Our contractor has now delayed us enough that we're in danger of slipping past deadlines. If we don't get an occupancy permit by the end of next month we won't be able to deliver our first clients in January. It's the stupid, little shit - like "we can't put carpet down until we're done tiling, but we can't finish the tile until we have the doors in, and oh I should have told you two weeks ago to pick out some doors because NOW WE'RE GOING TO WAIT." And you can say shit like "so what else do you need an answer on right fucking now so that we aren't all sitting idle waiting for freight?" and the answer is always "nothing" but it's fuckin' wonderful being called and interrupted as you're rehearsing the live show because nothing can move forward until we decide "beige or cream" on something that won't even be here for five fucking days. The greenhouse has started and abandoned three sets of plants for me because I've been told "we'll be ready in May" and "we'll be ready in July" and "we'll be ready on Labor Day" and it's been a fucking lie each time.
But apparently this is how it works. Talked to a friend who has three restaurants in LA. Each time he's been told "three months." Each time it's been over a year, and each time expenses are 100% or more over budget. At least I haven't had to have an arborist come out and draft the tree by the front door because you're in Santa Monica, bitch.
It's awful. I feel myself turning into a Republican because in every instance where I just need things to go normally there's some fuckup by some fuckup with his hand out for more fucking money because fuck you. Call up AT&T. Ask to buy some phones. Talk to their vendor. Get quoted $3600. Go on eBay. Find the same phone system. From the same vendor. WITH THE SAME PHONE NUMBER AND NAME. For $1200. "I don't pay taxes because I'm smart." You know the spirit behind that? "I don't pay taxes because I can fuck you harder than you can fuck me, and in a capitalist system that's how we define success - getting the other guy first."
Know what's an awesome conversation? Telling a doctor you need to lose weight because your BMI is too high and you need to lower your blood pressure because your life insurance is penalizing you. What's your BMI? 29. "That's not overweight." Actually, it is, and despite a 2000 calorie a day deficit for four months, despite biking 1800 miles, nothing's happening. "That's because you're healthy." You guys beat me up for the fuckin' chart every time I come in, this is me asking for help. "Maybe you are eating too much." Maybe I've been counting calories since 2008. Would you like my diet as an XLS or a CSV? "Do you drink coffee?" Yes.
Yes. With two thousand calories of creamer. At 20 calories per tablespoon, that's half a gallon of creamer in my coffee. Aren't you clever. Except oops! I drink it black and what kind of fucking antagonistic nonsense is this. Thanks for listening.
You can pay people to listen, of course. Had to pay a psychoanalyst $500 for two sessions for her to determine if she wanted me as a client. Which she does, but since her "model" requires seeing me at least once a week, we'll adjourn that shit until January, at which point I get to see how much my insurance is willing to spend on "there's nothing actually wrong with you but someone said you should probably resolve that old eating disorder you cannot technically have."
Know what's awesome? When your insurance says "your blood pressure is too high, get yourself on a statin so we can lower your rates" and two different doctors say "your blood pressure isn't even vaguely high enough to treat." It's almost as awesome as when they say "you're fat" and then you say "help me not be fat" and they say "you're not fat! Who called you fat? Why are you drinking half a gallon of creamer a day?"
I'm in LA. Again. I had six glorious days at home. Only four of them were wholly given over to The Money Pit. When I left the last time my daughter rubbed her eyes to keep the tears away and demanded a second hug. And I landed and Lyft was charging surge pricing and riding back from work it was 108 degrees in Glendale.
In late September.
I breathe 300 times an hour. I know this because I counted in a sensory deprivation tank. It was something to do while I rationalized that I can make my daughter cry when she doesn't get what she wants and feel okay about it, I should be able to feel okay about making my daughter cry when she doesn't get me.
But it's so fucking hard.
It's easy to know when to get off the Metro to get home. You look for the junkyards.
I bought the birth center a 1-year anniversary present. Don't tell my wife. It's gonna take that long to get ready. And while it was an impulse buy, it effectively meant I now have a secret I have to keep from her for eleven months.
I hope to fuck it's worth it.