes upstairs with the puppies' naps, but today they were particularly rambunctious and even bad as the afternoon wore on, and in the middle of this I was having to clean house for Sister Girl's new boy prospect to come over tonight.

Also, just because I feel like recording this, the air conditioning guy totally gave me attitude yesterday. Look, I don't care that my parents have called you over multiple times about the unit outside their bedroom window making an unholy racket. I don't care if you claim you can't do anything about it and that we'd have to buy a new unit, particularly after my stepfather witnessed you adjusting the unit at one point so that it stopped making noise, which means that clearly there's something that can be done somehow. I don't care if you and I have personally discussed the AC before. What I care about is that I opened the door and you just stood there and smirked at me for twenty seconds ("Uh... hi... you're here for the air conditioner?" I said), and then finally said, "We've talked about this before." And that's all you said for a full minute while I flailed about. And then you smarmed that you needed to see the basement unit as well but I didn't have to show you where it is because you know where it is, because you've been here before, gah. Look, pal: I am just the person who opens the door. You wanna take it up with someone, take it up with my parents and don't give me shit about it, okay?

And then there's the bricklayer working down the street--he was wandering around our front porch, smoking, when I was about to run upstairs for something. Apparently the brickwork around our front door is about to COLLAPSE OMG, and my parents had Bricklayer Guy up to look at it, and he said it'd be something like $15,000 (!) to replace, but that that kind of work was "over his head." So they went and talked to a contractor the guy's worked with before, and Contractor Guy says it would only be about $4000, which is obviously a lot better. But apparently Bricklayer Guy wants a shot at the job now, because he was very insistent that I have my parents call him. And then, I passed the front door this morning and saw a note taped to the front door. It repeated his name, his number, the date and time of the note-writing, please call him, etc. Here's what weirded me out for no good reason: the note was taped so that the writing was facing me. As in, I could read it through the window, like it was a little face peering in. Also, the handwriting was kind of serial killery. I'm probably being way paranoid here, but the whole thing was a little too Gift of Fear for my taste.

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