Posts archived in Imma Little Cranky

9 comments

January 13, 2010

I Cat-Proofed My Apartment, But Somehow Those Little Fuzz Butts Keep Getting Back In


(Photo credit: Scootie@Flickr)

WHO THE EFF IS LEAVING THEIR WET CLOTHES IN THE ONLY WORKING WASHER?!

What about me? What about my needs? Do you know I only have one pair of athletic pants? Are you aware it’s cold here and I’ve thus felt compelled to wear these pants (in lieu of shorts) to the gym, like, five times this week? Do you know I’ve got exceptionally sweaty crevices? Do you understand my sweatiest crevice—which during fitness pursuits gives the foulest swamp, thick with mold and mildew and curdled stench, a run for its money—is situated, a split the size of the grand canyon, underneath the waistband on the ass-side of my pants? Forget crunches and squats—you do know that wearing the same pair of pants for five consecutive trips to 24 Hour Fitness is, in and of itself, an exercise … in OLFACTORY endurance?

How do you feel about that, dear-neighbor-who-can’t-be-bothered-to-empty-the-washer-after-the-rinse-cycle’s-complete? Does it help you to sleep well at night knowing that the god-awful odor snaking through our shared ventilation is not—as you’d assumed—the innocuous off-gas of a cluster of dead rats, but rather something infinitely more sinister? Would you, Maytag midwife, birth your white cotton sheets more quickly from the wash machine womb into the world of the waiting dryer if you knew that next to be washed was a pair of putrid spandex pants that could stand on their own without legs inside them? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, A-HOLE NEIGHBOR, WOULD YOU STOP BEING AN INCONSIDERATE TWAT LONG ENOUGH TO REMOVE YOUR CLOTHES FROM THE WASHER BEFORE THE MACHINE—WHICH I HEAR IS QUITE BULIMIC—MYSTERIOUSLY BARFS (PERHAPS WITH MY HELP) YOUR CLOROXED CONTENTS ALL OVER THE DIRTY TILED FLOOR?

…

Quiet and contemplative, these are the questions I sometimes ask myself (mostly on laundry day).

(And also: I sometimes ponder the cosmos, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and the unfortunate exposure of my eyes to the dude next door’s shirtless, bony clavicle and his Rorschach blot plume of black, pubey-looking hair. Galloping across Dude’s chest in a tangled weave, I see horses … and posies … and people who should know better to keep their breast bone covered …. But I digress.)


—–

Two weeks from today I will have the entire contents of my current crappy apartment packed and ready to move to my (or rather “our”) new, not-so-crappy apartment where—omg!—I will have my very own washing machine. And then every day will be like Christmas. And I will be drunk off the fumes of power and Tide and bargain-bin dryer sheets. And when guests come to visit, they will say (of the Whirlpool appliance to which I am firmly affixed in an awkward embrace), If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it? To which I will respond, Fabulous idea! Cue up the organist! Buy me a bouquet! Book us two tickets for a honeymoon in Vegas. I hear the Liberace museum is *very* romantic this time of year.

But two weeks is not today. So for now, I can only do the thing of which hormonal teenage boys (and the similarly depraved) are adept. I fanticize. And furniture is my porn.

Even as the clot of cardboard I’ve gathered for packing sits untouched on my bedroom floor, in my head it’s urgent that I decorate a space I don’t yet inhabit. And so I spend hours—of which there are precious few remaining in this shabby little apartment where I found solace and self-sufficiency after my difficult divorce—researching, obsessing, making plans to spend what I’ve so carefully saved. Beveled mirrors, bamboo chairs, zig zag rugs and zebra pattern pillows—these are the trappings of a glamorous abode; and also, the smoke and mirrors of a glittering distraction.

Maybe the reason my packing thus far consists of three paperback books is, this place—the 600 square feet where I got my wings, did some healing, felt bad and then felt better—I just might miss it.

But only a little.

Hairy neighbor notwithstanding.


(Photo credit: Robert S. Donovan@Flickr)

16 comments

December 2, 2009

30

Hanni 5 birthday

See the girl in that picture? That’s me. I’m celebrating a day that’s a lot like today, except it was 25 years ago. I was 5. I had fewer teeth, bigger dimples, and a lot less candles on my cake. My favorite TV show was the Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes Comedy Hour, followed closely by Knight Rider and the Dukes of Hazzard (check out my sweatshirt). I had just learned to tie the shoelaces on my clunky, kid-sized Caribou boots, and was very proud that my bed—now that I was a “Big Girl”—was stripped of its protective, plastic sheets.

The day I turned 5, I remember my smile—like a watermelon in winter—was wide. At my party, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt; instead of red grapes, I was served a Duncan Hines chocolate cake coated with canned frosting so sweet, it made my mouth ache. Before we cut the cake, Mom asked that I make a wish on its flaming crown. I filled my little lungs and puffed my cheeks. I blew for all I was worth, dousing the candles with a not-so-mighty wind and spray of spittle.

“What did you wish for?” Dad asked.

“World peace!” I cheerfully replied, mimicking something I’d heard Luke Duke say on TV.

My father snickered, and within moments the entire table was laughing at my precocious distraction. As I had hoped, no one was any wiser about my REAL wish. My secret wish, my true heart’s desire was that every day could be a birthday … that every day could be filled with friends, fun, and cake from mix … that every moment of my life would be so charmed. And also, I wished for a pony, even though I was scared of their stumpy legs and overly-large eyeballs.

…

Flash forward to today and suddenly: I am 30 years old.

I have gone to sleep and woken up 10,958 times. Since my birth, ticking clocks have counted down 15 million minutes. And if my life’s breaths were dollars, I’d have more than a quarter billion.

I have—as my 5-year-old self wished—lead a favored and felicitous life. I have many friends, an amazing family, money in the bank, and business cards with my senior title emblazoned across the front. I have hiked Mount Fuji, biked the Texas hill country, and survived nights spent at sleazy, Canadian hostels where the aged windows busted and shattered when wedged shut. I have witnessed great beauty in blizzards of cherry blossoms and in raindrops that transform when white-sleeved snow gowns are donned. In the faces of my cherubic nieces and nephews I have seen God, and because of them, I know He is gracious.

Save for my marriage to a troubled man who told so many lies—to myself and to his mistress—he lost track of all truth, I have had few sorrows. And even in sadness, there were always lessons learned. Since my divorce, I have pledged to love deliberately those who deserve it. And to those who do not? I now know to distrust a heart that’s so bowed it can’t break.

For my next 30 years, I’m wishing for babies, a house, a second shot at being a bride.

And if all those things come true, then the next time I do this assessment—when I’m 60 and smile lined—the only thing left to wish for will be the pleasure of a posture bra and sensible shoes. And maybe a pony, assuming I’m over the eyeball thing.

Happy birthday to me, xoxoh

8 comments

October 5, 2009

What Price Dignity, And Reliable Plumbing?

Two years ago, I signed a lease for the 600 sq. ft. apartment I currently inhabit. I’m starting to think moving here was a mistake.

It seemed like a good idea in the beginning. My first apartment post-divorce, it was small and cute—a place I could furnish cheaply with girly stuff: baroque frames and floral rugs. Rent was inexpensive, at just $500/month for the first year. I figured, with all the money I was saving, I could start putting something into an online savings account. Maybe I could squirrel enough away for a down payment on a small house, which was something I’d wanted for a while and felt kind of robbed of by the divorce, since I no longer had a cosigner spouse.

So when I first moved in to my space—stars in my eyes—it was easy to overlook the sloppy paint covering the 1970s cabinetry, the mildewed grouting, the broken hinges, the stuck door, the ominous sound of a compressor coming from the crawl space. But then one day, not too long into my stay, the sky fell on my head. Like literally! It was all downhill from there.

Stepping out of the bath one morning, I stopped at the sink to brush my hair. I had not gotten but two strokes in when a large chunk of drop-ceiling came crashing down on my skull. Startled, I fell backward. It was very strange, lying there like that. It’s not every day one finds themselves sprawled out, pantsless and dazed on the bathroom floor … at least not when sober.

In the months that followed I discovered all sorts of novel quirks about my humble abode. And many times I wondered if my apartment—just like the evil ship computer in Stanley Kubrick’s, 2001: A Space Odyssey—was trying to kill me.

retro-3

For example, there was the incident after the hurricane, when the broken limbs of a massive oak came smashing through my patio at precisely the time I’d usually pass through on my way to work. Fortunately, I was reporting from home that day. Unfortunately, unable to pry my door in the aftermath—the tree jammed so hard against it—I became a prisoner in my own home. That would’ve been OK if I lived in a nice manse, but when you live in a place that wants you dead, well it’s quite unsettling. When the maintenance man finally came to cut me out, he said that being imprisoned inside was better than a sharp stick in the eye. I asked him to stop speaking in clichés. He said he wasn’t.

And then there was the time the complex burned down … well 10 units of it anyway … mine not included. No, I can’t pin my apartment on that one. Police reports site maintenance’s illegal storage of chemicals in the unit garage as the source of accelerant. As you can imagine, this caused quite a stir amongst the residents. Partly because it was just so darn stupid to store flammable supplies in a residential space, but mostly because it was largely believed that maintenance had no supplies, it takes so long to get anything fixed around here.

It’s too bad it takes so long to fix things, because SOMETHING IN MY APARTMENT IS ALWAYS BROKEN. Take the plumbing for example. Periodically, and for no discernible reason, I will lose all water pressure. Or if the pressure’s working, the hot water won’t be. Well, that’s not entirely true. Last week when I came home from a six-mile run, dripping with sweat and grime and all manner of nastiness, both the pressure and hot water were out. Now that was a pleasure, and by “pleasure” I mean ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE. Thank God they have showers at the gym … and that I didn’t get fungus from washing there.

Also, my dishwasher is now broken. But I’m afraid to call it in, should they fix the problem like they “fixed” the mold issue: that is, with a can of white spray paint.

Lately I’ve been thinking it’s time to vacate the premises. Really, I don’t need to continue my residency in the House of Horrors. My corporate job pays enough I can afford to upgrade. However, by leasing somewhere more expensive, the house fund will take a hit … But there again, better the fund than Hänni; Death by domicile is highly undesirable.

9 comments

October 1, 2009

On Becoming What I Never Wanted To Be

The other day an old friend called, asked how I was doing.

“Married? Kids?” Dan inquired.

“Divorced. Cats.” I replied.

You know, growing up I believed I could be anything. One crisp and crunchy fall, fascinated by the change of seasons, I decided I’d become a scientist. My life’s work would be to explain why birch leaves turn from green to yellow, (the answer of course being that they were magic). At times I also fancied becoming a librarian, a novelist, and a grocery store clerk—the latter of which inexplicably intrigues me to this day.

When I was 15, I decided I’d become a World Traveler. I applied for, and was accepted into the Rotary Youth Exchange, a highly competitive program that thrusts goody-two-shoes like me into the far reaches of the earth. In my case, that meant Japan. Konnichiwa.

When I was 19 I worked the halls of the United States Senate as an intern for the Alaskan Senator, Frank Murkowski, and shortly thereafter I became the first graduate of Wasilla High School to attend a small college in Blacksburg, Va. called Virginia Tech.

I always believed I could be whatever I wanted because my parents never let me know any better. Not once did they place limitations on me … except for that time I declared I was going to be a nun. Impossible! they said. Mostly because we weren’t Catholic.

One thing I never wanted to be was divorced. Truth be told—though he forced my hand, refused to end the affair even after I said I could forgive, refused to break it off even after I caught him half-dressed in a hotel with Her, and still could forgive—I don’t think Blake ever did either. At our dissolution hearing he gifted me a Tiffany bracelet, the one I’d begged for every Christmas the seven years we’d been together. I guess prior to our divorce, I wasn’t a worthy recipient, he respected me so little. In that sad courthouse setting, the silver chain with its heart-shaped charm sparkled. It was amazing, the bracelet’s splendor juxtaposed amongst the heartbreak rubble of room full of people who became—at a judge’s sentencing—something they never really wanted to be.

Tiffany2

So here I am today, divorced with cats. And you know what? I’m loving what is. My days of caring for an ungrateful and disinterested spouse over, I wouldn’t change a thing. Truly.

Plus now that I’m single, it’ll be way easier to join a convent. I’ve just got to work on that conversion.

10 comments

September 23, 2009

If You Are To Read My Revived Blog, There’s A Few ThingsYou Must Do

First off, clap your hands and say hey yo hey yo.

Clap your hands and say, woot woot.

Clap your hands and say, yeeee haw!

Today we raise da roof, cause honey’s, the haus is back … or at least it’s starting to look that way.

If the haus were to come back, to be New.Improved.AndNowWithLessGas, there’s something you need to know: the format is changing.

In its previous incarnation, Hannihaus was fairly Seinfeldian—it was (mostly) a blog about nothing, unless you are solely obsessed with fart jokes and diarrhea diatribes, in which case it was a blog about everything.

The thing is, I hate Seinfeld. I hate Seinfeld so much that when I flip through the TV channels and it comes on the screen, I keep right on flipping. I flip to the next screen, even if the next screen has some crappy sports show, even if the next screen is a Billy Mays As-Seen-On-TV infomercial spectacular (God rest his Orange-Glo lovin’ soul).

The old haus kept readers at arm’s length, didn’t really let you know what was authentically important to me. Only towards The End did it include stories that were a little less mirthful, a little more truthful. When I refer to The End, of course, I am referring to the end of frantic posting which used to be the hallmark of this well-tended blog. I am also referring to the end of my marriage which, of course, coincided with the end of posting. It was too hard to write about happy when the only way to access a semblance of such things was with a head full of Xanax.

Not so long ago, as part of my New Life, I bought a road bike. It’s pink. Her name is Miss Piggy. Before Piggy it had been many years since I’d ridden a bike. My first time back in the saddle, I immediately fell ass-over-teakettle. The only thing more painful than my banged up buttocks was the knowledge that I’d fallen publicly (at an event) and without grace. If I was being judged, if falling were a competitive sport, my aerial antics would’ve ranked me a “2”.

So here I am, getting back on that metaphorical bicycle. I’m want to start blogging again, I really do. This time I’m going to be more … well, me, whatever that entails. I hope you will come along for the ride.

I promise it won’t hurt … well maybe a little … and only me, not you.

hh0909bandaid

12 comments

August 10, 2008

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger: How To Run Your Ass Off (Literally!)

That that don’t kill me can only make me stronger—Kanye West, Stronger

Want to drop weight fast? Marry a man who—after moving you to a strange city where you have no support system–leaves you for his mistress. Worked for me.

In discovering my husband’s humiliating infidelity, I also stumbled upon something else: the post-traumatic stress diet. Of course when I say “diet” this implies a conscientious change in eating. In actuality, mired in a grief so heavy it overrode my physical needs, eating was not an issue … I simply didn’t do it.

Within months I’d dropped more than 10% of my body weight, which frankly I didn’t have to lose. And so it was a relief when—as I started my emotional recovery—my physical self got better too.

The weight I put on was happy weight, but it was also flabby weight. My stomach made muffins over the tops of the designer denim I’d bought when I was smaller, sad. In my newfound wellness, I started biking, then added weights to the mix. Most recently I’ve been running.

I have a friend who runs marathons. She told me I should write this post—let people know I’m not who I was. Thanks to my post-divorce fitness routine my body is harder, better, faster, stronger. She recommended I share my tips for running. I think that’s a great idea. This is the first post in a series. Enjoy.

THE FIRST THING I WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT RUNNING IS, it rocks!

If you’re looking for a reason to run here’s a few:

  • It’s free—yes dear hannihaus readers, running is recession proof. Unless you’re training for a marathon you don’t need any fancy gear; a pair of feet, a place to run, and some well-fitting sneaks will do you just fine.
  • It makes you happy—my chemical romance is not just a kick-ass band of boys who wear makeup (squee!) it’s also a state of mind; when you run your body produces happy chemicals called endorphins that make you feel euphoric. A runner’s high is totally addictive and it’s not the kind of thing that will get you sent to rehab.
  • It makes all your fantasies come true (or at least the revenge ones)—pissed at your boyfriend? Stomp on his head. Mad at your mother-in-law? Give her the shoe. When I’m feeling particularly stressed/angsty nothing gets me back to good like a nice cathartic tromp on the treadmill.
  • It makes you sexy—in addition to losing inches on your legs, running also tightens up your glutes, quads, and calves. And as a bonus, because you’re using your core, your abs will get firmer too. Oh and your lungs and heart will also be strengthened, but of course when your sassy runner’s milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, your lungs will be the least of their interest.

Oh and running also helps you to sleep better, think better, and sex better. How’s that for incentive?

—-
Got more ideas for why running rocks? Leave them in comments. And stay tuned for the next installment where I recommend free-balling your running routine while keeping your gym shorts firmly affixed.

20 comments

July 29, 2008

Butterfly Queen

In another life I was married. And in that life, late one night, I received a phone call. “Hello,” said the woman’s voice, “I’m calling to tell you your husband is my boyfriend. All those times he said he was working out of town, he was with me. I was with him on Halloween and then on New Years. Thanksgiving he spent with my family. We were together on your birthday. And I was with him last night when you called. I just thought you should know.”

—-

Grief.

I plunged my head underwater. The tears kept falling even though I was facedown in the tepid tub. My only wish was not for strength or solace-for things that would make me well-but that the water streaming down my face would fill my lungs instead.

—-

Hope.

“I went a whole day without crying,” I told Susan, my therapist. “This marks a shift. I’ve been noticing a lot lately that I’m not who I used to be. I don’t blog any more-I don’t even think to do it. I spend more time praying than I ever have. I don’t have any favorite TV shows and I never watch movies. I have replaced my sneakers with spike heels and sweatshirts with designer denim. My circle of friends has gotten very small. Six months ago I was hysterically talking to anyone I could. Most days now I only talk to Mom and I am disappointed when I call and she’s not there.”

Susan, ever the professional, merely nodded a response. Her eyes betrayed her clinical demeanor though–I saw a flash of happy in them.

—-

Healing.

About a year ago I started to come out of my depression. I had accepted my circumstances-that my marriage was over and I was truly alone for the first time in my adult life-and I embraced it. In a journal entry I wrote that I was beginning to think that I’d reached the light at the end of the tunnel. For so long I’d prayed that God would let me feel good again, that I’d get out of the black and back into happiness. I cried, I wrote, because I’d finally gotten there.

In another life I was married. And in that life, late one night, I received a phone call. And for that call-for the awful catalyst that transformed me from a dull, complacent pupa resigned to the false security of a wedding band and suburban dwelling, into a beautiful butterfly queen, determined to walk by my own light, living and loving deliberately-I am eternally grateful.

To borrow from John Mayer, I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there.

Butterfly Queen

11 comments

March 31, 2008

Divorce and the Dénouement Or How I Became A Biker Chick

So I won’t mince words. It happened to me and it’s happened to many of you. I’m only mentioning this because avid readers of the haus will notice I’ll not write about him anymore—it turns out Angelface wasn’t really such an angel after all.

Shortly after I wrote this, Angel left me for a woman who—for 6 months prior—had opened her legs to him.

The affair destroyed me. In the face of heartbreak, I stopped writing and started starving myself of both sleep and sustenance so that I became, in every way, a mere fraction of who I’d been.

And then, when I had cried all I could, when my chest had heaved and convulsed it’s last for a man who didn’t deserve it—the labor of moving blood through my broken-but-still-beating heart having lessened—I started over.

I decided to find myself a new love.

And I found that love in a shiny pink bike.

Her name is Miss Piggy. She’s a Marin Portofino road bike. And baby, she’s the best.

Last October I purchased Piggy from a very handsome salesman (who is now my very handsome boyfriend!), and I have been riding ever since. It’s 6 months in and I’ve logged 700 miles of butt time on my bike.

Accordingly I’ve logged 700 miles worth of RECOVERY time from my riding bike for my butt. In cycling the actual physical aspect of peddling and perspiring is only about 50% of the sport. The other 50% is the constant exercise in protecting your tender vittles.

Hello, my name is Hänni and I’m a bike-aholic. I am not ashamed to admit it: I put butter in my shorts…

And I like it.

chamois butter

So you may be wondering, why the hell am I riding so much? The short answer is, I’m insane. The long answer is, I’m training for the BP MS 150, a 170+ mile bike from Houston to Austin on April 12-13. This ride benefits the National Multiple Sclerosis (MS) Society Lone Star Chapter which serves more than 17,000 Texans affected by MS, an unpredictable, disabling disease of the central nervous system.

In the time leading up the ride, I’ll be blogging here about my training experiences. As we take this trip down memory lane together, I hope you enjoy the tales of triumph, tribulation, and unabashed use of padded shorts and crotch cream.

Piggy1
Til next,

xoxoh