Happy First Mother’s Day to me and Happy Six Months to you!

Posted on May 13, 2013 | Leave a comment

Dear Squeaker,

We celebrated Mommy’s first Mother’s Day this Sunday (well, Friday technically in Chile) and you behaved like a young lady. You woke up at 5:45 to celebrate, right?  It’s like you knew. That was fun. Next year, since you might be walking, I think I’ll ask for breakfast in bed.

Finishing some apple mush. You'd be this happy, too, if you'd only had milk up to this point.

Finishing some apple mush. You’d be this happy, too, if you’d only had milk up to this point.

I think my favorite part of the day was when I was walking back from the bakery with you and your grandma and great grandma and an elderly gentleman stopped, bowed slightly, tilted his hat and wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. Chivalry is not dead!

And now you are six months old. SIX WHOLE MONTHS. I feel like I’m typing SIX WHOLE YEARS instead of months because so much has been crammed into a half a year. You are growing up. My baby. My Squeaker who doesn’t squeak so much anymore. And so much is changing! You are finally growing some hair (I’m sorry, you got my fine hair that is allergic to growing), your teeth are starting to poke through, and you are experimenting with sounds, “bababa” and “mamama” are  your favorites, oh, and whatever that sound is that you make when you do the spit bubbles. Daddy and I are placing bets as to what your first word will be. My bet is on “mama” (but will it be mama or mamá?). Who knows, you could be a rebel like Mommy was and say “hot” and “duck”. It made for an interesting first Christmas when Mommy toddled around screaming, “HOT DUCK! HOT DUCK!”

You’re probably interested to know that we’re trying fruits again. That means a daily battle as Mommy boils the apple and then puts it in the blender to, excuse my language, blend the sh*t out of it. Literally. Mommy is worried you might be constipated again. Oh the joys of motherhood.

Really, Mommy could write a book about The Things You Don’t Expect About Motherhood But Really Really Should. You are quite the exacting teacher and it’s pass-fail. How am I doing?

I’ve been trying to step up my game.We’ve been trying to get out lately so you can socialize with other babies. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s totally so Mommy can talk to other adults during the day and not go completely cuckoo and start interacting with inanimate objects (Why, hello, Babysitting Cow, I’m doing well. How are you?). I’m not quite sure what you get out of it since all you do is stare at each other suspiciously.

And just now as I was typing this and you were sucking on Jiggly Hippo supported by my legs, I realized that you were supporting yourself ALL BY YOURSELF. First time. Sitting on your own. Boom! You like to keep things interesting, don’t you?

Don’t stop being you.

Love,

Your mom.

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Minnesota to approve gay marriage: A rare serious post

Posted on May 10, 2013 | 4 Comments

Friends who follow me on different social media platforms know that I was thrilled to learn yesterday that the House had approved gay marriage and the vote will go to the Senate on Monday. Governor Dayton has already promised to sign it into law. That means that gay couples could begin getting legally married as soon as August 1st. Wow.

It’s a big deal for me, not just because it’s the right thing to do and because I have gay friends who I think deserve the same rights as I do, but because discrimination against LGBTs has personally affected me.

I went to high school in a small town in Minnesota about an hour north of the Twin Cities. I’m not sure if the small town influenced their close-mindedness or if another factor was at play, but my high school years were torture. Sheer and utter torture. Some days, I’m surprised I made it out alive and I’ll explain why.

The rumors started innocently enough. At first, I thought they were jokes. That I had been seen making out with my friend, that I had admitted to several people that I was a lesbian, that another friend and I were long-time girlfriends. In fact, the first few days, I made fun of the rumors myself. That only served to fan the flame as you can imagine.

And what for? What the fuck for? What did it matter if I had been a lesbian? If I had nightly lesbian orgies? Was I not still as deserving of respect as everyone else? Except at the time, I did not think this way. I remember feeling a profound sense of shame that I wasn’t accepted into their circles, that they looked at me and yelled and laughed, or would even go as far as to trip me and throw things at me.

The bullying lasted my entire time in high school, but it was worst my freshman year. That year, I was hospitalized four times for suicidal thinking and self-harm. Only a handful of people in my life know that. I wanted so desperately for those monsters who harassed me to just accept me and let me live in peace that I wanted to end my life. I’m going to pause so that sinks in. I wanted to end my life. Because of that. It was one of the darkest periods of my life. I’m so glad I didn’t give in. I still have the scars–emotional and physical–to remind me.

To make matters worse, my high school did next to nothing to make me feel safe and comfortable. Once, when talking to the vice-principal saying that I was being harassed, he asked, “Well, are you a lesbian?” Like, if I was, that would somehow justify it.

Today, if someone walked up to me and said, “LESBIAN!” like it was a four-letter word, I would honestly not give a shit. I might even laugh, like, “Is that the best you can come up with?” Is it so bad to be a lesbian? Unless, you’re a right-wing, religious zealot, that is. But it took me a long time to harden up.

I pray that Squeaker never, ever, ever has to experience something as traumatizing as that. If one day she tells me she loves another woman, I’ll love her just the same.

When I hear of a child or teenager committing suicide because they were harassed for being gay, it makes my heart break. My soul literally aches, because the same thing happened to me. That’s why this bill is so important. Offering gay and lesbian couples the same rights as straight couples is the first step to accepting them into our society as normal people and normal families, because they are. And if you look into the heart of someone in a same-sex relationship, you’ll find you really aren’t that different. They want the same things: to love and be loved, and the best for their family.

It’s time to put an end to legalized discrimination. Changing small minds will follow. Then maybe we can drop the “gay” pre-fix in “gay marriage” and just call it “marriage”.

I’m leaving you with a video clip from Dan Savage’s It Gets Better Project, because it does get better. This is one way.

Go Minnesota! If you haven’t written your senator for Monday’s vote, you can do so here.

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This blogging game

Posted on May 8, 2013 | 5 Comments

So, in case you missed it, I guest-blogged over at Scary Mommy. Jill was great to work with. She even gave me some helpful hints which I think will make my writing better in the future.

I wrote about breastfeeding because it’s still a relevant topic in my life for my almost six-month-old Squeaker.

And I think it's relevant for a few other women, too, wouldn't you say?

And I think it’s relevant for a few other women, too, wouldn’t you say?

Of course, there were some haters who were all, “THIS IS UTTERLY FALSE.” And I wanted to say, “Are they your boobs? Are they?” But I’m a mother now and I need to be mature, so I restrained myself.

To clarify, I’m NOT, NOT, NOT, saying anyone should not breastfeed. I may not enjoy the mechanics of it, but I do it because I know it’s good for Squeaker and I love her to pieces so obviously I want the best for her. I merely wanted to poke a little fun at all the glowing reports of bonding and goddess-like womanhood that I so often see associated with breastfeeding. Also, I wanted to be real in the attempt. I should have specified that I was really only writing about the first few weeks. It gets better after that–even if I don’t “love” it.

But, the post’s popularity got me thinking –actually, it’s something I’ve been thinking for a while–and that’s maybe it’s time to start a new blog. You know one with a real niche. I started this blog when I realized I wasn’t going to be in Chile for a while (after my brain surgery) and needed a space that wasn’t dedicated exclusively to expat posts. Now, however, my life is pretty much that: an expat, stay-at-home, new -ish mom. And I wonder if this blog still fits my needs. If it does, then I have to renew the URL in the next three weeks.

Another thing, I get kind of tired of writing the URL and having people joke that it’s the TITless or TITTIEless blog, even though it was once, briefly.

What do you

think?

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The new low

Posted on May 6, 2013 | 6 Comments

I hit a new low in parenting this weekend. We went to my mother-in-law’s to celebrate her birthday and because Squeaker is experiencing a separation anxiety crisis, I spent much of the weekend holding her or bouncing her on my lap as she shot death rays at everyone in our vicinity. No more sociable baby here.

I’ve hit other parenting lows right on schedule:

1. At birth: Swallowing my food without chewing.

2. When my husband went back to work: Changing my personal definition of good hygiene to something that can be completed in five minutes. Every other day.

3. About two months into the game: Forgetting to wash my hands after a diaper change then being all, “So what, it’s practically my DNA anyway.”

4. Recently: Using the television as a babysitter to actually chew my food.

5. Always: Swaying back and forth constantly even when I’m not holding Squeaker.

We need to get out more.

In any case, on Sunday, I was holding a bouncing Squeaker on one leg while cramming my other hand inside a nearly empty potato chip bag in a pre-lunch nosh. I heard her burp, but didn’t think anything of it. “Good burp!” I told her in my usual chirpy voice so she knows I’m talking to her.  corte americano

I readjusted her so that the hand that had just been holding her reached in and grabbed a handful of potato chips and I put them in my mouth. The texture was slippery and unexpected. My hand was covered in a thin veneer of baby vomit. It took me only a second to realize that her burp was really a stealth puke and I had just put my vomited-upon hand into my mouth and eaten it. Eaten it. The puke. And yet I did not drop the half-eaten chip. I actually inspected it for more spit-up!

Then, my tired brain suddenly caught up to my body and was all, “What the hell are you doing?” and I threw the it down, shuddering like I had participated in a cannibalistic ritual.

It’s going to be a long time before I can look at another bag of Lay’s.

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The misogyny I don’t want my daughter to learn

Posted on May 2, 2013 | 6 Comments

People often ask me what is the biggest cultural hurdle I’ve had to jump to adjust to life in Chile. I usually pause, because honestly I can think of many, I’m just not sure I can say them out loud without offending someone. I try to pick one that is benign, like how no one takes their shoes off inside or goes barefoot anywhere. Ever. I love me a day with no shoes.

How we look most days.

How we look most days.

However, my go-to culture shock is the street harassment, or street “compliments” depending on whom you ask.  And if you use local vernacular, the piropos. Sometimes they are poetic. Sometimes they are whispered and hushed–more of a hiss. Other times they are downright vulgar and disgusting. And I have to temper the impulsive side in me from shouting back, “Where do you get off? You think that just because you stand up to pee you have the right to objectify me? Go to hell. And on your way there, I hope you get a scorching case of herpes!”

I had thought that I was more or less immune to the advances of lecherous men since now I walk around with my nearly six-month-old baby strapped to my body. Even though she flashes her gums at everyone and they smile back, it had not been in a perverted way until…suddenly it was.

One day, I was walking and a doorman was out sweeping the step of his apartment building. “Beautiful baby,” he smiled as I walked by. Maybe it was my mistake, but I broke into a grin, too. I have the cutest baby in Santiago. Obviously. You would smile, too.(Santiago has taught me to never leave the bitch face far behind. Always leave it where I can reach it). “Tha-” I started. Then, he leaned in, “And you, too.”

Sigh. Really?

It never fails that when I bring up this gripe with a Chilean, they will mention how it’s cultural and I just need to ignore it. And maybe a tiny, miniscule part of it is cultural. The culture that has yet to accept women as equals and as deserving of leer-free transit as the next. But mostly it’s machista, sexist and misogynistic. It trains men that they don’t have to respect women for the thoughtful, intelligent human beings they are. It tells them that women are objects for their viewing pleasure. It’s skewed, unfair and, in some cases, it’s dangerous.

And if it’s so cultural, why is it still an issue in the US? Albeit not as big of a problem as the ’60′s and the ’70′s, but I can remember jogging around campus and having trucks go by and honk or yell, “Shake it, baby!”  Except, Chile never got the memo that that is now considered sexual harassment.

Ever since that day when the doorman exposed me to the Pandora’s box that is mother-daughter piropos, they haven’t let up. We get kissy noises blown at us. A delivery truck slowed down the other day so the driver could pantomime an enormous smooch.

I remember once when I was walking with my sister-in-law, who is conceivably young enough to be my daughter, and the attention we got. It scares me to think if she had been walking alone that day without an adult wearing a bitch face.

I want to say to Squeaker that she’s smart and beautiful no matter what anyone says. No man (or woman) has the right to objectify her based on what she’s wearing or how she does her hair. Her body is hers and hers alone. Period. The end. And there is nothing cultural about that.

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Futon fairies, bad customer service, and tremors

Posted on April 30, 2013 | 5 Comments

The legs were in the futon the whole time. The whole mother-effing time. Seriously. They brought the new one, took it out of the box, and propped it up. Then, they went to leave and I was all, “WHOA. Hold up a second. This futon hasn’t got any legs either. That’s why we are returning the other one. How can we be so unlucky TWICE?”

The poor men–who proclaimed themselves to be delivers and not assemblers–flipped the futon over. It was the first time I had really gotten a glimpse of the bottom. Sure enough, amongst the black fabric was a skinny black zippered compartment with what? The legs. They looked at me like I had announced, “Look! I just saved this fish from drowning!” And shook their heads slowly, probably for dramatic effect.

We spent Thursday night, after Squeaker gave up the nightly battle, screwing in the legs. We (read: he) had to manually drill the holes because they may have provided the legs, but there was still no place to put them. The instructions were literally: 1. unfinished product; 2. finished product, wherein the futon fairy stopped by and put an end to the madness. Obviously.

Futon assembly may require one of these.

Futon assembly may require one of these.

“Are you going to take down your post where you bitch about the bad customer service here?” my husband asked me while resting his blistered hands.

“No. That’s still not good customer service. How can we talk to so many people over the course of two weeks and NO ONE…NO ONE…mentions that maybe we need to check the bottom again? That’s the epitome of bad customer service in my book. First, I thought it was a factory error, now it’s just laziness. Sorry I made you do your job and look at a manual, customer service. I won’t have such high expectations next time. My bad.”

Oh and we still can’t use it because we can’t get on the fifth phantom leg. He said to put something on top of the futon so no one wants to sit on it in the meantime. It is now the most expensive laundry receptacle I’ve ever owned.

On Sunday night, the time changed here. Yes, it’s “fall back” time. We can save the daylight savings time debate for later, but ugh. I’ve never felt jet-lagged during fall back time before. Ever. Because, as every sane adult on this planet who lives in a country that still follows archaic and agrarian time knows, gaining an hour means MORE SLEEP, which is awesome. Until your body adjusts, that is, then you’re screwed again.

Tell that to my 5.5-month-old who has never even looked at a clock. I awoke to her cold, slimy baby fingers poking around in my nose at 4:45 this morning. Four. Forty. Five. That is not daylight saving time. That is how they get prisoners to talk. And I would have told her anything this morning if she would have just taken her fingers out of my nose and. Gone. Back. To. Sleep.

Fortunately, she eventually fell back to sleep, but not after I turned on the news, ate breakfast and blew raspberries on her tummy. Just as I was getting comfortable again, the bed started shaking. It’s been a while since our last good tremor and this morning’s did not disappoint  It only lasted a couple of seconds, but had it lasted longer, I think I would have been looking for a solid hiding place–crabby baby or not.

I can never sleep well after those. I sit there in the semi-darkness thinking, “Afterschock, preshock, or standard tremor?” And since I was already caffeinated, the words ran together in a jittery jumble until I got out of bed.

I’m exhausted.

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This is a customer service win, I think

Posted on April 24, 2013 | 12 Comments

I had a friend who said, “Every country has something that they do really well.” We had started talking about this fresh on the heels of both having spent time abroad and I was hashing out a frustrating tale of my customer service woes in Chile. We decided that customer service is one thing that the US usually does well. We can argue motives or specifics later, but as a rule, customer service (re: returning shit you bought but then didn’t like for some reason) is waaaaaaaaay easier than here where you must promise them your first-born.

Or not.

Or not.

Remember that photo I posted of our legless futon, our fresh-from-the-factory, but already battle-weary living room companion? Then remember how I said they wanted 11 days to figure out what to do?

Here’s how I feel that situation would have gone over in the US:

“Hi, I’m calling because that futon I purchased doesn’t have legs. Is it supposed to?”

“What? That’s awful. We’re sorry for your inconvenience. Would you like a new one or store credit?”

DONE.

Here’s how it usually goes down here:

“Hi, I’m calling because that futon I purchased doesn’t have legs. Is it supposed to?”

“That sucks.”

“I’m sorry…did I call the right number?”

*gum smacking* “Customer service? Yes.”

“So, what can you do about the futon?”

“Well, that depends. Do you have any witnesses who would be willing to sign a notorized affidavit that this futon arrived without legs? Then bring it to our main office in a place unreasonably far from where you live between the hours of 1-2 on a day that doesn’t end in ‘y’?”

“Can I speak with your supervisor?”

*click*

They finally called and said they had decided to give us a new futon. Since they woke me up from a nap, I didn’t have the chance to get snarky. Was that so hard? Why couldn’t that have been their initial response? Shhhhhh… Best not to tempt fate because they haven’t delivered it yet.

And our pillows that never arrived were reimbursed in a gift card, which we used to buy plates. So somewhere, there is a delivery man reclining on my pillow, but, whatever, I’ll count it as a win.

So, Chile, you may have delicious, plentiful seafood and good, cheap wine, but you still have a long way to come in customer service.

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Your separation anxiety is my separation anxiety

Posted on April 22, 2013 | 5 Comments

Dear Squeaker,

It’s finally happening. You are learning object permanence. Now, when Babysitting Cow gets hidden at night you still look for him (her?). He (she?) doesn’t merely cease to exist, only to be miraculously extracted from the toy vortex the next morning. You’d be all, “I didn’t know I had a cow!” But no more.

The same now goes for people. You know who I am and that I’m an important source of food, affection, and booger wiping. It’s only natural that you get nervous (or have a tantrum) when I leave a room. See how understanding I am? I’ve had over five months of practice.

Except, I didn’t expect the separation anxiety to happen when I’m in the same room–still in your baby line of vision. It happens like this: I hand you off to a well-meaning family member or friend and you do a quick scan; we make eye contact and your face lights up in a huge gooey, gummy grin; “There’s my mom!” you seem to be saying; then comprehension dawns, “But, if she’s over there, then WHO HAS ME?”; and your face scrunches into the saddest baby frown, soon followed by wailing that only I can appease.

Where's my mom? OH, THERE'S MY MOM taking this picture!

Where’s my mom? OH, THERE’S MY MOM taking this picture!

In a way, I kind of like this. It means you recognize the time and effort I spend keeping you fed, entertained, and clean. However, it would be nice to have a break every so often. And you are scaring people off. No one likes to hold a baby willing herself purple. Just saying.

Sometimes, this even goes for Daddy. In your mind, we have very different roles. He’s the goofy face maker with whom you giggle incessantly. I’m everything else. It’s such an ego boost for me, but probably means birth control for everyone in earshot.

I know it’s just a stage. Some day you might find me uncool and not want me to talk to you in public. You might say things in whispered tones to your friends like, “Ugh…my mom tweets and does yoga. Gross!” So even though leaving you for even five minutes produces anxiety palpitations in me, I’ll try to treat it as a compliment.

Now for the rest of my to-do list before you wake up.

Love,

Your mom.

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We are moved and got the internets

Posted on April 15, 2013 | 6 Comments

It’s been over a week since my last post and even though my phone has a thoughtful “personal hotspot” option to make myself a giver of internets for people far and wide the service often falls short. That and the pyramid of boxes the movers left wobbling precariously and the fact that we had one livable room meant I’ve been otherwise occupied. But, I’m back with fast wi-fi and a sleeping baby, who hopefully *knock on wood* will sleep long enough for me to finish this post. (She owes me, considering I carried her all day and my back aches.)

The move went about as could be expected. We never did pick up our permission to move, or not steal, our own belongings and nothing happened. It was anticlimactic. I was at least hoping to have to stand on a box and proclaim loudly, “THESE ARE SO MY STAINED BED SHEETS” to an officer waiting to cuff me for used furniture transporting.  I’m now convinced it’s another example of bureaucracy for the sake of bureaucracy as is common in Latin America.

Today, they delivered our new bed for the guest room. Hear that, guests? You now have a place to sleep that is not the floor. You’re welcome.  They also delivered our futon and installed our wi-fi and cable. It was a productive day. Read: a disruptive and crabby day if you are only five months old.

The futon arrived first. In a big futon-sized box. When I asked him if it was difficult to set up (a service I thought that was provided) he mumbled about having to call a technician and nearly bolted out of the door. Maybe with good reason.

Does anything seem off to you?

Does anything seem off to you?

That’s our deluxe futon on the floor. See those cute little legs that the drawing so helpfully shows you how to screw in? For all we know, they were the artist’s pipe dream, because they were nowhere to be found. Your futon, for best results, use with legs!

How does one open a futon box and misplace the legs? The universe has a black hole especially for futon legs according to the store we bought it from that needs 11, count that 11, days to respond to our complaint. For all I know, they are scouring the black hole for space junk resembling those cylinder legs.

The bed arrived next. They even set it up. It was perfect. I even texted my husband a photo of it. He responded by asking where the pillows were?

“The pillows we bought yesterday? They’re in Squeaker’s room”

“The pillows that came with the bed, I mean,” he clarified.

“THERE WERE PILLOWS WITH THE BED???”

“Did you sign already?”

“Of course I signed! They brought the BED and it’s lovely. I had no idea that it had PILLOWS.”

The black hole of futon legs and space garbage opened a little wider to make room for the pillows that were supposed to come with our bed. They’re laughing at us out there. Mark my words.

Shortly, after the chaos of calling customer service, which is sadly a misnomer in Chile, the technician arrived to install the internet and cable. I haven’t had cable in years! When he arrived with his giant spool of white cable, I could have kissed him, but I’m not that weird.

Anyway, he did whatever it is you do to cable–he talked to and coaxed the wall a lot from what I observed–and it worked. It worked beautifully for the three seconds that I watched whatever soccer channel that was.

Then he left. And I realized he had unplugged the cable. WHY!? Why for the love of God would you take a beautiful thing like that and UNPLUG it?

Now, it doesn’t work. And I can’t figure out the combination of buttons to make it all better.

So if you can help me, left a comment.

So if you can help me, leave a comment.

In fact, I didn’t even know he had left a remote. I found it discarded like an afterthought on my pillow. Like, oh, she might need this when she tries to watch her TV, if she’s smart enough….bahahaha *demonic technician cackle*.

Squeaker, who woke up by the way, and I are exhausted. May the customer service gods be merciful tomorrow.

P.S. The missing legs and pillows must be watching the cable. It’s the only explanation.

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Moving day is upon us

Posted on April 5, 2013 | 10 Comments

I’ve been waiting to bust out of this apartment and its eternally broken elevators, apathetic doormen, and ceiling stain for longer than I can remember. Well, it’s finally happening tomorrow. diaper boxesThere’s one wall of boxes. I didn’t get my fort, but the diaper boxes are having a useful second life, eh?

So everything was almost almost ready (yes, almost almost is a “thing” because I said so) and I got a frantic call from my husband this morning. See, there is this thing in Chile that the people driving the moving truck need and it’s a notarized document saying you are moving your things and not taking someone else’s old plates and grubby mattresses, which is about as appealing to me as stealing used petri dishes.

The first time I heard of it was about four years ago when I was still teaching English and my student said he’d have to postpone class because he had to get one of them for his Saturday move. “You’re just saying that to get out of class,” I admonished. He replied solemnly that he was not kidding and I could go with him if I wanted. I did out of curiosity. And mostly because they were paying me.

We ended up waiting in an endless line, while he explained in halting English this document that my middle-class-developed-country brain could not comprehend at the time, “You mean, the police might stop you and not believe it’s your stuff?”

“Yes.”

“But why would you hypothetically steal someone’s stained furniture?”

“Maybe they have nice things–even with stains. Maybe I have no things. Maybe they are on vacation. Maybe it’s from several families. Maybe I’m a…how do you say it? A scammer…”

I cut him off. I got it. It took me a couple more years to realize that whereas used things in the US are almost always given away or sold at a garage sale for pennies, here they depreciate in value at a much slower rate making a truck full of old furniture a gold mine on wheels.

Back to that phone call this morning, my husband needed me to quickly get a few of our last payments together so we could get this Get Out Of Jail Free Card or we wouldn’t move. We. Wouldn’t. Move. Try saying that to twitchy, pre-caffeinated me at 7:55 AM with snot dripping down my face because I couldn’t staunch the flow fast enough. I was not very nice.

Then try adding to that a baby who thinks she’s going to get packed in a box and…just don’t.

I blew my chapped nose, took an impossibly quick shower (I’m the queen of shortened personal hygiene now…I know…eww) and went downstairs with Squeaker in my arms. I approached the doorman and tried with my best Spanish to ask him for the dues receipts. We’d never spoken before.

“What?” He looked utterly perplexed that I had broken our speaking strike. They aren’t very nice people and neither am I when I don’t make the effort.

“The dues? We pay them every month? With a check?” It was all I could do to not pantomime signing a check.

He looked at me with my dripping hair, red nose and grumpy Squeaker like he was surprised I could walk and talk at the same time.

“I don’t have the amounts.”

“I don’t either. See how in this receipt it doesn’t show how much I paid?”

“I’ll have to talk to the administrator.”

The administrator who constantly gifts our parking spot to other people, blamed us for the broken elevators, and has yet to see the damage that the flooded apartment above us caused LAST YEAR? That one?

We’re screwed. We’re going to live in this shithole forever! Squeaker is going to get married here! Unpack the boxes! Tell the spiders their food supply is coming back!

Ugh. If the administrator doesn’t suddenly get a programing reboot called Version 2.0 REAL HUMAN EMOTIONS, we might just move without it. Wish us luck and don’t tell anyone.

 

 

 

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