Got a bill from the ex-landlady for $1533.00 yesterday. The bill is for "damages" to the apartment. To balance this out, I also received a postcard from Peter that said "Happy Valentine's Day." So, I owe approximately half of the money I've made in the past tax year, but... but I got a postcard... Whoop-dee-doo.
(Actually, the postcard was quite nice... I was very pleased by the postcard... It was a photograph of one of my favorite spots in the whole wide world -- a spot that's now paved over with concrete, but it USED to be one of my favorite places in the whole world... It's the thought that conts, you know?)
After a long deliberation, and some intense studying of my lease and various other legal papers, I composed a letter back to the ex-landlady, contesting the charges. Using some fuzzy math -- which, after careful scrutiny, actually seems legitimate to me -- I insisted, in my letter, that the ex-landlady owes ME fifty dollars.
To the best of my knowledge, I have always been a manipulative little bitch when it comes to other people saying I suck, and/or owe them money. When I was about ten or so, I accidentally stuck my pen through the back of a seat on a school bus. The kid sitting behind me yelled, "Mrs. Steele! Mrs. Steele! Helena poked a hole in the seat with her pen!" The little shit. And Mrs. Steele, that old bag, made me go sit in the front seat so she could give me a good scolding. "Don't you have anything better to do with your hands than poke holes in things?" she reprimanded me. Well, I guessed that I DIDN'T have much of anything to do with my hands, really. It was a BUS, you know? What are you SUPPOSED to do with your hands on a bus when you're like, ten years old? Knit? So I said, "No, ma'am, I don't." Mrs. Steele took my response to be the ultimate display of rudeness, and called my parents.
My dad answered. At this time, my dad was sometimes very cool about things, and sometimes very strict about things. I was very worried about the whole affair. But my dad was pretty cool about this. He asked me if I'd really poked a hole in the seat, and I shamefully told him that I had. He asked if I'd been rude to Mrs. Steele, and told her that I didn't have anything better to do with my hands. I told him that wasn't EXACTLY how the conversation had gone. In any case, the bus garage was willing, my dad told me, to forgive the hole, but that I was going to have to write a letter of apology to Mrs. Steele. That evening, I wrote: "Dear Mrs. Steele, I'm sorry if you thought I was being rude the other day after I accidentally poked the hole in the seat. Sincerely, Helena Thomas."
My dad was so proud of me. Not for writing a letter of apology, but for writing THAT letter of apology. He was gleefully amused that I'd diplomatically apologized without admitting any sort of guilt. I think he was mentally signing me up for either law school, or saleswoman school. That was the point at which my dad knew (and told me) that I could turn just about anything to my advantage using only a pen and paper.
At this point, the world should have trembled with fear. I think there was a massive earthquake in San Francisco shortly thereafter. That was the entire Earth's way of expressing complete terror at the almighty power of Helena Thomas' pen.
Funny, how, in two short pages, I turned a debt of $1533.00 into a refund check of $50.00. Now, I'm sure the ex-landlady is still going to try to financially ruin me, not to mention harass me until her dying day, but at least I wrote this letter, and I've got a lot of fight left in me. Now I just need an envelope, some stamps, and the nerve to send it.
It's been a depressing and frustrating week. My body's still kind of weak, although I feel a little better every day. I rarely leave the house, and I keep getting the distinct impression that I'm in everybody's way. It's that same feeling I used to get when I'd sleep on Aaron's floor and eat breakfast at his parents place. The same feeling I got when my dad put all my belongings in boxes in the garage. The feeling that, yes, I am welcome, and yes, I am cared-for, but that I really ought to be able to provide for myself, and that I really belong somewhere else.
Jake insists this isn't true. And for the most part, I know it isnt true. The family cares about me, and they do appreciate my efforts, however pathetic, to do my part around the house. Still... I'm so very used to taking too much, needing too much, using the wrong appliances at the wrong times... Whenever I've felt halfway decent healthwise, I've packed a few more of my things into boxes to put into the garage. Whatever I can do to make myself smaller and less noticeable. As the mother of Grandchild Number 4, I was entitled to certain conveniences, such as free food, and long afternoons of staring blankly at the television. As Helena Thomas, non-mom, I feel horrifically guilty that I'm not earning my keep. The baby made me part of the family, and families take care of each other. Now that she's gone, I'm just some girl that Jake likes an awful lot, and I feel like I ought to do more dishes in order to earn my television time and my space on the bookshelves.
Don't get me wrong; it's not anything that anybody's said. It's not even anything that anybody's done. There haven't been blatant gestures of disapproval that I live here. I'm just used to being in the way; unless I'm on MY turf, eating MY food, earning my OWN wages, and providing my OWN entertainment, I've usually gotten scolded, or given some loud indication that I was overstaying my welcome and did not exactly belong there. Everybody in the family is very kind to me, and so generous... and I feel terribly guilty. I wish I was very, very small. I wish I was strong enough to mow the lawn or scrub the bathrooms or babysit. I wish I'd earned my way into the family instead of coming here by circumstance.
*smile* ...Although, between you and me, I am definitely strong enough to be taking care of Jake... You know, entertain him, keep him out of people's hair for awhile, make sure he's bathed properly... *wicked grin* Actually, it's come to my attention that Jake could use a good scrubbing... I guess I'd better get on that now; it's always such a terrible struggle to get him into the shower with me... Wish me luck...
~Helena*