Actually, all of that still feels good. I'm not really off the divorce cloud yet, be sure. But I thought maybe the whole "making such-and-such my bitch" blogthing was getting a little old. It's not that I've stopped making stuff be my bitch. It's just that I've stopped writing about it so much.
I read something recently (I can't say where because I read a lot of crap every day) about how people's ability to delude themselves about their own selves is one of the things that gets us through the day, every day. Maybe it's because my 40th is looming, or maybe it's because it's hard to believe that things are mostly good, that I started thinking all of this bitch-making, plus some other stuff, plus the drinking, is all just masking some kind of profound unhappiness and deep dissatisfaction with everything. Maybe I'm masterfully deluding myself that everything is as good as it seems to be.
Or maybe I really do just like booze and other stuff and making shit my bitch and life is surprisingly still okay, knock on wood. It's hard to say what's true and what's a masterful lie, in terms of just about everything.
So the other night, some friends came over for dinner and it was a good idea all around. We had mulled wine, and I was going to make some pasta, and we talked an awful lot of shop (most of my friends are work friends, after all) plus some juicy as fuck gossip about people who I have to face this coming Monday without giggling, or bitch slapping then giggling.
|I am a useless piece of annoying shit.|
Seriously, if someone were going to make a useful detector, it would be an earthquake detector that warned me 24 hours in advance that there was going to be a big earthquake so I could get the fuck out of Dodge with the requisite paperwork and bottled water. In light of the earthquake, the gas leak detector is a whole lot of meh.
The problem with gas leak detectors is that, like cheap smoke detectors, they get set off by all kinds of things, like steam and interesting smells. The pot of mulled wine heating on the stove, plus perhaps the heat of 4 people snarking in the kitchen and the gas detector started making its horrible buzz. The only way to shut it up was to open all the windows.
|I channel you sometimes.|
In our new house downstairs, the other night was the first time the stupid gas detector went off. It was fucking annoying. And just to show it was cooler than the one upstairs, this one automatically cut the gas off in addition to buzzing annoyingly.
Whatever. I still made the food on the one electric burner. The house was getting cold because it was like 0 C outside, but the wine and the company and the giggling made up for that wee problem and I just figured everything would sort itself out eventually because often enough, that's what happens.
Except it didn't sort itself out. The next morning the house was cold enough that LE bitched about he cold and he's the guy who whips all his clothes off like Bruce Lee while I'm shivering in a wool sweater and a fleece, unable to feel the hand the works the mouse.
|I have nothing better to do than solve your stupid problems.|
But I had to go to work and give some make-up exams to people who don't seem to understand what break means, because teachers are just their personal exam-giving robots or something. And when I came home from work, the gas problem has still failed to sort itself out.
Cleverly, first thing in the morning, I had presented my gas problem on Facebook because, while I was totally prepared to make someone my bitch and get the gas turned on, I had no idea who I was supposed to call. The gas people? The Bosch people? My landlord? Some other people? God forbid I would have to involve my ex somehow, since it's his name on the gas account and the rental contract.
He told me I had to talk to the Bosch people, and gave me a number. While I was looking for a pen, LE turned on one of his Calliou videos that has gut-wrenching high volume so I yelled at him and found a pen and took the number.
Then I felt bad about yelling at LE even though I'd warned him in advance that I had to sort out a difficult phone problem and there was a good chance I'd get all yell-y. So I gave him a cuddle and apologized and he apologized and then he accidentally broke the cigarette I was about to go out and smoke by way of a break from all of this, and he apologized again and I cuddled him again and went out and smoked the cigarette without the filter and LE laughed at me through the window as I spit bits of tobacco into the trash can. It was a totally unsatisfying cigarette, which I probably deserved in some way.
I called Bosch and explained the problem, but the call center lady was inordinately focussed on whether my stove was working or not. I assured her the stove was fine but we had no gas because of the fucking gas detector. So was it my kombi that wasn't working, she wondered? I told her assumed the kombi was working fine, but I had no way of knowing because of the goddamned gas detector. In fact, all she was interested in was which of my Bosch white goods wasn't working, and she transferred me to the heating department. I explained the problem all over again to the heating department lady, and she told me I needed to call the gas company. I told her the gas company had told me to call them. I totally fucked up the embedded noun clause required to tell her this, but she took it like a champ and gave me another phone number. I repeated it back to her to make sure I'd written it right. It was right.
So I called the other phone number and it was someone's house. I apologized appropriately. The woman who answered the phone was nice about it, though she seemed faintly disappointed I didn't want to talk more. I thought about all the wrong number calls I've had here, where the person calling acts like you've done something with the person they're calling for and then just wants to keep on chatting, so maybe my apology wasn't so appropriate after all.
Fuck. I decided just to start all over again.
The gas company guy transferred me to another guy who had teeth and used his lips to speak. That guy started going on again about the circular thing near the numbers and I told him I had no idea what what he was talking about and he offered to send some guys over to check it out and I happily accepted his offer. He said they'd be over within the hour.
|It's a matter of form.|
The guys really did turn up within the hour. And that silver circular thing on the meter nowhere near the numbers that I'd turned earlier? All I'd needed to do was pull it. The guy pushed and pulled it a few times to show me how easy it was. He seemed to want to treat me like I was an idiot, but he also seemed to enjoy being my gas-turning-on hero, so he was torn. I tried to explain to him that the guy on the phone had mentioned a black circular thing near the numbers, which was why I hadn't messed with that other silver circular thing, but that required an even more complicated embedded noun clause. He told me to go turn on the stove to make sure the gas was working. It was. So then I asked him if there was any way I could just kill the stupid gas detector, but he thought that was inadvisable. I told him I hated the gas detector and that it was useless if it goes from steam and cooking, and he was all, "Yeah, even garlic and kolonya sets those things off." He pushed and pulled the silver circular thingie a few more times to demonstrate what I should do if the gas detector went off uselessly again.
And I thanked him the five different ways you thank people and they went on their way and LE had his bath and everyone was happy.
I still haven't killed the gas detector. I'm considering it, but I'm afraid it'll make my landlord suspicious if two gas detectors are disabled.
And even after all of that, I didn't feel like I made anything my bitch. For sure I'm never calling Bosch servis again about the actual problems I'm having with my kombi, but that's about the only take-away I have from this.
Ah, Turkey. It was fun making you my bitch, you voodoo minx princess. But for now, I'm just gonna make love to you in my sleep, and Lord knows you'll feel no pain.
Our relationship has moved to the next level somehow.