I've been getting really nauseous lately. Especially at night; after about 4 pm I usually start feeling all 1997 - that is to say, so bloody hungover that light on my arm makes my stomach turn over. Fortunately I've been able to keep all of my food where it belongs - but it's leading to some strange meal choices and it's really putting the bite on my social life. I had plans for this 4-day weekend, and they didn't include lying on the couch, reading Damon Runyon and drinking glass after glass of water to quell my rising gorge.
Yesterday I ate a bag of chips in lieu of dinner, which I will admit isn't the wisest thing I've ever done. Today I wanted meat. This is the first time in months that I've even wanted an omnivorous meal, so I buckled. I rationalized this choice in a variety of ways...for instance, it's not like I'm on a vegetarian hunger strike until the world leaders wise up - I'm experimenting, damn it. And it's not like the experiment is over, either...it's just on until the next time I want a turkey club. (smile)
Have I ever mentioned that one of our neighbours is insane? I suppose not. We didn't realize that she was cuckoo for cocopuffs when we moved in, but the events of this winter have certainly proved the pudding. She suffers from a chronic condition that prevents her from working, and we were very sympathetic of her struggles at first. Then she started telling us stories about the people who live between us.
She is convinced - utterly, completely convinced - that the people who live between us are bent upon sabotage. This sabotage takes many forms - smoking hard drugs so that her cats die, punching holes in the hot water heater, opening a locked box and turning the heat down, cooking weird foods that smoke and stain her door, and sneaking into her apartment past three set of locks in order to replace her quarters with nickels and pennies. Every story she tells is both bizarre and completely unprovable (although I'm pretty sure that the stains on her door are shadows).
She's asked her father, who owns the building, to kick them out so that she can move into their apartment. Now, it's not that we like the people between us, but the Boy & I are pretty sure that as soon as they're gone, she'll start making up stories about us. I mean, especially when we're experimenting with Indian cooking, dancing around like muppets and/or playing the djembe.
Our life has become an unpredictable carnival of slammed doors, screaming matches on the stairs, and a desperate hunt on our part to avoid our basement-dwelling neighbour before she can trap us with her wild accusations and glittering mad eyes. Needless to say, this isn't helping the nausea at all...
