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.

argh.

This has happened at least a dozen times over the past five years. And I don't get it.

We - me, Jack, Coco - will be walking in the city. Lots of people like to stop and say hi. We like that! But a few people feel compelled to insinuate that I am making some kind of a social comment by having a big handsome fit white boy and a little, so-ugly-she-is-cute, not very fit*, black girl. One an expensive breeder purchase, one a $30 rescue dog. "What, you'll pay for a white dog but not a black dog?! Huh? Huh?" One happy and confident and lovin' life and one who isn't quite sure about life...but she will bark at it.

We're just on a walk, people! No one is "oppressing" anyone else. I judiciously avoid try very hard to avoid giving unsolicited social commentary...and I don't even know how I could use the dogs to illustrate issues on which I would opine.

The worst was Coco's Halloween costume...that one got me cussed at.

At a very crowded fundraiser for a shelter. With as many children at the party as dogs! Who does that?

I would point out that it has always been someone of a specific race and gender making these not-too-kind comments. But specifying that race and gender would, I'm sure, strike some as sexi-racist. Raci-sexist. Nothing sexi about racism!

People are ridiculous. Entirely too much "that offends me as a X" and entirely not enough common sense or manners.

Will adding a black-and-white pup next make it all better? Because Harlequin Great Danes make me smile.

* She came to me at 30lbs! Minpins are supposed to weigh 8-10. She is down to 15, so don't yell at me for having a fat dog :)

Photo from Mid-Atlantic Great Dane Rescue League.

***

Usefulness of the day: Do not put your actual home address as "home" in your GPS. Use the address of a nearby business instead. If your GPS is stolen, do you really want the thief knowing where you sleep at night?

monday!

I woke up sick. I'm blaming it on last night's dinner...tasted just fine but evidently was not fine. And because I have no cartiledge left in my knees - another story - changes in weather pressure bring not only rain but also this intense deep dull pain. And because I listened to too much Jimi Hendrix as a child, I practically have a panic attack when I get sick. So I'm curled up on the bathroom floor, alternatively retching and whimpering in pain and trying not to panic while kicking myself for not having anything but condiments in the house - literally, I have dog food, vinegar, Bragg's, and nothing else. Knock knock knock on the door. I figured it must be important because no one knocks on your front door at 6am unless something is seriously amiss. Fabulous.

It was my downstairs tenant. Apparently the two units are sound-proofed from each other except when one alternates retching and whimpering directly on top of the vent. He handed over a box of Saltines and asked if there would be any pitter-pattering; I told him that would be one heck of an immaculate conception and, in any case, that the very good Lord put a nice, Saltine-possessing guy below the vent right when I was on top of it was miracle enough.

With Saltines and a gallon of Pepto in my belly, I made my way to the car for some errands. Suddenly, I didn't feel so well...

Late last night, I popped over a friend's house for ten minutes. As I was backing up, I (thought) I hit an iced-over snowbank. I panicked, prayed that there was no damage and there was not - the bumper was perfect. It was dark, but I ran my hand over and felt nothing. There was a car parked several yards away from the snowback, and I did give it a thorough once-over just to reassure myself that I hit snow, not car. Then this morning, I noticed a dent on the rear side of the car, above the tire. Great. Not that bad, but definitely a few hundred smackaroos. Upon closer inspection, I saw a smear of mustard-colored paint. The same mustard color of Friend's neighbor's car which is usually parked on the street, to the the rear of where I typically park when I visit.

I couldn't tell if the thudding in my chest cavity was a heart attack or the sound of police footsteps on my stairs, coming to arrest me for a hit-and-run. And yank away my law license as the Board takes a rather dim view of law-breaking lawyers.

Frantic, I called Friend and poured out phrases like "be over in 10" and "I have to file a police report" and "I can't believe I hit your neighbor." She told me to calm down and informed me that she couldn't see any damage to his car and to hold off doing anything. Driving up, I saw that his car was a very old Pontiac - the sort of tank you couldn't damage if you tried. I began to relax a little, then saw the handicap placard, the PBA sticker, the "I'm a Vietnam vet" sticker. Crickey. I hit a disabled veteran who is a fan of the police.

I went over with Friend and a bottle of wine, prepared for the worst.

The man practically apologized for owning a car. We looked at his damage - a very tiny, shallow dent - and he said that if I hadn't knocked on his door, he would have assumed someone nicked him in a parking lot if he noticed it at all. All three of us were confused as to how, exactly, I managed to hit his car given the location of the dents, and the nice man actually said it was physically impossible for it to have been me until I pointed out that I haven't been around any other mustard-yellow vehicles. In any case, he restores cars as a hobby and told me it would be no more than $50 in a special vintage paint and sealant...no labor, because he would take care of it himself. He again apologized profusely for basically being a person with a car, asked me for a stack of business cards because he wanted to help out an unemployed lawyer, apologized for not having a driveway in which to park his car, gave me the names of several quality mechanics to mend my car and instructed me to call him if the quotes seemed too high. And then said he was really sorry that his car needed a special vintage paint but way sorrier than my car clearly bore the brunt of the damage.

We got to talking. We once both belonged to the same gun range. Both can trace our roots to pre-Revolutionary War America. We both garden. One of us has two greenhouses in his backyard and excess tomatoes, the other wishes she did and just loves homegrown tomatoes. Through his interest in cars, he knew of my sister's Godfather who lives 400 miles away. Through my interest in suing people, I knew of his wife who does free-lance court reporting. He told me where to buy cheap ammunition. I told him how to have a home office without asking for an audit. I just happened to have an iTunes gift card in my wallet, recently won at my eye doctor's office, but don't own an iPod. His wife's car just happened to get broken into last month and the iPod stolen. And so on.

We are all still unsure that I actually hit his car. I have a rear-view camera and didn't see the car, two engineers and a lawyer well-versed in accident reconstruction couldn't match up the locations of the damage, and after I heard the crunch I was several yards from his car and two inches from a crunchy snowbank.

But you know what? We're all rather pleased that mustard smear found its way to my bumper. Friend - new in town - got to know her neighbor and I think I have a new - if unlikely - friend.

OFV #3

OFV: Get me outta here!
OFV #1: When you gotta go...
OFV #2: Delusion

I don't like to see anyone needlessly suffer. I'm a helper and a giver. I'm a doer and a problem-solver, though I do know when to propose a Plan of Action...and when to listen, when to offer no more than a shoulder and tissues, and when to keep my mouth shut.

I struggle with the mouth-shutting part, but the very good Lord practically pries open my jaws and applies a generous amount of superglue whenever I am around my immediate family. And when I do speak, the tone miraculously comes out perpetually light, even, and calm.

The day after Chistmas, my father arranged to have my brother's tire and car looked at by a mechanic friend. All we had to do was remove the flat tire, put on a temporary donut, and get it to the mechanic's - a 15 minute drive - within 4 hours before he closed shop for the weekend.

Returning from a morning walk with Jack, I found my father running around the house in a mad panic, looking for a missing car jack. "Why not just call AAA?" I cheerfully asked as I filled a water bowl. He gave me such a pained, miserable Look that clearly said, "making a 2 minute phone call is infinitely more stressful than doing this myself." The Look was 0% "I'm a man; AAA is for pansies" and 100% "making life more difficult keeps my heart beating." I let it go. My mother suggested that my brother should help look, as it was his car. A string of expletives followed and my mother returned to her breakfast. I waited until my brother went outside to smoke, did an unsuccessful search of the basement, and asked my mother where else I should look.

Again, I'm a helpful sort of person. And, in any case, I'm pretty sure that helping someone look for a lost item is sorta kinda what family members ought to do.

She gave me an identical pained, miserable look and launched into a 5 minute lecure on how none of this was going to work, the mechanic was closing in 4 hours, and there was no decent solution in sight.

I waited until she was done, giggled and said, "Mom, I understand, but all I want to know is where I should look." Another 5 minute lecture that failed to produce an answer. I again made the wholly unreasonable suggestion of AAA and was promptly told to shut my mouth as I was stressing everyone even more.

Eventually, the jack was found and my father ordered everyone but my mother outside to help. Now, the car is a small Civic...but it was pointed nose-down on a steep driveway. We three childdren tried several times to lift up the front a few inches so my father could put up the jack, and the car barely moved. I said, "hey, Dad, if we can't lift it we can always call AAA." No response save for the kind of patronizing look you give a toddler who gifts you his favorite toy car when your real one gets totalled. My mother came out to help lift too, and though I kept myself calm and composed on the outside, I just about burst out laughing inside. Yeah, the strength of an 80lb woman is clearly going to make a difference.

Finally, finally, finally, and with a pained, miserable look my father decided that maybe AAA isn't so entirely unreasonable after all. A tow truck arrived within 20 minutes. I ventured that as we didn't know that there wasn't damage to, say, the car's steering or suspension, perhaps we ought to have to car towed to the mechanic. I was thinking along the lines of safety, but my mother's snappish response made it crystal clear she thought I was thinking more along the lines of fouling up...something. I let it go.

Once the donut was on, my father went outside to start his car. The plan was to have my father and brother drive to the mechanic in separate cars just in case my brother's car had to stay at the mechanic's until the next week. My brother informed my mother that he simply had to get back to Boston and would get a new tire put on at another time. Now, the general rule with donuts is that they should not be driven more than 50 miles or over 50 mph or with anything heavy in the vehicle. They are designed to be get you to a mechanic, and that's it. Yes, we all know someone who drove for months on a donut, but that is really more of a very fortunate exception than the rule. My brother's plan was to drive about 200 miles on the highway with several hundred pounds of music equipment in the backseat and trunk. In the snow. I calmly noted that I wasn't entirely sure that was a safe idea. He blew up, my mother started screeching, and all but screeched to me, "see what you did now?"

In my head I retorted, "As much as I want his miserable, ungrateful self out of the house, I'd rather he not die." What came out was a calm, even "Ok."

Jack had been following all this insanity as one would a tennis match, by the way. I sighed and grabbed him for a quick bathroom break where I explained to him that I knew his ears hurt because mine did, too.

My brother and father had been gone no more than 2 minutes when my mother got a frantic phone call. Less than 1/2 mile from the driveway, my brother's car suddenly lurched to the side of the road. He was in a ditch and unable to get the car out. My father was ahead of him and hadn't noticed. My mother was panicking OMG OMG OMG and looked ready to faint or vomit, so I grabbed the phone from her. This conversation follows:

Me: Are you hurt?
Brother: None of your fucking business.
Me: How badly is the car damaged?
Brother: FUCK. YOU.
Me: Can you give me an idea of what position the car is in? Face down?
Brother: NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.
Me: Let's try again. How deep is the ditch?
Brother: FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU.
Me: Where exactly are you?
Brother: FU-
Me: Click.

My mother asked me all the same questions I had asked him. I told her I had hung up on him but that he had to be somewhere on the long private road connecting the neighborhood to the town street. I rounded up some kitty litter, two shovels, and put them in her car. I also told her that if his car suddenly lurched and pulled that there was something wrong with the car beyond the tire, and that I was getting AAA back on the phone. At no point did I ever think of saying "I told y'all so!" but, looking back, it would have been justified. She told me to just stay in the house as I was already causing more problems.

Fortunately, I figured out looooong ago that none of this should be taken personally. I find it all amusing. If I thought about it too much, I would find it capital-S Sad - the kind of Sad that hurts your heart more than a breakfast of butter washed down with bacon grease - which is why I avoid that kind of thinking. I curled up with Jack, giggled, called a friend who has actually witnessed my family in action several times, giggled, and eyed the liqour cabinet.

After a while, my father returned. My brother and mother were parked and waiting for AAA. At this point he mentioned that he doubted the tire blow-out story and said that whatever he hit must have done some damage to the steering and suspension as the"ditch" was a half-inch difference between the paved road and the dirt shoulder. Eventually, AAA came back and towed the car to the mechanic, who said there was some significant non-tire damage and he would give it a better look the following week. By now, it was late afternoon and my parents were exhausted.

I would be, too.

Sometimes, stress can't be avoided. Heck, life is stressful. My theory is that if life is already so serious and so stressful, why not try to make decisions that are reasonably calculated to minimize stress?

Allow me to illustrate.

This is me. Or, rather, these are the kind of decisions I strive to make:

And this is what my parents do. I try to go A-B, they go A'-B:

Again, I hate to see needless suffering. But I've come to the sad conclusion that some people thrive on chaos and stress and misery. They claim to hate it, but, subconsciously, it is all they know. And letting go of all you know - even if it is slowly killing you - is scary. Terrifying.

I proffer orange mocha frappucino. They see this:

It's insane. It's sad. But, at the end of day, as much as I want to solve problems, force-feed them Ativan, or shriek, "you people are crazy and you make everything ten times harder than it should be!" I've learned that people rarely change. It is usually not the case that they don't know how to change or that they don't know that change will benefit them, but rather that, deep down, they fear it.

Fear sucks.

OFV #2

OFV.
OFV #1.

A delusion is generally regarded by the psychiatric community as a false belief held so tightly that no amount of reason, illustration, education, or confrontation can convince the individual of its falsity. Most delusions are possible and plausible but quite unlikely to actually occur or exist. It is possible and plausable - but unlikely - for the CIA to tap one's phone lines, for one's spouse to be unfaithful, or for one's parent to secretly plotting one's murder. Even with verification that belief is false - a sweep of the phones, 24/7 surveillance of the spouse - the belief will not change.


My brother is delusional.

Yes, he still believes that he was fired from every single job because every single boss just hated him. And he still believes that he only failed his classes because every single teacher - in four different schools - conspired to make him miserable and/or hated him. But the primary delusion has always been that I have hated his guts forever and do everything possible to destroy any chance of happiness or success.

I've accepted that. To give him some credit, it is actually rather convenient for me and my family: I live more than 300 miles away, rarely visit, and limit visits to 3 days. (I love my family and I love them best from a distance.) The other possible targets would be my parents or my sister. He still lives with my parents and my sister lives 5 minutes away. It is peaceful for everyone to me to be delusion A#1. And I don't take it personally.

And, just to be clear, here is the reality: I have barely spoken a single word to my brother other than "nice to see you" when I arrive and depart and holiday greetings as appropriate for 10 years. I do not give self-help tips. Heck, I don't even offer to give advice because I know how it will be received. Offers to edit his school papers, introduce him to friends in the music industry (he is a musician), and to hang up flyers for his new band in my city all go through my mother. When I was younger, I had no clue why he hated me so much and I offered little peace offerings like cigarettes to a 15 year old and $20 if he made me a mix CD that I already had. I have spent more than 10 years wracking my brain, trying to figure out just what exactly I did. My parents have no clue either. I've just accepted that sometimes some people do irrational things, and that you can't take that kind of stuff personally.

My mother, sister, and I drove up to their vacation home 2 hours north on Christmas Eve with my brother to drive up later and my father early on Christmas Morning. My brother arrived
very late on Christmas Eve when the rest of us were sleeping with a flat tire. He later claimed it blew out just as he approached the entrance to the neighborhood. I took one look at the tire before he got up and thought to myself, "that looks more like he hit something, hard." I kept quiet and, in any case, I wasn't certain. Just to be clear, I don't think there is anything wrong or bad about hitting something - I went through 4 bumpers in 1 year because my, those telephone poles are sneaky! - but I was concerned about damage that would make the car dangerous to operate. Later I learned that my father had the exact same thought, noted tire tracks in fresh snow that veered off the road into a sharp curb-type stone thing, and only brought it up due to the risk the hit damaged more than just the tire. More on that to come...

Regardless of how it happened, I thanked God for giving him tire problems so close to the house. A blow-out on the highway, after all, is extremely dangerous - especially that night's icy highways. The vacation house is in a rural area, with iffy cell phone reception. When we were finally able to rouse him awake late Christmas Day, I remarked how lucky he was to have blown out so close to the house, how scary it must have been, and how he was a very good driver for keeping the car steady after it blew, and how he was a very very good driver for managing to not hit anything after it blew...unlike me, who likely would have panicked and spent the night in a ditch sucking my thumb. No passive-aggression, just a little admiration and self-depreciation.

"Fuck you. What the fuck do you know?"

Ah, the first "fuck you" of the visit. I briefly debated making a private drinking game of "fuck you" but realized that would put me in the hospital with a stomach pump before desert. Before the entree. Possibly before the appetizer, but certainly no earlier than the bottom of the bread basket. I think.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," I replied with a smile and in a calm, even tone.

"FUCK. YOU."

And I ducked my head behind a newspaper so my poor mother wouldn't see that I had a little something in my eye.

I quickly pulled myself together. And, once in bed, I wept. For my brother, who has been so sick for so long. For my parents, who have lived with him for so long that none of this particularly fazes them. And for the sad truth that none of this is going to change.

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.

oy effin' vey

I've only been here since Thursday night and I have already made several "please just let me vent" phone calls to friends.

Next time I visit, someone remind me to secretly videotape my family...I just need objective proof that I am not the crazy one.

My therapist is gonna need it.

I still have a dozen half-finished posts from that frugality series I started (and will re-start), but, trust me, the new "oy effin' vey" series will be far more interesting. There will be dog poop, a flat tire, and a whole lot of cussin'.

I hope you are all faring well. I'm presently home alone, curled up with a certain Lab, and enjoying the gorgeous, peaceful views of mountains and a frozen lake, wishing I had a human with me to witness this insanity and laugh about it.

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.

I *was* going to post another soup recipe today...

...but instead, let's talk about rape. Sorry.

There is a woman in PA accused of raping a man and, in the course of that alleged rape, burning his genitals with a curling iron.

Evidently, NBC10 finds an alleged rape involving a hot curling iron and the genitals amusing.

"We smell a Lifetime original with a Jerry Lewis theme song, "Great Balls of Fire."

Anyone laughing?

I had no idea that rape and torture was so funny. Or that it came with a theme song.

I'm off...

to take yet another bar exam. So I can (hopefully) be Esq. in 3 states.

While I am still in bar exam cram mode, I will kindly refrain from using such sexy phrases as "malignant heart," "holder in due course," "collateral estoppel," "real and personal defenses," "defeasible fee," and "long-arm statute."

I will not, however, refrain from making a whole bunch o' prayer requests...are you ready?

1. Please pray that I pass the exam. It is July 29 and 30 (Wed and Thurs).
1A. Please pray that I can focus and keep my anxiety levels down.
2. Please continue to pray for my dear friends, A. and S., that God would move S.'s heart back to A.
3. Please pray that my friends E. and K. find jobs soon.
4. Please pray that L.'s delivery (as in baby) goes well.

In other news...
Gardening
1. I think my cucumbers caught some disease. I harvested a half-dozen massive cucumbers, but the rest don't look so hot.
2. The tomatoes, in contrast, are starting to scare me. Right now, they're still green...but there are approximately 300 (seriously) large green ones with hundreds of little tomatoes coming in, too. And still growing! I don't know if the 14-ft support stakes will contain them.
3. My dear eggplants are doing quite well.
4. My green and banana peppers are also coming in, but the jalapeno plant is not.
5. I think the raspeberries are done for the season. I collected 4 gallons (from 6 plants), washed, and stashed in the freezer.
6. My attempt at corn was a fail.
7. The zucchinis keep flowering, but no fruit yet.

Kitchen adventures
I am cooking up a storm because I am s.t.r.e.s.s.e.d. Roommate is coming tomorrow and will stay in the house with Jack while I am away. I baked her 6 pizzas, a platter of fried green tomatoes, and this cake. Except my oven is broken, and I had to make it in the toaster oven in 2 batches, so...hello, layer cake. I did not follow PW's recipe exactly, and I'm glad I did not. I dumped 2 cups (instead of her 1 cup mashed) of prunes in the food processor with some water and maple syrup and a pinch of salt, then simmered it all down. This meant that I did not have to add any sugar to the batter. I added in a lot more allspice, cinnamon, and nutmeg, too. For the icing, I cut out some of the sugar with maple syrup and added in some allspice and cinnamon. This got good reviews last week when I made it for the office. Oh, and I'm dubbing it "spice cake" or "Christmas cake" instead of "prune cake."

Poor prunes. They get such a bad rap. I don't think the recent "dried plum" PR blitz fooled anyone, either.

Anxiety
I've been so insanely stressed and anxious that I can only keep down tomatoes and string cheese. Don't ask; I know tomatoes are acidic and I have no explanation. I made the mistake of trying toast the other night, and promptly regretted it. I know that no one enjoys throwing up, but - blame it on too much Jimi Hendrix or something - when I get sick I'm pretty sure I'm choke and die. Which means I bawl and nearly have a panic attack. When Roommate was around, she would give me a big hug and refrain from calling me crazy. Now that she's gone, I just have a dog who does everything possible to get in the way.

drama time

I do not seek out drama. Drama finds me, I promise...

Dog park drama
Dog parks tend to fall into a regular routine. The dog walkers take their charges to romp weekday afternoons and office workers predominate in the early evening. We regulars tend to know all the dogs and respect all the rules. Weekends, however, are a free-for-all. This is when the interesting stuff starts.

There's the woman who brings her ill-tempered snooty show dogs and gets upset when people suggest that her dogs are not social enough to belong in the park. They're both nasty, snippy creatures. Perhaps if Miss Show Dog spent more time disciplining her dogs instead of combing their fur we would not have a problem. I incurred Miss Show Dog's wrath last year when I asked what breeds they are - evidently, they're a very rare (non-AKC recognized) breed that, frankly, looks like a good ol' American mutt. Miss Show Dog and I also have issues because she brings her girl dogs into the park while they are in heat. This means that those of us with male dogs must either leave or spend the entire time hauling our boys off the little trollops. We're so sick of Miss Show Dog that a few of us just decided to let our boys do what they please. Don't worry, I gave Jack the safe sex lecture: Miss Show Dog's hussies are the Paris Hiltons of the dog world, I'm sure.

We also have certain people who bring in their unneutered and totally untrained pits (sorry, but the worst owners almost always seem to have pits), then flip out and accuse everyone of harboring an anti-pit bias. At this point I usually look at the dog's fierce-looking choke collar and "boyish accessories" and remark about what things certain people compensate for in their dogs. Same thing as the men who speed through a school zone in their flashy lipstick-red sportcars with rap music blaring from the robust sound system. The owners with these dogs are almost always the same owners who smoke and eat in the dog park (both prohibited) and litter the grounds with cigarette butts and food wrappers. Whiskey Tango, indeed.

And when snooty Miss Show Dog with her snooty super-special show dogs and chain-smoking Miss Whiskey Tango with her hyper-testosteronated pit find themselves together...drama! Hair-pulling drama. It was insane. There was a big clump of a blond hair extension on the ground. How ick.

I found myself less shocked by the spectacle and more offended that they would expose the other dogs to foul language and angry voices - some of these dogs were abused, you know - which probably marks my official entrance into the Crazy Dog People Club.

Crafts store drama
Later this afternoon I went to Michael's for some paper with Friend. Two men started fighting over a silk flower arrangement. Let's ignore the fact that two men were fighting over fake flowers for a moment. It nearly came to blows. Though one man spoke with a very heavy French accent, and the other in a very broken English, "I want it and you can't have it" comes across loud and clear, regardless of our native tongues. The poor flustered grandmotherly staffers were just trying to keep order. I very much doubt that "what to do when two grown men tussle over a silk flower arrangement" is in the training manual at a crafts store. Friend told me to duck into the nearest aisle and stay there. "Two men fighting over silk flowers probably aren't carrying firearms," I joked. "People are crazy, and this is the city" she responded. Duly noted. So we spent 15 minutes in the doll aisle, amusing ourselves with various doll parts until Mr. Frenchy stormed off as only a French man in a jaunty red beret can. If you come across several head-and-torso boy dolls dressed like drag queens and Amish farmers, it was us.

I can't make up this stuff! "This is gold, Jerry, gold!"

After all this, Jack and his best friend - an extremely well-socialized and perfectly mannered pit - got together for a playdate. I think we all needed to have a relaxed evening before a Monday.

Jack's best friend. I love her ears.

A bottle subs in for ugly fake flowers in this Michael's re-enactment.

We all had an exhausting day.

***
Tip/trick/lesson of the day: coupon for free Dr. Pepper. Ladies, remember that carbonation leaches calcium from the bones, so keep carbonated beverages to a minimum.

Bathing beauties

I am a big believer in baths. (I'm pretty sure God is, too, with all the ritual cleansing and baptisms.) I spent a year in chilly Central New York, and the first thing I did when I came home was to collapse and warm up in a steamy bath. When I was studying for my bar exams, I listened to most of my PMBR lecture CDs while soaking. (It worked, though I still recite the rule against perpetuities in the tub!) And now, a bath in a darkened bathroom before bed is a welcome time of relaxation.

Bath tips:
1. Turn off the lights and light a candle or two.

2. Add some safflower oil to the water for a very inexpensive treat. A few drops of essential oil are nice, too, as are slices of lemon.

3. Have a beverage. I prefer ice water, but fruit juice, iced tea, beer, or wine are all good choices. If you plan on a very hot soak, avoid alcohol.

4. Consider some reading material or similar. I enjoy flipping through pretty photographs in catalogs or even playing Sudoku.

5. Consider music or radio. I alternate between Enya and NPR, depending on my mood.

6. Before you soak, toss your towel in the dryer for 20 minutes so it will be warm and cozy when you need it. If you have a radiator in the bathroom, drape the towel over it.

7. If you must be productive, invest in a speech-to-text program for your computer. I know I've done tons of writing in the tub! I suspect the steam coaxes brilliant thoughts from my brain.

8. If you have dry skin, post-bath time is the best time to moisturize. I prefer pure cocoa butter as most lotions contain alcohol, which is quite drying. A big tub of pure cocoa butter is only about $4, and really does the best job.

My dream bath:
1. A big free-standing tub in the center of the room. Modern design with clean lines. Preferably on a pedestal. Like this, but without the shower:



2. A television! I don't watch much television, but I recently stayed in a hotel room with its own big-screen in the bathroom. I miss it.

3. Radiant heating in the floors.

4. Enormous fluffy bath sheets.

Picture credit.
Picture credit.

***
Tip/trick/lesson of the day: Free sample of Metamucil.