No good deed...and I'm nervous!

Work starts tomorrow. I had lunch with a law school friend this afternoon. Lovely boy. I think he has a Romatic Interest in me. Guess that's another story.

Chicken tikka masala, hot-from-the-oven garlic naan, and some kind of eggplant/cumin/garlic dish. As I walked back to my car, I passed a homeless man and his dog half a block down from a convenience store. I picked up water, treats, and food for the dog and water, food, and sunblock for her owner. I handed these several bags and my leftovers to the owner and chatted with him for a few minutes about his dog. So few people actually engage in conversation with our homeless! They're not invisible, people! His teeny-tiny year-old pitbull named Sherry loved on me the entire time. I like to do a quick check-up on dogs when the owner is homeless. Sherry was dressed in several clean sweatshirts (it was cold and rainy today), had great teeth, and looked perfectly healthy, happy, and cute.

I like to see homeless dog owners. I'm certainly not advocating that we give a free pup with a free meal down at the shelter, but, I imagine, pet ownership keeps the owner sane. And out of trouble.

Anyway. Then some lady passed by and clucked. "So you're giving the dog food and water and nothing for him?"

"Yes, ma'am," I wanted to say. "Exactly. I'm hoping he starves to death so I can have his dog." However, having a general policy of not engaging crazies in debate, I ignored her.

Sorta like how she ignored the owner's cup of change.

***
Work starts tomorrow. I'm nervous. I'm also nervous because just after I accepted this (defense) firm's offer, several offers with plaintiff firms came in. Plaintiff is where I want to be! Trying to trust. Trying to capital-T Trust.

I think I'll go curl up and pretend that I live in a wonderful magic land where bills pay themselves, legs are self-shaving, nylons never run, calories are just numbers on paper, and every tv station runs Milo and Otis on a 24/7 loop.

sewing machine!

A neighbor gave me her old sewing machine before she moved. I'd like to try it! I've had these lovely Heather Bailey pre-cut quilt squares for more than a year and would love to do somethingwith them. The machine came with a large, heavy box of thread, zippers, and bobbins.

Bobbins. Don't know what they are, but they (1) sound sharp and (2) accordingly, will find their way into my fingers soon.

Any suggestions for how-to websites, books, etc.? My fine motor and spatial reasoning skills are non-existent. I could find a way to suffer serious bodily injury in a padded room. And, when it comes to anything artsy with the exception of photography, I have the attention span of a

oooh, something shiny over there!


Yes. So any advice for an extreme beginner who needs to avoid injury while stitching together a patchwork quilt?

It's a small world!

Three years ago, I hired a new dog walker.

Our old one was amazing and wonderful and almost insanely concerned about the dogs' well-being. She was a corporate attorney who got tired of The Man, started a dog walking business, and quickly realized the dog parents are - to put it politely - more challenging than corporate clients. She went back to law but kept me as her sole client as she grew quite attached to Jack and Coco. Coco cried when she left each day...and Coco has never cried for anyone. Eventually, though, her schedule didn't allow consistent walks and she reluctantly told me to find a new walker.

I really liked the new walker, K, and she did a wonderful job. I've had walkers who start out great and then, slowly, the 30 min walk becomes 20 min becomes a quick walk around the block. Not so with K. She actually walked them for an extra 10-20 min every day and totally loved on them. (I know because I borrowed a friend's nannycam a few times...) K was awesome, the dogs were happy, and I was happy.

Who wouldn't love these two?

Then, in early 2008, she just didn't show up one day and didn't respond to my (super-nice, "are you ok?") messages - both completely out of character for her. Then she didn't show the next day. Or the next. Or respond to any messagees. By now, I was quite concerned. She was a young, pretty woman who, I knew, did a lot of jogging in a park. I even considered calling the police, but there was no mention of a missing woman in the news, so I dropped it. The weeks went on and I sent a final message asking her to return my house key and to let me know if I owed her any money. No response.

Now, I'm a pretty good dog mamma. I always pay promptly and give a nice Christmas bonus. I give a 2-hour range of when I'd like the sitter to visit...I don't care if the walker is running late and comes at 2pm instead of noon. When the sitter has to stay overnight, I leave out a bottle of wine with a note detailing where the DVDs and bubble bath are kept. K and I even maintained a non-dog related semi-friendship, meeting for coffee here and there. So I was confused. Had I done something wrong?

I began to imagine scenarios. An illicit love affair. Fled from creditors. Bipolar disorder. Joined a cult. A few months later, I was bored and did a search on her email address. Lo and behold, she was apparently a wedding planner in Central America. Whew. Not dead. Just...flaky.

Flash foward to now. I have two apartments that I am trying to rent. And K responded to a for-rent ad. No doubt it was her - she has an unusual name and it was her email address.

Guess she is back in town.

I had a birthday.

I've really never celebrated my birthday. Not my thing. Maybe when I hit 30 I'll throw a big bash.

I start the day by calling my parents at the crack o'dawn to wish them a very happy aniversary of the day of my birth, a.k.a the best day of their lives.

For the past few years, my "party" has been an afternoon pedicure, then, later, dinner, drinks, and desert with a single close friend. I really wanted to go to one particular restaurant - right across from where I wanted my desert - but getting reservations on a Saturday night was impossible. I morphed into shameless dirty slimeball trial lawyer mode and tried to sweet talk my way in to something around 7pm...they weren't having it.

We went to one of our favorite places instead, where I got fried green tomatoes and my new go-to drink: Grey Goose, soda, and (lots of) olives.

Ended the night with basil gelato. Man, do I have weird tastes.

Good times!

***

For fluffier popcorn with fewer unpopped kernels, soak the dry kernels in water for about 10 minutes and let dry.

Save for trims, I've never had a real, proper haircut. A childhood of traumatic bowl cuts will do that.

***
Usefulness of the day: I made yogurt last week, for the first time ever, and had great results. It was so much easier than I expected! If you are interested in trying it out, start here.

Discontinued!

I ran into a lovely acquantance this week. She is 90-something, spry, and just radiates goodness. And she smells like roses and cinammon rolls. But she looked down and dejected that day.

"They discontinued my bra. 60 years. And they went and discontinued it."

I think every female in the room heaved great sighs of sympathy before offering their own "I loved it, so, of course, they discontinued it" story. Here is my list:

1. The Black Donnollys.
2. Arrested Development.
3. Super-Sour Fla*Vor*Ice.
4. Strawberry-flavored chunks of dried rhubarb from Trader Joe's.
5. Gap's Om perfume! Why, oh, why?
6. Abercrombie's Fierce men's cologne, which technically wasn't discontinued...but the new formulation is nothing like the original.

What's yours?

***
Usefulness of the day: Buy diapers on Saturday March 20 at Toys R Us, get a $20 gift card.

weekend update

I had a lovely weekend; hope you all did too :) A friend took me to a fancy schmancy restaurant Saturday night because I was simply dying to wear a bright pink skirt.
I think days of solid rain will do that to a girl.

Oh! And an award from LilliGirl. Thank you! Seven things about myself...

1. I love exposed brick. And olive oil. And puppy breath. And avocados.

2. I eat foods even if they hurt my tongue. Salt & vinegar chips, Super-Sour Blow Pops, and Sour Patch Kids are prime offenders. Speaking of sour, if anyone comes across Super-Sour freeze pops, let me know. They were in the Fla*Vor*Ice line by Jel-Sert.

3. There is a part of me that would totally up and join one of those right-wing Libertarian militia groups...but not really. See "fancy schmancy restaurant" and "bright pink skirt," above.

4. I joined eHarmony, but the result was kinda like this so I canceled.

Picture credit.

5. I used to be terrified of dogs.

6. I love to shop...for other people. Several friends give me a budget, credit card, measurements, and let me fill their closets. Shopping for myself is too frustrating; when I do find something I like, gratification is delayed a week due to the inevitable tailoring.

7. I'm very clumsy and accident-prone. I could be in an empty padded room and still find a way to hurt myself. I tried a yoga class for grace, but tripping into my classmates weeks into the semester did nothing for my self-esteem.

Nominations: I nominate you! You are all lovely and wonderful. Can I link to a few random articles/websites you might find interesting or amusing?

100 photographs that changed the world. For good reason, some photos are disturbing. Human suffering is never G-rated.

Incredible photo essay on poverty and young mothers in Troy, NY. PG-13.

Snopes.com. Use their handy search bar before forwarding anything. Wide variety of content; G to Mature.

For cat lovers :) G.

Yet another reason to read food labels. G.

snow and venereal disease

***

I've finally turned my mother onto text messaging in the hopes that she would learn that a few lines of text is - for some matters - better than leaving her daughter a rambling, stream-of-consciousness voicemail. She is getting the hang of it...kinda.

Mom: so do u hve a hot date or VD???

Me: I get my lab results on Wednesday.

Mom: wht??? r u sick???

***

Usefulness of the day: Soak wilted greens in a bowl of cold water and set in the fridge for at least 30 minutes for them to perk up. This works especially well for stalk-y types like celery and bok choy. Why? Turgor.

Free to a good home...

Free to good home: two stir-crazy dogs. UTD on all shots except the cabin-fever vaccine. Wonderful with children (Jack). Proven ability to outsmart child-proof locks (Jack). Proven inability to pass obedience class (both), walk without a Halti (Jack), behave (both).
Favorite activities include stealing socks (Jack), stealing food (both) , being bad (both). No returns.

Perpetual time-out.

Snow, snow, and more snow still falling! Every single highway shut down since this afternoon. This is utterly insane, ridiculous, and a little scary, too. I took Jack for a walk around 3pm only to find the local grocery store, drugstore, and Starbucks all closed. Said walk may or may not be related to the purply blue shade my lower left side is presently sporting.

Fortunately, we have not (yet) lost power, though several of my friends have. I am dreading the shoveling tomorrow will bring but, for now, enjoying various programs in the "I'm a huge dork" block of channels, snacking on my homemade hummus while a pot of soup simmers away.

house arrest

Still snowed in! As of Saturday night, the snow hit mid-thigh and higher in the drifts.

Friend's home is smack in the middle of suburbia. Nothing to do but bounce off the walls. Yesterday, I slept in until 8am. By 10am Friend remarked that "surely, it was noon somwhere" and, by 1pm, had pushed a rather large glass of wine in my hand. I took that as a polite little hint to take my hyperactive self for a run. Three out of four dogs declined to join me. I'm not familiar with Friend's neighborhood- she only moved here a month ago - and, with blinding white-out conditions, managed to get totally lost. Fortunately, folks out in suburbia are rather considerate and happy to point the way back to some salve-smeared disoriented loon...who was only actually only a block from the house.

The plows are not so considerate and heaped a mountain of snow practically smack against my rear bumper. My car is big and robust, but has its limits! Let's just say I'll be able to skip "arms day" at the gym for a few days.

In the meantime, both Friend and I are out of dog food. Human food is running out, too. I'm keeping a close eye on the limited toilet paper supply. Oh, and another, potentially massive, storm is predicted to hit mid-week. Yikes.

Otherwise, all is well. Friend layered up to walk to the nearest convenience store 3/4 away. I would have joined her on the trek, but, because I prepared extremely well for a well-predicted blizzard, I left my boots, gloves, coat, and common sense at my own house. In a rare departure from my over-achieving, safety-loving self, I arrived at Friend's home on Friday night clad only in a hoodie and jeans. I am presently waiting for my coffee :) and preparing Friend a surprise lunch of poached eggs, jalapeno, and avocado made in the cutest little miniature Dutch ovens you ever did see.

Some of Jack. These were from Saturday morning - an additional foot or so had fallen by the afternoon. The other three pups had the good sense to remain indoors.

sparkles and snow

Well, the kitchen is 100% clean. It sparkles. I probably sprayed, wiped, foamed, scrubbed, washed, lathered, rinsed, and repeated with enough chemicals to qualify as a hazardous waste site, but that's ok.

I can't do normal person clean, you see. The normal person would wipe down the surfaces and survey the fridge for potential spoilage.

Not me.

The fridge is perfectly sterile, as is every other appliance. Every single crevice has been vacuumed and scrubbed with a Q-tip. The contents of the cabinets are in perfect order. Every pot, pan, and rack got hit with an SOS pad. Not a single smeared fingerprint on any cookbook. The baseboards, windows, curtains, curtain rods, barstools, artwork - all immaculate. Adrian Monk would die of bliss. It is actually a bit frightening to behold.

Knowing me, it won't stay like this for long.

---

We are predicted to get up to 2 feet of snow today. That really isn't that much, but in my neck of the woods, an inch or so causes Mass Chaos. Many schools were canceled or dismissed early in anticipation.

I see you shiver with antici

pation.

I will likely take the pups to a friend's house when it starts as getting snowed in with a friend for me and two for Jack is far more pleasant than dealing with a perpetually hyperactive dog trapped indoors. Her two girls are utterly smitten with Jack and don't leave him alone for a moment, which produces a few hours of chaos and then twelve blessed hours of comatose dogs.

Smitten.
Coma.

Coco'nut spends these playdates hibernating, occasionally poking out a crotchedy nose at the whipperschnappers. It is the rare dog who entices her to play and, until then, she is content to perch atop a pile of purloined bones and beneath a blanket.

Get Off My Lawn!

Off to pick up an exciting freecycle item, top off the gas tank, and select an assortment of naughty, snowed-in-on-a-weekend delicacies.

Have a lovely weekend!

luxury

I do not have a big-screen television. I do not have a Dutch oven. My knives are significantly overdue for a sharpening. The former two are deliberate choices warranting their own posts and therapy sessions, the latter is just laziness.

So when a friend with a big-screen tee vee, a brand new cherry red Dutch oven, and a brand new set of fancy Japanese knives had to travel for business recently, I graciously offered to pop over her house for a few hours each night she was gone, you know, to make the place look lived-in and such.

"That's so kind, but I think I'll be ok. I don't want to put you out." she responded to my gracious, generous, wholly un-self-serving offer.

"Well...if you want someone to watch your television and break in your Dutch oven and knives, I'm happy to do so."

She thought about that for a moment, then decided that, why, yes, there has been a rash of break-ins a few blocks away and better safe than sorry.

Thus far, I've made a loaf of sourdough with fresh thyme, French onion soup, and homemade noodles with chicken and vegetables in a garlic broth...and watched entirely too much "I'm Pregnant and..." and "Teen Mom."

ah, luxury.

***
Usefulness of the day: The next time you make bread, cut a deep X in the dough, drizzle with evoo and fresh herbs, and bake in a Dutch oven. You will not regret it. Thank you.

1. I'm messy. Really, really messy. I do ok until something happens - usually a mad search for a specific article of clothing - and then it is Hurricane Allison. I lose it. All I want to do it tiptoe around the piles of stuff, crawl into the one free chair, curl up, and suck my thumb. I am still suffering from C.H.A.O.S., big time. (That's Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). People are always suprised to learn this as I have lovely modified Type A personality, a sterile and totally organized work area, and a penchant for cleaning and organizing other people's environments. I'm tempted to find My Root for this problem, partially because I'm a "why" person and partially because all that Rootin' around will let me avoid cleaning for a little while longer...

2. I am embarrassed and a little ashamed to say that I have developed a strong addiction to the ridiculousness that is Jersey Shore. Thank you, Hulu, for such fine programming available at my convenience. Snooki and I are actually quite similar: short, long dark hair...well, that's where the similarities end, actually. I'd still like to have a little pet Snooki, though.

3. If I ever have a girl, she's being homeschooled until age 40. Boys will throw down and get over it. Girls are a million times worse.

4. I watched Julie & Julia around Christmas. I had no clue Julia was such an interesting person with such an interesting life! I bet we would have been good friends. A very dear friend of mine also watched the movie and also felt the same way. While I wish I had that wonderful, warbly voice and leave it at that - I don't much care for French food or butter - my friend is obsessed with (1) learning to de-bone a duck and (2) making beef borgonone. Neither of us is quite sure how to pronounce the latter, but I do love pot roast...which is saying a little something something as I rarely eat meat. I had the great joy of helping her select a large dutch oven last night and will hopefully have the great joy of trying out a special bread recipe in it!

5. Speaking of foodery, I've been making dog food from scratch for about a month and rather enjoying it. It all started when I ran out of their food over the holidays and didn't feel like driving in the cold weather uphill both ways in the snow to the only pet store in a 20-mile radius that sells our brand. The plus is that I know they're eating well. The minus is that they love it so much that I caught Jack trying to open up the fridge.

6. Coco'nut had a birthday. Like Jack, she is also ten years old. She spends most of the winter miserable and huddled under a blanket, but I did pull her out for a play date.


7. Hope your week is off to a good start!

If I'm not around for a little while, it's because I have a few housekeeping matters to attend to.

Picture credits.

OFV #1

I thought I would start off the OFV series chronologically...

I packed up the car on Christmas Eve morning and set off for Boston en route to New Hampshire with one very happy furry traveler. We were doing great. I was singing my heart and lungs out to my supercool travel compilation and Jack was loving a week without a single minpin in sight. Somewhere in Connecticut, I pulled over to stretch, get a cold beverage, and use the facilities.

The gas station at the rest stop had only single bathrooms, and, as always, the ladies line wound around the chips and candy and hot dogs and the men's line...well, there was no men's line. And I really, really, really had to pee. So there was a choice: risk potentially fatal damage to my kidneys, risk a "clean up on aisle 2," or just do what I did.

Obviously, I would never enter a non-single men's room. But a single? It is the exact same bathroom with different icons on the front door. And, when you gotta go and it is Christmas Eve and you gotta go and you have family waiting and you gotta G-O, you don't particularly care which icon has a skirt.

I did my thing. I exited. And I got spat upon by the Hasid in a one-person queue for the men's stall.

Spat. Upon.

It missed. But that is irrelevant.

Now, I spend quite a lot of time with a whole bunch of Conservative Jews with very specific opinions on American Hasids: their theology, their blatant unrepentant exploitation of the welfare system...their utterly ungodly and unnecesary meanness to non-Hasids. So I wasn't confused that a purportedly religious person would do...that. Confused, no. Pissed (pun intended), yes.

But I can guarantee you this: I left that fella with zero confusion about how I felt about his actions.

The advantage of hanging out with Jews is that, along the way, you tend to pick up a little Hebew - the stuff sung at Shabbat and the stuff relating to one's degree of marital prowess in relation to the size of one's...prowess.

Ahem.

Not that I would ever let a few choice phrases fly on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Not when I was feeling Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men and such. Never.

I'm a firm believer that, when met with something utterly reprehensible, a less-than-mannerly response is usually - but not always - a poor, poor choice. Something about "stooping" and "levels" and such. But want to experience the exception to my rule? Use the word "retarded" in the wrong way. Use the word "faggot" in the wrong way. Or aim a wad of spit at my head.

Clearly, an auspicious start to the holiday weekend.

I walked back to my car, shaking mostly because I was angrier than I have ever been in my life but also because I was famished and wasn't about to go back into that station for a stale egg-n-cheese. It wasn't until I walked out of the rest stop and into the parking lot that the fact that someone spat at me hit me. Suddenly, I wasn't so angry. I was hurt - that kind of hurt that knocks the breath right out of your lungs and kicks you, hard, in the gut and tickles your eyes into flooding your face with those terrible hot salty tears and generally threatens to reduce you to a red-faced sniffly snotty thing for the next 6 hours.

Back in my car, Jack gave me a sad, mournful look of, "I don't know what just happened, but you're sad and I want to make you happy." He tried to squeeze himself over the center console but instead rested his big ol' block head on my shoulder and snuffled his sweet wet nose through my hair. As luck would have it, the loser who missed the day in kindergarden when we learn to keep our bodily fluids to ourselves parked next to me.

Now, Jack is a Lab, which means he loves everyone, and I have no explanation for what happened next. Among his multiple different types of barks - the "I need water" bark, the "pay attention to meeeeeeee!" bark, etc. - he has what I call his "big boy" bark. I've only heard it twice in my life - when it sounded like the house was getting broken into at 2am - and nearly peed my pants and had a heart attack. Simultaneously. There is no baring of teeth, no raised fur, no menancing attack posture - just a scarily calm warning that someone Means Business.

I heard it for the third time that day.

So did Mr. Loser. And he heard it at the precise moment that Mr. Loser's foot hit a patch of ice, which he didn't notice because the "I mean business" boy in my backseat, um, distracted him. He slipped, causing the body attached to the food to land first on his sorry rear end and then, as he tried to stand and steady himself, back down again.

I guess that's what we call "comedic timing" or something.

And I swear that I can't make this up, but...I promise that by now Jack had a big evil dopey grin on his face. Seriously.

I've said it before, and I say it nearly every day, and I will say it again: the dog is far too smart for his own good. But, when he isn't laughing at my child-proofed cabinets or popping the bread out of the toaster or ...when he isn't doing any of that, sometimes he actually earns his kibble.

I forced myself to resist the temptation to run out and help the man up and hand him a business card . But because I'm a nice person, I paused to be sure Mr. Loser only suffered a bruised rump before driving away.

Hopefully a bruised conscience, too.

But I'm not holding my breath.

we're back

This guy is, hands down, the best traveler ever. He should totally be confined behind a gate in my trunk, but traumatic memories of an unfortunate incident involving his tail and the trunk door linger. No matter. He settles right into the rear seat and stares out the window. And, here, gently rests his weary traveler's head as we are at a standstill on the Mass Pike on Christmas Eve afternoon. (You didn't think I'd start snapping cell phone photos while moving, did you?)

Being such a good boy and traveling 1000 miles through six states and back in less than a week is exhausting. So is dealing with those with whom we graced with our presence visited. After inching through a snowy Connecticut and sitting for an hour on the Garden State Parkway today, we are home. A big pot of my latest addiction - bok choy, celery, and water chestnut soup - is simmering away as the washer, dryer, and dishwasher do their respective duties with their respective faint white noises. I finally, finally, finally lugged back most of my books from my parents' house this trip, and have a ton of organizing* to do tomorrow. And, well, because my books are dear and close to my heart, a similar amount of reminiscing as well.

But that can wait.

For now, I am snuggled in fleece and down, sipping tea, and looking forward to watching a little television before an early bedtime. Such a nice warm cozy end to an interesting weekend.



* Is anyone else so particular about organizing books as I am? I feel just dreadfully out of sorts if Novel With Cocaine, Frankenstein, The Stranger, and The First Man are not snuggled in together or if my dear Tess is on the same shelf as The Razor's Edge...please tell me I'm not the only one.

snowed in

As of this morning, we have two feet of snow. Drifting snow added a third foot to the snow around and on top of my car. Fortunately, I have a friend staying with me who decided to wake up extra early and burn off last night's calories by digging out my car and driveway! Sweet, smart girl. We both grew up in Arctic Frozen Tundras and thus know how to appropriately prepare for a snow day. Bread and milk? Pffft. That's what the amateurs do. How about herbalicious crackers, brie, and Ketel One? Oooh, and plenty of trashy television you're too embarassed to admit you enjoy?

It's just a little too much snow for me. Even Jack, who was ecstatic over the first foot, was decidely less enthused about doing his business in all that powder. Pansy. Coco gives me pathetic, heart-rending Big Eyes when I plop her keister outside. The roads are a mess as the entire Mid-Atlantic region eschews plows. Seriously. I'm at a total loss to explain this. All I know is that I lived in central NY state for a year, perched on top of a steep hill...and never missed a single day. Not even when it snowed in May.

I also miss living smack dab in the middle of the city...right now I'm about 5-10 minutes away. 10 minutes on a clear day, that is. I wanted to be sure the apartments were shoveled out and had to venture out. Fortunately, I actually know how to drive in the snow. Slow down. No driving on unplowed roads unless you know your car can clear it. Clear off the vehicle's roof. Slow down. No passing unless absolutely necessary. Slow down. Little lessons someone neglected to teach Philly drivers. I mean, where the heck do these people think they're going at 11am on a Sunday? And do they really think I'm just stopped because I'm, you know, hanging out, and not because, oh, the guy in front of me is stalled because he took his tiny little sedan for a spin?

Unfortunately, one has to be exceedingly polite when there is a not-insignificant statistical likelihood that the driver honking at you (1) carries and (2) has a temper. I'm all for (1), but (1) + (2)? No, no.

In the meantime, I haven't sent out a single card. The number of wipe-outs (and number of sexxxy bruises on my frostbitten rear end) corresponds to the number of inches of snow. My floors are a mess of muddy paw prints, which I'd like to blame on a certain dog who chewed up my mop but can't because I'm not planning on mopping until the snow is melted. I want to see Avatar. I miss that intense heat I was probably cursing three months ago. I just watched Gracie's Choice and depleting my stash of Kleenex. Darn you, Lifetime!

What I've been up to lately...

I got sick.
I hate being sick. It is so rare for me to ever feel even the slightest bit off, so a little sniffle turns me into a tantrum-throwing big baby. I was been sniffling and throwing pity parties and sniffling for a full two weeks. Me? Sick?

Went to the grocery store and threw a whole mess of lotions and potions and pills into my basket. I came upon the "unstuff my head before I hack it off" aisle and targeted the Sudafed. The problem with a sick me is that I can't take the majority of cold/cough/flu medications as they contain ingredients that induce most unpleasant hallucinations. Not Sudafed, though. I noticed that "real" Sudafed can only be sold from behind the pharmacist's counter now, and, as we all know, that's where the good stuff is! Having not had any reason to purchase a decongestant in the past decade, I could not remember why one is now required to sign for real Sudafed and limited to a set number of purchases each month.

I learned about meth.
Ah, that's it: meth. Now, I'm a very curious person. Many things fascinate me, and many, many more attract my curiousity. I've long accepted that the fact that I query "how?" or "why?" instead of "ewwww!" to just about anything is a bit unusual. Evidently, meth uses real, honest Sudafed as a base for the drug. Now, most people would wonder why someone would choose to ingest a subtance, but I...well, I wonder how the heck someone decided that cooking up chemicals X, Y, and Z would produce a far out high, man.

I also wonder how someone learned that coffee berries ingested, digested, and execreted by a cat makes for the world's best cup of coffee. But that is a story for another day.

Plant-based drugs - pot, hashish, opium, cocaine - those all make sense to me. Find a plant, maybe dry it out or crush it or something - then get it into your body. Sensible. Logical.

But whisking up a brew of cold medicine, nail polish, alcohol, gasoline, drain cleaner, ether, fertilizer, salt, battery acid, and hydrogen peroxide?

I would love to meet the inventor of meth just so I learn how he did it and why. I am tempted to think of the inventor as sort of an Ikea designer. Ikea designers say, "we need a table that costs $35." The design doesn't happen until after the price is set. Cost is the constraint. I suspect that the local CVS was this inventor's constraint. "We need a fun drug that only contains items sold by CVS." Or something.

I just want to know what the inventor's thought process was. That's all.

I imagine he's six feet under, though. Meth will do that to ya.

I got better, then un-better.

Finally, I felt better. I woke up and had zero need for anything beginning with "thera" or "suda." Then I tripped over my feet and slammed my head into the bathtub. The result? My teeth did not go through my lower lip, but I was left with a painful heckuva "that's gonna leave a mark."

It's a good thing my parents did not name me Grace.

Or Chastity, for that matter.

Kidding.

I learned how quickly lips heal.

Day 1 I really couldn't be seen in public...or eat or talk. Day 2 I was fit for a late-night drive-though smoothie. By Day 3, though, I was willing to run basic, familiar errands where I would only see clecks who would make fun of me...not ask whether I felt Safe At Home.

I want that lip-filler surgery.

If I blurred my eyes such that the teeth marks were barely visible, I rather liked the stung-by-a-whole-hive-o-angry-angry-bees look. That look is rapidly deflating - see above - and if I didn't aready know how much swollen sexy lips hurt hurt hurt, I'd be tempted.

I have no clue what I am doing for Christmas, nor have I mailed out any cards or wrapped any gifts.

The plan was to do photo cards with me and the dogs, but the bathtub incident nixed that. With no time to go homemade, I picked up a box of surprisingly lovely cards and will get them in the mail on Saturday. I just hope the post office hasn't run out of Kwanzaa stamps like they did last year. I affix my cards with Kwanzaa stamps so that the secular, Christian, and Jewish recipients won't get offended by the Virgin, dreidel, or Santa, respectively, on the envelope...after a few snippy comments from offended secularists, Christians, and Jews, two years ago, I went Kwanzaa half in protest, half in jest...and haven't heard a peep since.

Because that's what you do when you receive a card wishing you and yours well...you phone the well-wisher and get snippy.

I guess that's my issue, not yours.

Unless you're a snippy sort of secularist, Christian, or Jew...in which case, you totally have issues.

I watched the news and regretted it.

Which is why I don't watch the news. Tiger Woods? Idiot, idiot, idiot and I can't begin to imagine the pain he has caused. That photoshopped holiday card showing Elin with a golf club and Tiger with multiple facial injuries? Offensive and disgusting. Jersey Shore? Haven't seen it. Have never been to the Jersey Shore. Have zero desire to do either. That story about the child being suspended for drawing Jesus? Um, not exactly.

I'm getting everyone else fat.

I'm baking. A lot. Chocolate cookies dipped in crushed candy canes? Check. Cinnamon rolls with extra extra icing? Check. Salted truffles? Check.

I'm going to see Little Shop of Horrors soon.

This and Rocky Horror Picture Show are my absolute favorites...but the man-eating plant wins. I do so love The Nutcracker, but I could not entice a single friend into a night at the ballet.

Feed me Seymour, feed me!

What have you been up to?

Ok, so I have a few not-yet-completed drafts on frugality in travel, clothing, pet care etc. but it has been a very hectic few days of deciding to change my Thanksgiving plans, arranging for dog care, scrubbing my house so my dog sitter doesn't realize think I'm a filthy slob, packing in secret so the dogs don't see the luggage, making my train, and...I'm tired and my brain is fuzzy. The tired, fuzzy feeling may or may not be related to the fact that last night I ate lots and lots of the best Indian food I have ever had and/or the fact that I got talked out of water with lemon and into a vodka and soda. Or two.

But I'm going somewhere so exciting today, and I think the camera can come along. It's wet. It's a little geeky. And some of the stuff there could kill you 'til you die with venom or teeth, some of it will do it with utter ridiculous heart-melting cuteness. Any guesses?

On Thursday, I get to hold a baby girl. I may or may not return her to her parents.

Then somewhere nice and tranquil on Friday. Ever see that Simpson's episode where Marge and Homer go to a fancypants gala and Marge makes Homer promise he will stay away from the donkey because Homer + donkey = trouble?

I have a donkey. And poor impulse control.

I have a dear, lovely, kind-hearted friend with just a bit of a devious streak. Nothing malicious. She and her equally dear, lovely, kind-hearted sister have a tradition of going to Black Friday and instigating. I'll leave the mechanics of it up to your imagination. One sister calls it "psychological research" and the other calls it "wicked fun."

I went one year. It was wicked fun. (Maybe not "in the holiday spirit," but, honestly? You're not going to find the Chrismahanukwanzaa spirit anywhere on Friday).

But then I couldn't help notice - because I have a pronounced fetish for safety, because my parents never let me learn how to ride a bike, because ambulance-chasing puts kibble in my puppies' bowls - that, in the past 3 or so years, Black Friday has become downright dangerous and even deadly.

The "donkey" invited me this year. I was tempted. So very, very tempted. But either due to increasing maturity or simple scaredy-catness, I had to decline. Fortunately, declining that invitation meant I could trek up to my parents' frozen artic tundra of a house for the weekend. (Please note that I did not say "frozen artic tundra of a state." This is directly relevent to an upcoming post on keeping home energy costs reasonable. Thank you).

So that is my week. I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving, wherever you are and however you recognize the day. At some point I'll teach you how to make holiday travel cheap and peaceful, how I feel about skinny jeans, and the best ways to work Fido into your budget.

And - because I have a pronounced fetish for safety, because my parents never let me learn how to ride a bike, because ambulance-chasing puts kibble in my puppies' bowls - please be safe. Be sure you have a working fire-extinguisher on hand and a few working smoke/carbon monoxide detectors. Don't do anything stupid. Don't drive if you are too tired or tipsy. Wash your hands. Never leave a candle unattended. Keep your critters away from splintery turkey bones, chocolate, onions, and raisins.

karma

I rent out several garages. Two of the tenants owe 5 months' rent, and I wrote each an as-kind-as-possible letter informing each that I padlocked their units and will remove the locks when they pay the balance. Never one to get all snippy and lawerly, I noted that I understand that the economy has hit most of us hard, that I myself have been unemployed for nearly a month, and that I am happy to work out a fair payment plan if a single lump payment would be a hardship given the upcoming holidays. I certainly don't want anyone to go without a turkey or heat or Christmahanukwanza, but those garages pay a decent chunk of this property's mortgage, and my savings are not unlimited.


I'm a super-nice landlord. I never charge a late fee. I return all phone calls promptly. Heck, I give every single tenant a Christmas gift because, I reason, a $15 gift card will keep most tenants happy and happy tenants tend to not jack up your property. That's ROI for ya. (The furry tenants, of course, get some homemade treats...and the furparents have always, without fail, vacated without so much as a single stray dog hair on the floor.)


The first guy was extremely apologetic and beyond embarrassed...he thought his son had been paying all along. I know that he received the letter at 10:36am on Wednesday and, around noon the same day, he dropped off a certified check at my mailbox. With a sizeable Starbucks gift card.


The second guy...


He signed for the letter at 4:31pm on Wednesday. Early Thursday morning, I went to the garages to remove the lock I put on the first guy's unit. I noticed that the lock on the second garage had been CUT and replaced with a NEW lock at some point on Wednesday.


Now, these garages are right behind the house I'm living in. I was home ALL day Wednesday. Jack ate a 24oz bottle of bubble bath Tuesday afternoon and spent all Tuesday night un-eating lavender-scented bubbles on my living room floor. Which was considerate of him. Anyway, I did not leave the house for even a moment on Wednesday because I wanted to keep an eye on his fluid levels. (My floors are fine. Jack is, too.)


There are two driveways on my property. The main one was blocked by my car. The rear driveway was also blocked ALL week - I let my neighbor's son park his car there as he was on vacation all week and didn't want to leave it on city streets for so long. Which means that this guy jumped my backyard fence on Wednesday night, cut off my lock, and replaced it.


On Thursday morning, I was chatting with my neighbor. He mentioned that the guy showed up around 6am Thursday and ORDERED my neighbor to move the car. My neighbor politely declined. (He has physical limitations that make getting into his son's high-off-the-ground truck impossible). The guy said, "I will be back at 7am on Friday, and your car better be gone." The guy also muttered a word directed at my neighbor's ethnicity which my neighbor's ethnic ears picked up. My neighbor mentioned this to me, and we had a good laugh. I also decided, just to be on the safe side, to file a police report for the cut lock. Not to press charges or anything, but just to have something on the record in the event anything happened later. The cop, neighbor, and I couldn't believe this guy's stupidity. Obviously, I knew where I would be at 7am.


The guy showed up right at 7am with a truck. I decided not to confront him - anyone crazy enough to cut off a lock is not worth 5 months' rent. I watched him from my bathroom window, and, when he left, I went to survey what, if anything, was left in the unit.


My neighbor and I were pleasantly surprised that a pallet of over 1000 large boxes remained - I planned to try and Craigslist the moving boxes for a few hundred bucks or at least get someone to haul them away for free.


Side note: moving boxes are expensive! You can get clean, free boxes from liquor stores, or hit up friends who work in offices or who work as drug reps.


The guy then returned for the boxes. He was NOT expecting to see me. I walked over and began lifting the boxes into his van. His jaw, at the point, was on ground.


"Bet you weren't expecting me. I'm going to help you," I said. "Here, let me do that." Silence. Cheerfully, I lifted stack after stack into his car, and tucked in the empty Dunkin' Donuts cup he left on the ground - my ground - for good measure. Total silence. Finally, as I shoved in the last stack, I looked him right in the eye and said, "You owe me $x. You owe me the lock you cut off the other night. But I'm not going to get it. You and I both know that. I'm not going to sue you and I'm not pressing charges. But I do need to tell you one thing: Karma is a bitch." I paused, then added, "you have a great day now."

Side note: I don't really believe in karma, but I do watch My Name is Earl. I don't care that it is a front for Scientology. It is a happy show with a happy, complete ending in 30 minutes. No dead bodies a la CSI. No rapes a la SVU. No vampires. No sex. Just a cute moral dilemma with a cute moral solution. If I wanted to deal with horrifically mangled bodies or souls destroyed by rape, I would have stayed at work, thank you very much.


As he got into his van and prepared to pull away, I motioned for him to roll down his window.


"You tell [his wife] that [my former colleage] says hi."


Silver-dollar eyes.

"Oh, and [current client of guy's business] says hi, too."

Silver-dollar eyes widened to [insert a larger such coin here.]


"Small world, I know," I remarked. And then he drove away.


This guy has a very unique first name. Think "MoonChild" or "Sandalwood" or "SunDancer." (Evidently, his hippie parents neglected to teach their little "Kozmik" about karma...). By chance, a few months ago a colleage overhead me leaving him a voicemail reminding him that he owed rent and we learned that my colleague is best friends with his wife. As in, their mothers grew up on the same block, my colleague has been BFFs with the guy's wife since toddlerhood, and my colleague and this guy are neighbors.

And THEN...this guy's business deals a lot with pharma sales reps. It just so happens that one of his biggest clients is a sales rep who - drumroll - is the owner of Jack's best two canine friends.


Such a small, small world.


I didn't really care about the back rent. Yes, money is good and I would have liked to have had it, but, at the end of the day, I'm not going to battle over it when the guy knows where I sleep at night. I was, however, furious about the $15 lock he cut. Furious. And I wasn't happy that he ordered around and insulted my neighbor, who not only looks like Gandhi, but acts like him, too.


So while I have zero expectations of getting any money, I do know that this guy will probably feel guilty and/or like a big ol' loser every time he sees his neighbor (my former colleage) or his biggest client (my friend). Even better, his business just moved right next to my cobbler. They share a small parking lot. I see my sweet cobbler about once a month - YOU try walking on cobblestone and gravel in pointy heels! - and I can only imagine that the sight of my car in his lot will make him feel guilty. Or wonder when karma is smack him upside the head. Bwahahaha.

Sing it with me: It's a smaaaaaaaaall world after all...

And while it is decidedly wrong for me to feel a teeny bit of glee knowing that he will feel like a big guilty loser whenever he sees my car...I can't help it. I am praying that if there is a reason he was unable to pay the rent - downturn in business, health care bills, etc. - that his finances/health/etc. improve. So...see? When I'm not making beaver jokes, talking about sexxx as I share particularly yummy recipe, or insinuating that your mother is fast, cheap, and easy...I can actually have break-through moments of capital-M Maturity.


At the very least, he got a belated Halloween scare.