thecaitychronicles

[thecaitychronicles]

The Caity Chronicles: The Bees

Buz buz bitches! I’m back, and finally over the emotional damage caused by the events I will be sharing with you all today.

Let me paint a picture for you. It’s August 2023. I return home from a bachelorette weekend for my dear friend. Sure the weather was absolute shit and we all drove through a hurricane to get back home, but the hoopla was worth it! The reality I came home to, however, was a harsh reminder that the fun was over.

My wall is crying! No, dearest reader, I’m not on drugs. My bedroom wall had streams of tears running down pooling at the floor, which is of course carpet. I grabbed towels, lined them up against the wall, and led them into a pot to drain.

I called my HOA emergency line. Note: my HOA has expressed their dismay before for my calling the emergency line for non-emergencies, to which I often reply “then answer your non-emergency line once in a while.” My HOA is not good. My HOA is trash. I hate my HOA.

When the issue was explained, they responded that they would send someone out to check the roof in a week or so. This displeases me.

Eventually the walls dry their tears and I don’t notice any other incidences for a while. Are there ugly wet stains on my ceiling from the leaks? Sure. But that’s a future Caity problem.

Fast forward to the first weekend of March 2024. I notice the stains are growing on my ceiling due to Southern California’s famous shitty weather *holds up sarcasm sign.* I make a call to my HOA emergency line and leave a message. I send an email as well, to start a paper trail.

The next morning, Milo (my cat) wakes me up with a specific meow that tells me he sees something amiss. (Yes, I know that sounds like a crazy cat lady statement. And it is.) I roll over to find where his attention is focused.

*Drip* *Drip* *Drip*

Oh good. Another leak. Not against the walls this time. In the middle of the ceiling.

I grab the biggest pot I could find and placed it under the drips. Not even three hours go by until I have to replace the pot before it overflows. I ring the HOA line again and leave another message with a certain tone to suggest “hey I might be serious this time so get your ass out here and fix this!” They reply to my original email saying “oh yeah, sure, sure, we’ll be right there… on Monday.” It’s Sunday. I am, once again, displeased.

I placed a tarp down to catch what the pot can’t while I’m away during the day. When I return home, I find a wee li’l pond in my room (see photo for reference). Once sent to the email chain, I get an almost immediate response looping in an HOA member of higher status noting “oh hey, I think this might be serious.” NO SHIT BARBARA!

The roof-fixer-upper people come out the next morning and I show them the inside damage. They go up to the roof for less than 3 minutes before rapidly descending the ladder with fear in their eyes.

“Miss, you’ve got bees.” While sure this sounds better than chlamydia… I was naive to the recovery period of a case of the bees.

Turns out, bees had made their way in between the roof and ceiling, opening up more airways for moisture to get in and cause a leak. (Now my intro makes sense, huh!)

“Yeah we can’t do any roof repairs until the bees are gone.” Wonderful.

I call up the HOA, let ‘em know I’ve been diagnosed with an itchy case of the bees so they can send out the bee-removal folk. The squad arrives and showed me the picture of what exactly scared away the repairmen (see photo for reference). Hives on hives on hives. You’d think Beyoncé was throwing a concert up on the roof! (Get it? Bey-hive? No? Psh. Uncultured.)

Once the slabs of honey and bees are gone, the scaredy-cat roofie people return to assess the damage. Eventually they fix it over the course of a week. But I’m left to my own devices when it comes to the ceiling repairs.

The following process takes more than 3 months to complete:

Water mitigation

Mold and mildew testing

Demolition

Dehumidifying/air purifying

Dry check

Water mitigation

Mold and mildew testing

More demo

Repair

Repaint

My bed needed to be moved to the living room. For two weeks I couldn’t access my closet. My room looked like Dexter is about to slay one of Miami’s latest predators (see photo for reference). Milo’s world is upside down. This displeases us both!

In the midst of all this, I keep finding dead bees on the floor- carcasses from the absent colony. I scoop them up in my hand so they don’t end up as kibble. As I walk toward the door to toss them outside, I notice one wiggling. Ah shit. Poor lil guy is alive and in a cluster of all his dead cousins. My bad! I walk toward the fullest, bloomiest bush of flowers outside to set him down. Mind you, I’ve never been stung by a bee. Bees and I have always had the understanding that as long as I provide quick transportation from one perdy flower to another from time to time, I shalln’t be stung. Well this fucker clearly didn’t get the memo because when I gently nudged him towards the petal, he backed that ass up INTO MY FINGER! Not cool, bee. Not. Cool.

My enemies at this point include bees, the HOA, and ServPro.

“What did ServPro do, Caity?” I will tell you, audience! They gave me more runaround than a three legged dog! Their scheduling department was shit, saying “yeah that person is busy, we’ll have them call you back after lunch.” And by 5pm when I call back “oh… yeah… so they left for the day, but we’ll have them call you back first thing in the morning.” Bullshit! I don’t trust you, Susan from reception!

ServPro reps came and went over the next few weeks. I quickly learn why teachers used to separate me from my friends once I hear giggling from Daniel, Max, and Julio. These fuckers are watching Instagram videos in my room! Hey! Boys! *snap snap* Back to work! Plus now I have to get on a work call.

Daniel and Julio oblige. Max, on the other hand, feels this is a good time to go to the bathroom. My bathroom. No kids, not number one. Max needed to drop a heavy ass load. A putrid cloud wofts my way as the door opens. While the effort to mask the smell with my lavender-scented Febreeze was appreciated, it sure as shit wasn’t effective. I snarl my nose in disgust, prompting my coworker on my Zoom call to text me “fix your face.” …Mom always said I shouldn’t play poker.

It is now nearing the end of May, and I’m anticipating my family’s visit at the end of June, all the while still hopping over my mattress to get to the kitchen. ServPro is apparently back logged in repairs and suggests far-into-the-future dates for Daniel, Max, and Julio to return. I don’t have time to schedule “sometime next week.” No, Craig from repairs, we will not be patiently awaiting your coworker’s callback any longer. This nightmare has gone on for months! Give me my closet back! And if you don’t care about my wellbeing, think about the children! (Yes, still talking about my cat.)

Well kids, the Karen voice worked. The Dexter tarps came down. The walls and ceilings insulated and boarded up. The walls repainted the specific Behr “Meditation Time” green, and the baseboards recovered with the “Stormy Haze” gray. Even the home insurance payments have been completed.

Could this perhaps be the end of it all?

August, 2024. *Buzzzzzzzz*

I look outside my bedroom window. Beyoncé must be back. The queen is rebuilding.

MOTHER OF !$&@- roll credits.

[thecaitychronicles]

The Caity Chronicles

Dearest reader, unfortunately for you, the presses have cooled in the last year, as I have had little content to write about. Reason being? Well. I’m happy. No, not just “social media happy.” Truly satisfied in all realms at the moment.

So if you’re lacking in serotonin, I suggest skipping this one, for the remainder of my excerpt will only register as bragging.

Even if your emotional state is maintaining homeostasis, the rest will still sound rather “ha ha I’m better.” Proceed at your own discretion.

The beginning of my year came with professional stagnation and personal rejection. The switch in meds resulted in overwhelming rage (but honestly who the fuck drives like that). And I was ghosted by two therapists in a row (does this mean I won?).

But alas, I was gifted with criticism that, while harsh, woke me out of a deep state of self-deprecating slumber. Sure, life’s a bitch and then you die. Sure, you think the world is never going to get better when you’ve only lived a quarter of a century on it. Sure, you think your issues are important and all-consuming. So? You’re not unique in this way of thinking. You’re boring. (That last part is directed at myself. Because of course, you, my lovely audience, are indeed unique and interesting and I’m sure your problems are worthy of all unbiased news coverage.)

All that being said- she changed her perspective. Yes, children. I, Caity of Caity Chronicles, am enlightened.

I got a job that pays more (because in San Diego, money does indeed buy happiness), with coworkers that enable my dark humor (y'all better stop).

I gained intellectually and emotionally-stimulating friends that have become family.

I’ve transformed my living space into my own personalized Mojo Dojo Casa House, where crafting and the fuzz monkey live harmoniously.

So while I sit here, in my jet-lagged-induced spirt of creativity, I use this time to explain the reason for the absence of any new CC issues. And yeah, people are still inherently shit and y'all annoy the crap outa me. But one-off instances are not nearly as entertaining to write about unless I’m throwing hands.

And I can feel that half of my readers are clenched with worry. “What will I have to look forward to without the anticipation of more Caity Chronicles?” While the other half is asking, “When will this narcissist quit spewing?” (Well jokes on you cause you’re still reading.)

Fear not, my doting audience members! While enlightened, sure, my eagerness to keep you entertained far exceeds my need to have my name mentioned in the same breath as, I dunno, Gandhi. I vow to seek out other avenues of inspiration in order to amuse. In the meantime, I appreciate the loyalty- y’all are the real ones!

[thecaitychronicles]

Pizza Night

It’s a casual Friday afternoon and I’m driving over to my boyfriends house for make-your-own-pizza night. I’ve requested a cauliflower crust and a wide assortment of topping options. My excitement turns to frustration quickly as I find myself backed up in traffic along Sunset in Ocean Beach. As the Cheeches and Chongs in front of me inch forward little by little, I see a doggo crossing the street. 

No leash. No collar. No human. 

Thankfully traffic was going too slow to do the K9 any harm. Nevertheless, I immediately skrt-skrted to the side and ran after the unaccompanied pooch. He remained calm and eager for attention, but too stubborn to follow without incentive. I directed him by his hips toward my car, where he jumped in from the passenger’s side straight to the driver’s seat. No, no silly pup, you can’t drive, for you are not a golden retriever and this is not a Subaru. He contently drools all over the seat as he stares out the window in wonderment. I send a text message to the boyfriend asking for him to meet me outside. We rendezvous outside the complex where I find myself trapped in conversation with an OB native sitting in a lawn chair on his car. Casual. Sir Doggo and I jaunt toward to the door to get him some water and perhaps a treat for being so trusting despite the “stranger-danger” rule. 

His boopable snout is posted on the local lost pup page in efforts to track down the owner. And now we wait. But my affectionate pets cannot be addressed to a nameless floof. He must have a name. Dijourno! It is pizza night after all, and his dispersed spots are reminiscent of the toppings of my pizza. His wags may be from my correct guess of his title, or perhaps from the puppy voice it is spoken in. Regardless, I’m attached. 

*Ding* Notification from lost pup page. 

“Oh hey that’s my neighbor’s dog, Tucker. They don’t have Facebook.”

First of all, his name is Dijourno. Secondly, can you perhaps facilitate a meet up? 

About 15 minutes later, we meet up with a golf cart outside with the license plate reading “Tucker.” Convenient that the cart has a tag, but Dijourno does not. Pupperino is returned safe and sound, but he and I will never forget his true identity: Dijourno.  Edit: le boifren is no more, but my yearning to be reunited with Dijourno Pupperino will never die.

[thecaitychronicles]

Home for the Holidays

Finally, I embark on the long adventure back to Germany for the holidays. It has been four years since my last visit, so screw the travel anxiety- I’m going home!

I get to the airport and immediately start shaking knowing I’ll be cramped in a confined space for a long period of time.

Seat 32G. Let’s see just how uncomfortable this 11hr flight will be. I go to the desk and ask if I’ll be positioned by a window, aisle, or between two unhygienic nomads who won’t give up the arm rests. The attendant responds “it’s a middle seat.” Aw HAYEL nah, not today. I politely request to look up any other options. Alas! There is one more aisle seat available.

Luck seems to be in my corner, but I should ease the remaining anxiety with a beer. And perhaps a second.

I board the flight and arrive at my seat. Well what’s this?! A muthafuqin baby! It really is just my luck that switching to a more favorable seat would lead me to spend hours next to a dairy-smelling motza ball with exceptional vocal range who enjoys sharing its snacks by throwing them in my lap. And quite a coincidence that the infant’s name was “Kaiet” considering the only thing I wanted to say was “cállate” each time it tried to compete for American Idol.

Now to be fair, this was a pretty good baby. It slept most of the flight and only serenaded a few times throughout the flight. But it kept staring at me, and I don’t care for that shit.

Finally, my spaceship from San Diego to Munich lands. As I wander though the airport towards my connecting flight’s gate, passing those who forgot what walking is and screaming mothers declaring their child has to tinkle, I get a text message:

“Your flight is cancelled. We will be in touch shortly with a solution.”

Fucking wonderful.

I see a queue forming in front of the Lufthansa service desk near baggage claim, and a silly thought popped into my head. “Perhaps they can provide service.” LOL!

I am advised to go upstairs where I can get a train ticket from Munich to Stuttgart that Lufthansa will *reimburse.

We’re at line #2 now. Once at the desk, I am informed I’m in the wrong spot. Line #3 I pay for two tickets- one to an obscure Munich train station and another to Stuttgart. I arrive at the obscure station to find my second train situated next to a line-turn-mob around a hefty, bald character. After being pushed and interrupted by about six people, I assertively ask “excuse me, do you speak English, please?” Hefty, bald character replies with a stare (again- I don’t care for that shit). I repeat myself. Another stare. At this point I just state my issue in hopes a helpful response will present itself in verbal form from the hefty, bald man. Verbal response? Yes. Helpful? Nope. I am now to get another ticket to go back to Munich’s main station and ask for assistance there.

Now if we recall from the beginning of the story- my adventure begins in San Diego, meaning while I have a jacket ready to layer up, my leggings are not made of Thomas Burberry’s wind and weather resistant gabardine. This is important to note because line #4 is 60 people long in an outdoor train station. My anemic ass is cold as fuck and my knees are chattering.

After about 30 minutes, I make it to the desk where I plead with the employee who looked to be about 16 due to the video game-induced dead eyes and lack of skincare routine. He wakes up just enough to switch my train ticket to a non-stop ICE train that will take me to Stuttgart in about three hours. Bless you greasy, dead-eyed boy!

I board the train and I follow the masses forward in a failed search of empty seating which comes to a halt while in the dining car. We find that we are delayed an hour… in a sardine can so packed only standing is an option. Cool.

After a few stops, I spy a table opening up. I am now accompanied by a polite, aged-Matt Damon, German lad who watched my shit while I rushed to grab a beer. I take one sip followed by an audible sigh and am shoved to the window by an old couple flanking mine and Matt Damon’s table. While my German is beyond out of practice, the elderly’s sentiment was basically “ooo look, 4 inches of free space on this bench, lets occupy it aggressively to the point these other passengers uncomfortably shuffle against the window.” Mr. Damon and I comply, but not without a shared “we have a mutual enemy now” look. Now if I am to deal with potent old people breath for 2 hours, I’m gonna need another beer.

My eyes are making me mad at this point so I ask Sir Matt to wake me at my stop. While trusting a stranger to not tamper with your stuff while sleeping is probably ill-advised, I would have needed toothpicks to keep my eyes open at this point. Hours later, I feel a nudge followed by a friendly “we’re here!” I thank the Bourne Identity actor, and go on my merry way.

I see Poppy and Mutina, garbed in their Target brand nanopuffs I gifted them two years prior and tackle them each with a hug. I’m home!

Home sure, but don’t you worry, dear reader, the saga does not end there. Turns out, while I went on a detour, my bag had done the same. I go online to file a lost luggage report for my floral, neon orange L.L.Bean duffle bag (hard to miss, Lufthansa!). Fingers and toes are crossed at this point that my bag is found prior to us leaving for Italy in two days. But we all remember the kinda luck I have, right?

Dad lovingly drove me to a prestigious shopping outlet (the PX) to acquire at least enough pieces to fashion 7 outfits for our trip. If anyone knows the PX, they also know the options there are, well, subpar at best. But dammit I got a fashion degree for a reason!! Pair a few classic staples with a tapered pant here, a puffy sleeve there, all in this season’s color pallet, and we got the full runway show!

On day 5 without luggage, I lose hope that anyone actually works at the airport. I figure I’ll just have to search myself once we return to Germany.

Mom gets a phone call- an eager German lady excitedly announcing the discovery of my bag as though she should be praised with the highest honor. No bitch. I wore PX clothes for two weeks!

I retrieve my bag from the airport and open it to ensure no Christmas present has broken. While relieved that the ramen bowls are intact, I find that the apparel contents are soaked and smell like an old storage unit. Seriously?! (Bless laundry and Dad for doing it!)

*I send my email to Lufthansa customer service explaining both the cost of the train ticket to Stuttgart and the expenses necessary to not wander naked for two weeks need to be reimbursed.

The response I got was not favorable. Apparently because the second flight was cancelled due to “eXtReMe WeAtHeR” that was out of Lufthansa’s control, I will not be getting a refund for the train ticket.

Stay tuned for my upcoming edit on whether or not my Karen voice is successful in getting my clothing reimbursed.