I’ve managed to do this a few different times; stepping boldly on a hidden carpet tack, losing my balance and grabbing the branch of a rose bush to steady myself, and now I can add “thrusting my hand into a kitchen drawer and impaling the pad of my thumb on a corkscrew”.

Turns out?

Corkscrews have really sharp tips so that they can dig into things like bottle corks and tender body parts.

So yeah. I stabbed myself with a corkscrew. Lame. Lame. Lame.

Using a blog as a confessional for stupidity has its tradeoffs. On the one hand, I get to be a cautionary tale.

Hopefully my sadder but wiser moments will save someone else from inadvertently spilling their selection of Martha Stewart Living Latex Interior House Paint on their carpet. But if they happen to do so all the same, they can rest assured that quick action and a combination of water, Resolve carpet cleaner, nail polish remover, and a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser may save the day.

When I went out for lunch, I opened the door to my truck and the very strong and slightly fermented smell of old banana hit me square in the face.  It’s January.  I left it in the truck for 4 hours.  How the smell managed to get that strong in that short a time under those conditions is beyond me.  All the same.  Horrible banana smell.

The sad part?

I’ve done this to myself before.  I’ve parked a banana peel in my car in the middle of summer and trotted blythely off to work only to return 9 hours later and curse myself roundly.

I clearly learned NOTHING from the experience as I managed to do this to myself again.

But what’s even worse?

After I aired the truck out as I drove to pick up my lunch and returned to the parking garage, I trotted back to work without doing anything about the banana peel.  So at the end of the day I trot down to my truck, open the door and for the second time in less than 10 hours was subjected to a wave of fermented banana stink.

I almost (almost!) spaced it and left the peel in place when I got home, but remembered at the last second to remove it.  It sort of fell apart in my hand as I picked it up leaving me to conclude that Jell-o Jigglers have greater structural integrity than an 10 hour old banana peel.

But the absolute worst part of all is that I already know I’ll do it to myself again.  I can almost hear Future Me cursing on the other side of the space-time continuum.  

I call it an Alien Attack cause my child essentially does this;

wrapping himself around my head.

I hate it when he does that.

He was excited cause he had a buddy coming over in like 6 hours to spend the night.   His buddy is a good kid, well behaved and all that.  

But I have a confession to make: I don’t like other people’s children.  I mean, I do.  They’re all good kids and for a few hours I can happily deal with them.  But over the course of an evening?  It wears on me.   They try, and they have good manners, but they inevitably do things that grate on me. 

Whether it’s saying over and over (and over) in a falsetto voice “you look like a poopy-flavored lollipop” (ewwwww)

to announcing that they had a “pee malfunction” and while most of it hit the toilet, some of it landed on the bath mat – is that all right?,

to coughing/sneezing without making even the slightest attempt to cover their mouth,

 it just gets under my skin. 

Doubling the number of kids in the house somehow leads to three times the number of messes and four times the amount of noise. 

I’m sure my child does irritating things too.  Things that make other parents pass judgement on my own parenting style; thoughtless, gross, uncouth actions that horrify other adults.  But I’m used to my child.  He’s pretty cool. 

And what I really like?  Is how he seems to be irritated by the same stuff that bugs me.  The kid talking in a falsetto about poopy flavored lollipops? 

Got a curt “Dude. Cut it out.” 

Amen, amen child.

Amen, amen.

 ”What costume party?” 

“Oh good - I’m not the only one who didn’t know.  Tuesday night.  There’s a costume party.” 

“Maybe I don’t know about it cause I’m not invited and I don’t have to go?”  I said, hopefully. 

 ”Oh no.  We’re all going.” 

“To a costume party?” 

“More like a party with a theme.  That you have to dress up for.” 

“That’s a costume party.” 

“Yeah.”

Crud.

“Soooo.  What’s the theme?”

“Rock music eras.”

“Wow that’s random.  So you have to dress like a new waver or like a grunge scene person?”

“Yep.  I told the president of the company I’d drag JB out with me and we’d perform ‘Hungry Like The Wolf’.  He said he’d give us $500 if we actually did it.”

“Please tell me he then added, ‘Dance, Monkey!  Dance for my amusement!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!’ “

“No. But wow – you want to talk about having too much disposable income.  I’d've done it for free!”

On the one hand, I’m glad I found out about this whole costume party thing – after all it would be kind of awkward to fly out to this place and then have someone say “So, where’s your costume?”.  

On the other hand, crud. 

Cause here’s the thing – you don’t want to be that one person who goes waaaay overboard on the whole thing.  But at the same time, you have to show some company spirit.  If you don’t make a genuine effort, that has a negative impact too. 

God – it’s like something out of Office Space:

Look, we want you to express yourself, ok? If you think the bare minimum is enough, then ok. But some people choose to wear more and we encourage that, ok? You do want to express yourself, don’t you?

So I have to put some effort into it. 

But at the same time I have to be careful and choose something that won’t be a “career limiting move” like oh, 

pointy boob cup phase madonna.

Don’t get me wrong – that outfit would be freakin’ awesome and it’s tempting to just show up in it.  If I were a short timer and just didn’t give a f__k, that would totally be my first choice.

As it is, I’ve been spending some time thinking my options over. 

There’s 60′s hippie chick; also known as the first coming of the micro-mini skirt,

No.  Best not.

Then there’s 70′s disco lay-deee,

Oooh – waaaay too much cleavage.

Let’s see…80′s MTV girl,

No.

Mabye 90′s grunge queen?

Sigh.  You know what?  I hope I never have a job that mandates I wear fishnets. 

Let’s keep looking…

00′s raver,

Oh dear…Pass….

emo girl? (no), goth girl? (no), punk rock chick? (no)….

Yeah.  Not a single option is particularly work appropriate. 

It’s almost like there’s a reason they categorize clothing as either “business attire” or “casual wear”. 

Has nobody learned the lesson of what happens when you try to combine business (in the front) and party (in the back)???

It’s called a MULLET.

And mullets are nobody’s friend.

Anyway, I decided to cast about and see what other people had planned.   I trotted upstairs and found a buddy of mine who was more enthusiastic about having intestinal parasites than he was about this. 

(I kid you not – he went to some sushi place and came down with an actual case of intestinal parasites.  He had to stay home and telecommute to work for about 10 days until he could reliably spend more than 20 minutes away from a toilet.) 

His advice? “Don’t dork out and dress up.  You’ll make an ass of yourself.

Only KW and DR are going all out.  Nobody else will be.  Seriously.  Just wear a concert T-shirt and jeans.”

I think that may be a mistake.  I think if you’re on the team, you gotta show up and wear the uniform.

SO, I seriously considered dressing up like a member of KISS

But getting those boots through airport security may be a challenge.

I also think Elvis may be a viable option…

Although it stands to reason that someone else is going to come dressed as Elvis too.  And how embarrassing is that?  Then you have to act like you’re totally cool with the fact that someone else showed up wearing the same outfit.  HA HA HA HA HA – what are the odds?  HA HA HA HA!  Yeah.  That’s just too funny!  I don’t mind at all!!! No really!!!  I swear!!!!!

The best I’ve come up with so far that’s in the spirit of things, attractive, and still demure is: Poodle Skirt Girl.

Too bad they limited it to the era of rock. 

Had they allowed opera, I’d have gone all Wagner on their asses.

Maybe that’s the wrong approach – after all, narrowing the field to a certain “type” definitely lowers the odds of getting laid. 

Unless your type is “skank”….then the field is pretty wide open.

Other men don’t really have a type. 

Gwyneth Paltrow once described Ben Affleck’s perfect woman as ”Anyone that serves cold beer in a bikini.” 

Hey – a man’s gotta have priorities.

And he’s been with very different women:

I can’t really knock Ben’s approach judging from the outcome, but as I have a “type” I’m fascinated by the idea that some people don’t.  

Is it sort of like not having a preference for burgers or subs – either works just fine? 

If you don’t have a preference are you less satisfied with what you get than the person who really really wants a burger and gets one? Or are you more satisfied cause you’re generally easy to please? 

I suppose as long as you’re happy, asking if you could achieve higher quality happy seems sort of…ungrateful.  (Although anyone stuck in a relationship with Jennifer Lopez is totally encouraged to ask themselves whether they could be happier.  Hint: The answer is ”yes”)

“WHAT???!?”

“There are bloody footprints going across our back porch.”

This is how my husband opens a conversation I have with him while driving home the other day.   I had recently finished watching a miniseries about the zombie apocalypse and had an image of something human, yet less than human, staggering up to our porch, standing at the back door, peering through the window, looking for a reason to come in; a pair of bloody footprints left in its wake.

In fact, I had watched the entire Walking Dead series in a weekend over the holidays, and during a post-christmas drive from my mother’s house to my own, I quizzed my husband as to his readiness plans, should we need to survive the end of the world.  I suspect, for him, it was a long drive home.  

The plan?  Gather the camping equipment and guns and fly to the Louisiana swamps where the population of humans is low, and the abundance of edible wildlife is high.  He suspected that I’d not last very long, but I’d be able to distract the zombies long enough for him and our son to get away.  “Run baby!  They’re right behind you!!! Hurry Up!!!”

As I pondered practical things like, what if I was at work and miles away from home when the zombie outbreak occurred?  How would my family meet up?  I also took a moment to evaluate the chances of survival for my coworkers (dismally slim), and to  congratulate myself on owning a truck that was built to be taken off-road.  Much more sensible and way more likely to get me home than the sedans driven by so many of my coworkers. 

Which turned my thoughts to fortifying the house.  When we opted to pay an additional $1500 to build our house with the ”window package” floorplan, it not only afforded us that much more natural light due to the additional windows, it also made our house that much more vulnerable to zombie invasion.  Dammit.

As a practical matter, I needed to know more about these footprints.

“‘Uhm.  Ok….Are they human?”

“No – they look like animal.”

(whew!)

“And you’re sure it’s blood?”

“They’re red.”

“Is it a brownish red or is it more, say, Ladybug Red from the Martha Stewart Living Interior House Paint collection?”

“Now that you mention it, the latter.”

This is how I learned we have a vindictive raccoon dumpster diving our garbage.

The day before the footprints appeared, we had thrown away a paint tray liner and roller coated in Ladybug Red paint.  Now here’s the weird thing; the garbage can is a good way from the back porch.  Like far enough that a casual stroll from the garbage can to the back porch should have blotted most of the paint off of a raccoon’s feet.   It’s almost like the raccoon *knew* we were the ones responsible for getting its feet painty and purposely kept as much of that paint on its paws as possible so that it could deliberately leave the paint on our porch.  I refuse to chalk the incident up to mere coincidence.

Reflecting on our conversation, I was reminded that there are some sentences you never expect to either say or hear.  

“Don’t wipe boogers on my pants” comes to mind. 

And I hope I never, ever find something to top that.  But hearing someone say ”There are bloody footprints on our porch” is a healthy runner up.  I’d rank it above “Mom – my bottom itches -  will you take a look at it?”  and slightly behind “If you want to wear that spiderman costume you have to wear underwear - it has a hole in it and your penis is hanging out”.

What if I stopped? What if I decided to sell my house? (HA! – do people actually sell houses anymore? I mean, the may be made available for sale, but do they actually sell? It’s not happening in my neighborhood…) but for the sake of argument:

What if I sold my house, settled up my debts, paid off my truck and owed nothing to nobody?  What if I took that remaining chunk and lived off the grid somewhere?  I could live in a tiny cottage and gain simple country wisdom and sell handmade soap at the Farmer’s Market.  I could read a book while sitting in a rocking chair on my front porch, and feel the breeze cool me while I sipped iced tea.  And when I looked up from my book, I would see a pretty vista, look at my tomato patch to my little bee hive and think about how I need to turn my compost heap.  

I would not be buying new suits for a business trip I have to take next month.   Or figuring out how to effectively manage up.  Or doing things like enlisting people’s support for corporate initiatives that may be unpopular.  Or building fruitful working relationships with people I don’t like.  At all. 

People trying to google me would get no useful information.  I would have solitude and tranquility and peace.

So I turned to my husband and said, “what if we just left all of this and lived off the grid?” 

 “Ok.  Let’s do it!” 

“Seriously?  You’d be willing to do this?  Leave all this behind and live with me in a 1000 square foot cottage?” 

“Sure.  You do all the research and set it all up and I’ll do it with you.”  

“You don’t think I’d do it, do you?  You think I’m just talking – that I’d never actually follow through.  That’s why you’re being agreeable, isn’t it?” 

“Yep.” 

“Now really – I don’t want to do this work and come up with a plan and have you not follow through.  How do you really feel about that?” 

“You’d never make it.  I’ve lived off the grid before.  For months at a time.  No news.  No phone.  No showers.  Just living in the woods with no electricity or running water.”

“I was thinking we’d have showers.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah – not crazy primitive living.  I was thinking solar cells and a little windmill for electricity,maybe a generator - and a well for water.”

“Do you know how expensive solar cells are?”

“Well, we could live rural, but like be able to drive in to town for supplies.” 

“So you just want to live like a redneck.” 

“Not like rednecks – but did you know that you can convert a steel shipping container into a usable dwelling for very little money?” 



“In that case, we’ll need to blend in with the other nut jobs.  Let’s start growing our son’s hair into a mullet and teaching  him how to hate jews immediately.  If we withdraw him from soccer now, we can probably get a refund and put it toward a hunting rifle he can use instead.” 

“Ugh – don’t you want to just simplify your life?” 

“Living simple is a lot of back-breaking work and I know how much of it I’d have to do.  There is a reason things like central heat and remote control is considered a ’luxury’.  And I prefer to live in luxury ’cause it’s not a lot of hard work.  Do you really want to wash clothes by hand?   You don’t want to live simply – you’re just cheap!” 

“So, you don’t want to live off the grid?” 

“No.  I want us to have jobs and earn money and I want to be able to afford to send our son to a good college.” 

“Fine.” 

“What are you looking at?” 

“Eh, just browsing the web.”

“You’re looking up sights on  how to gain anonymity in a digital age?”

“Well, it *is* a little eerie seeing how much information there is about us out there.  I found a site where all you have to do is type in a person’s name and you’ll be able to see if they’re married, about what they make, a satellite image of where they live, how much their house cost, and if they have any hobbies!”

“Baby, I put up with a lot from you.  You are not an easy woman to live with, but I love you.  However, if you become a right-wing conspiracy theory wack job, I’m going to divorce you.  And you can find a man who lives in a camper and brings squirrels home for dinner.  You’d probably be a real prize – you’re an attractive woman.  Now I’m going to the gym.  Please make an effort to tidy up if you see a mess sitting around.”  At this, he gestures to the collection of breakfast plates he had gathered that he was taking to the dishwasher.  “You see!,” I pointed out, “if we lived simply, there wouldn’t BE so many messes to pick up!” 

“I mean it – I will divorce you.”

granted, Ken *is* wearing a flesh-colored athletic cup…..

why??? why???

is Barbie a ball kicking type????

(do take a moment to savor that pic – it’s truly priceless)

Me? Never had a Ken doll – my Barbie was stuck getting hitched to my big brother’s GI Joe doll with his scratchy beard – the souce of this hair (glued on at some Taiwanese factory) I don’t even care to think about…

I remember he’d lost an arm at the elbow too. And even as I was marrying Barbie to this guy, I knew she could do better….but with no other men in sight, my Barbie was forced to settle.

It happens. Lord knows, it happens…..

(photos largely courtesy of hotchickswithdouchebags.com)

(may have had something to do with my gaining 65 some pounds over the course of that pregnancy *cough* but for whatever reason, the mattress just gave out)

When I went for a replacement, I found out that the store that sold that sort of mattress had disappeared and I never found one like it again. Currently I have a super extra firm innerspring mattress (king sized) with a latex foam topper (I despise memory foam but love my latex – it’s v. different and wonderfully comfy). But my mattress is shot. I’d love to get a latex mattress but they’re hard to find and shockingly expensive and I worry that it’ll compress too quickly.

So I’m pondering air mattresses but as I’ve slept on air mattresses whilst camping, (those suck) I worry that I’ll not be happy with a select comfort type thing. I suppose I *could* go old school with a waterbed, but I remember sleeping on one once in the 80′s and the heater wasn’t keeping it warm enough and it was miserable.

(wow – that’s just really really horrid, isn’t it?)

Sigh. no idea which direction I’ll go in – I’m almost tempted to get a couple of couches as I *love* napping on a couch….but surely I can do better than that…?

And full of holiday spirit, I forced my child to watch Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas last night.

I had *such* awesome memories of that show when I was a kid and they played it on HBO at christmas time. In my memories the marionettes didn’t look so fake and I never noticed the strings and the songs didn’t seem so hokey back then.

*slump* It didn’t age well. Even the title graphics are just….cheesy.

Here I was thinking I was going to pass along this great childhood experience but OMG – Sean was bored to tears. After about 10 minutes he was looking at me with disgust, eyes narrowed the way he does when I assure him he’ll like whatever exotic side dish I’ve heaped on his plate and, after taking the tiniest of bites, he judges me a liar.

So after 10 minutes, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in disgust, he asked me if he could watch “something good instead”. I vehemently said “No! This is a really good story! Give it a chance!!”.

But…..

*lowers voice* It bored me too. I fell asleep on the couch. Sean woke me up seconds before the final credits rolled and said with real urgency in his voice “Ok – I’m done. Can I turn this off now?” *sigh* So much for that.

Point of the story is, if you had great memories of Emmet Otter – keep the memories – if you watch that show now, you’ll be a little bummed out. And trying to share it with your kids? Likely an effort in utter futility.

I decided then that, with 10 books in the series, I was gonna do 1 book/month and string it out over time. But then I had to wait until the next month.  I made it until 8pm on the 31st to crack open the second.  Finished it at 1:30am. And then I just gave in and went the next day to get the rest of the series along with Death; The High Cost of Living.

What was supposed to last me until next year was devoured in a week.

*Love* Gaiman. 

If it weren’t morally bankrupt, icky, wrong, and waaaay too much effort, I’d totally go Kathy Bates on him and hobble him and keep him in my house as my prisoner/ personal writer.

So I pointed that one out to Lisa and learned that she has an extreme aversion to roaches – which is weird since she’s had a pet scorpion before. But she was like – Roaches? I go mafia on them. I almost burned the house down when I was a teenager cause I saw a cockroach and decided to blowtorch him with a can of WD-40 and a lighter. I do *not* handle roaches well.

Sweet.

So a week or so later, I’m at the dollar store with my kiddo as he’s learned that his $5 allowance can go a long long way at that place and I see a big plastic cockroach.

And I absolutely couldn’t resist.

SO, I buy the roach and stick it on the mouthpiece of Lisa’s phone and I wait.

I’m freaking dying for her to pick up the phone. I’m trying to be subtle but I feel like when Spongebob and Patrick are just watching in anticipation:

And her phone, which always rings, has this loooooong dry spell.

*Finally* the phone rings – and I’m on the edge of my seat – and her hand goes out and….she picks up a freaking *headset*.

I’m like “do you always use the headset?”

“Yeah”

“ohgddammit – I stuck a fake roach on the mouthpiece of your phone and I’ve been dying for you to pick it up but nooooooo – you have to use a freaking headset – omg you suck.”

A look of horror crosses her face and Lisa gingerly picks up her phone. “Ohmygod. ohmy- that’s gross! you *know* i would have freaked out right? i mean, seriously. I would have knocked my computer off the table and shot my customer service survey to hell by screaming obscenities into the phone and – HEY!! Let’s stick this on *Mari’s* headset!”

LOL

Sigh. The roach fell off the headset – Mari found it in the morning on the floor and stuck it on the wall of her cubicle where continues to gross Lisa out.

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley….

(Ed. Note: last pic from passive aggressive notes – there’s a link on the right)

Yesterday I tried Pier 1, Hallmark, and Bed Bath & Beyond.  None of them panned out, but I did spend enough time in those stores to end up smelling like candles so it wasn’t all bad. 

Next I tried the Salvation Army thrift store.  Now here were some mugs.  Mugs that could give you street cred!  Mugs that would make people think you accomplished things! 

Did I want to pretend I went to New Mexico, CanCun, or Belize?  Did I want to mislead people into assuming I graduated from the University of Tennessee with a degree in Computer Science – or that I knew someone who did?  Perhaps I should have them think I drink Gevalia coffee,  or that I really *really* like cats!  

Ugh.  So very depressing.  I guess people rarely buy mugs to commemorate the cool things in life. 

(Oh – and the Biales family?  *Nobody* wants your engraved glassware with ”The Bailes’ ” on it)

So, I looked through my own cabinets.  I have mugs I like, but not mugs I want to live with on a daily basis.  As a joke my dad got my husband (who was born and raised in the deep south) a mug with the rebel flag and a civil war cannon that says “Southern By The Grace Of God”.   Yep – there it is – on the right.

I suspect that wouldn’t go over too well in the workplace.  Nor would the company mug I got while employed at a competing firm.  And the mug with a recipe for making Pralines on it is just hideous.  Honestly I bought it because I felt sorry for it. 

For now, I’ll use a plain white mug from Williams-Sonoma.  It has nice lines and won’t be missed – there are 5 more just like it in my kitchen cabinet. 

King Arthur’s men searched high and low for the Holy Grail.  I’m not looking for a chalice touched by Jesus.  All I need is a mug that makes me happy.  And yet….these quests for grails – never easy, are they?

The reason for the trip was that it was mom’s birthday, and come saturday morning before heading out of town, I was still empty-handed.  The only thing near my house that was open as I went in search of a last-minute gift was a Wal-Mart.  I hate Wal-Mart.  I’m just more of a Target shopper.  Seems like you’re either a Wal-Mart shopper or a Target shopper – few people have no preference.  Rednecks do that too – only they divide themselves by whether they drive Ford Trucks or Chevy Trucks.  You’re either one or the other – no middle ground.

But there I was.  In a Walmart the size of a small African town full of Hannah Montanna posters, crockpots, and Dallas Cowboys jerseys.  I had no idea where to start.

You see, my mom is impossible to buy for – not that she has everything, but she doesn’t want a lot of things she doesn’t have, if you know what I mean.  Last year I gave her a statue of a cigar smoking monkey in a captain’s uniform behind a ship’s wheel.  You know – classy. 

I knew I wouldn’t be able to top the monkey, so didn’t even try.  But I had to find *something* for the woman!  I made a beeline to the clearance section of the store – it’s where the coolest, most random stuff in the store is gonna be located.   

Lo and behold, the section did not fail me as I found a stash of:

*Canine Appetite Suppressants!*

YES!!!

And what’s even better than Canine Appetite Suppressants? Clearance Rack Canine Appetite Suppressants!!! I was in *heaven*.

Of course $4.52 worth of dog pills is kinda cheapskatey so I kept shopping.

In the end, I also got her a book and a carved soapstone box that I filled with chocolates that looked like river rocks (and tasted like giant M&Ms!).

No seriously – those are chocolate – how cool is that?

See?

So altogether, I think I did well.  And mom really liked the chocolates.

Later, I learned that the canine appetite suppressants were made out of liver and maltodextrin (a sugar) so I’m not entirely sure how they’ll benefit mom’s fatty fat pooches, but hey, candy for everyone! 

No wonder mom’ s always asking me to visit more often!

I don’t know why but the idea of Spite Houses really amused me.  Perhaps because I had a bad set of neighbors once and we engaged in Spite.

At the time we lived in a neighborhood that was constructed in the late 40′s, early 50′s.  The houses were charming, the trees were large, the insulation was nonexistant and the wiring was downright dangerous.  If we hadn’t had a kid, we’d probably still be there.  (It was a 1300 sq. ft. 2 bedroom 1 bath house.  In a place that cozy, if just 2 people live there, they better really like each other a lot cause they’re going to live on top of each other.  Add in an 3rd person, and suddenly the suburbs started looking mighty fine.)

The neighbors on one side of us were incredibly nice although they had an aggressive dog and a penchant for leaving dead vehicles in their driveway.  The neighbors on the other side?  Passive-aggressive.  Our first encounter with them came 3 days after they moved in.  We were playing music in the middle of the afternoon, and they left a note in our mailbox telling us to either “turn the music down or soundproof our house.”  My, my, my.  *That* went over well.

Anyway, there was a 3-foot high chain-link fence between our yards and while they were dog owners, they didn’t like our dogs.  The husband started to tease them and throw things at them.  He could get away with it if he was teasing our bulldog – her legs were only 6 inches long – she wasn’t going to hop the fence and rip out his throat.  Our doberman, on the other hand, could clear it if she wanted to.  Which is why I couldn’t fathom his deliberately baiting her.  I don’t know if the husband was just an idiot or if he didn’t realize that the fence was just 3 feet high since our houses were on a steep hill, and from his driveway, the top of the fence loomed about 6 feet off the ground.

In an effort to keep from having something horrible happen, we ripped out the chain link fence and installed a 6  foot solid wood privacy fence.  The neighbor went from having a relatively unobstructed view from his back yard and driveway to having a 9 foot wall towering over him. 

As we were constructing the fence one saturday afternoon, a police officer showed up in our back yard.

“I was called about a noise complaint.”

We looked puzzled.

“You’re operating power tools.”

Puzzled look continues.

“It’s disturbing the neighbors.”

“Are they saying we’re running the tools too late at night?”

“Uh. No. No. They called it in this afternoon.”

“They called you because we’re running power tools in the afternoon.  On a saturday……?”

“Yeah.  State law says any sound you make that can be heard in the neighboring yard can be grounds for filing a complaint.”

“So, they can call you if we’re in our back yard talking to each other?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.  You know why we’re running power tools?”

“No ma’am I don’t.”

“We’re putting up a 6 foot privacy fence.”

“That sounds like a good idea.  Listen, I came out here because I was required to but as long as you’re doing this during daylight hours, I’m not going to write you a ticket or ask you to stop.”

“Thanks.  We’re putting this fence up as fast as we can.”

“Sorry to have had to come by.  Y’all have a good rest of your day.”

“Thank you, officer.”

So the fence went up, the dog didn’t maul our neighbor and all was well.  Our Spite Fence turned out beautifully and we really enjoyed it.

Finally, the neighbors came up with a counter-attack.  They painted their house a pumpkin orange, and opted for a deep blue – the kind of blue you see on handicapped signs – for the trim.  It was obnoxious.  Bravo passive-aggressive neighbors.  Bravo.

Honestly, we both limited our interaction with each other and that worked very well.  He still threw things at our dogs and we didn’t beat the crap out of him (like he deserved).  We installed speakers on our porch and enjoyed jazz in the evenings (at a reasonable volume) and they didn’t call the police (like I’m sure they felt we deserved).  And life went on.

One fine day, I pulled into my driveway and noted a FOR SALE sign in their yard and for the first time since they moved in, I felt a surge of neighborly love for them both.

The friends I made have slipped and strayed,
And who’s the one that cares?
A trifling lot and best forgot-
And that’s my tale, and theirs.

Then if my friendships break and bend,
There’s little need to cry
The while I know that every foe
Is faithful till I die.

when he looks like this and is posing for a calendar…. 

All the same?

If we had plans to go to the beach together and he trotted down the stairs clad in a teeny speedo I’d be all

“you wearing that?”

and he’d say “yeah….why?”

and I’d say “oh. no reason.  I mean – if you’re comfortable with it, then that’s all that matters, right?”

and he’d say “you think I’m fat, don’t you?”

and I’d say “no! no no no no no!  Of course not! But.  Dude.  Come on.  It’s a speedo. “

and he’d say “nothing I do is ever good enough for you, is it?  you know, it’s not easy maintaining 8%  body fat.  I haven’t eaten a bacon double cheeseburger since 2007.  and all i want to do is wear a speedo.  it’s not like i haven’t earned it”

“i know that.  i do.  but.  ugh.  you don’t understand.  it’s just.  speedos are just really terrible.  i mean, really. terrible. but I respect you and i’m not one of those controlling women.  baby, if you want to wear a speedo, wear it.  it doesn’t detract from your obvious heterosexuality in the least.”

and he’ll say “well, thanks for respecting my preferences.  now, let’s hop on my vespa and hit the beach!”

and that’s when I’d realize that as well as he wears that speedo, if he insists on doing so whilst on a VESPA (the mazda miata of 2 wheeled transportation), he’s beyond any help I could give him and that it was time to move on.   

(Ed. Note: I swiped these from Crazy Days and Nights - go visit enty’s site for all the pics and for a fun gossip column!)

When I’m there I tend to limit my conversation to “Oh. Hi.”

For 2 reasons:

Anyone using a women’s restroom knows that you have to :

1. specifically seek out this dimly lit, poorly ventilated space and then
2. go into yet another room (the toilet stall) and shut the door.   

If 2 doors must physically separate the activities being performed in there from the rest of polite society, I’m not spending any more time than necessary hanging out there.  

The other reason I tend to cut the chit chat in the Ladies’ room is because I don’t know who’s listening to what might be said.  I prefer to control my audience if at all possible. 

(Ed. Note: And the fact I have a public blog whose audience I cannot control has zero bearing on what I just said above.)

An-y-way, I get sucked in to the “Hi, how are you”  “Oh fine how are you?”. 

Maybe it’s because the woman I ran into said she hadn’t seen me in a while, I dunno – but as I was washing my hands, I broke my “Limit the Chit Chat” rule.  I asked her if she bought a new house yet.

Simple right? 

“Yes and it’s awesome” or “No I’m holding off right now” – those are acceptable answers. 

Basic.  Easy.  Dead end small talk.  Bravo.

“You buy a new house yet or are you still looking?”

“Oh, well, I filed for divorce and I’m going to stay in an apartment for a while.  I’m taking back my maiden name.”

That does not qualify as dead end small talk. 

Once you hear that, you can’t say “Yeah, well – wow – my hands are dry!  Love those paper towels.  Catch ya later!” 

I mean, you can….if you’re an @sshole. 

Which I can be at times, but still…..

*sigh*

“So, are you okay?”

I try to listen to her answer and all I hear are the sounds that people go behind 2 closed doors to make. 

“Yeah – I’m the one who wanted it.  He’s not happy but he’ll get over it.”

*a stall door flaps*

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.  I mean – I’m sure it’s rough but you sound like you’re in a good place.”

*flush*

“I am. ”

Simple.  Easy.  Dead End Answer.  Thank you Jesus!

“That’s good to hear.  Well.  Take care.”

Exit, stage left.

Now I don’t want to sound heartless, despite damning evidence I’ve just supplied to the contrary.  She did look happy.  Even the clothes she wore seemed brighter.  Fresh starts are so very appealing and I was happy for her.

At the end of the day, I headed back home and my husband, kiddo, and I went to the neighborhood pool.   I love that hour or so between sunset and dusk that the summer supplies so readily.  The air seems full of pink and gold tones that soften everything you look at.  The pool looked almost too perfect, as though conjured by a magic spell rather than being wrought by machines that laboriouosly gouged a large hole in the dirt.

We hopped in the water and I broke out some water guns I’d purchased the day before, 4 for a dollar.   The guns had amazing range, but refilled slowly.  Waste your ammo and you were a sitting duck, ripe for ambush.  We unloaded on each other, ganged up on each other, retreated like the devil was chasing us, ducked under water to escape a direct hit.  It was a blast.

As the light started to fade, we headed home, debating what to have for dinner.    I half listened to the men in my life bicker over how many veggie burgers they could eat, half listened to the conversation I’d had earlier that day. 

“You sound like you’re in a good place.”

“I am.”  

That fresh start.  That empty apartment. 

“I can eat 600 burgers!”

“No you could not!”

I walked into the house feeling so very grateful that Fresh Start didn’t fall to me. 

I tossed the wet towels in the laundry room and started cooking dinner.

Bad news: My burn is peeling and I now resemble Odo from Deep Space 9.

I hate me every time I get a sunburn.  I live in mortal fear of morphing into Donatella Versace.

Although she *does* get to trot around clad in, well,  Versace…And she is comfortable enough in her own skin that she’s cool about trotting around some Italian beach in a bikini if she pleases.  So snaps to her. 

And we *are* talking about an Italian beach where Speedos are the norm.

If in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, does that mean that in the land of the Speedo, the Bikini Clad woman is Queen?

Entertainment Weekly got this photo – they’re making a movie from the Prince Of Persia game.

huh.

 I guess they figured casting someone that could actually pass as Persian would not sell as many tickets.

Meatballs!

Meatballs!

Meatballs – ain’t no Meatballs/They know it all, but they don’t know where it’s at…

It’s catchy cause it has that 70′s wakka wow wakka wow beat going along with it.

Honestly, it’s worse than Loverboy’s “Workin’ for the Weekend” for getting stuck in your head.

On a separate note, who in their right mind purchased this album back in the day?

I dunno - I’d call that one a “Win”….

*sigh* I figure the trees in my yard will look awesome about the time I’m ready to move out.

Anyway, I’d never bothered to try out the neighborhood pool my HOA dues dutifully support – until yesterday.

Not a speck of shade, (but surrounded by saplings) and a million degrees outside, I was glad the pool itself was nice. Another saltwater pool, not crowded like the one I went to last week (and pay an obscene membership fee for on a monthly basis). The water was crystal clear and wonderfully cool.

Knowing that I’d be surrounded by white concrete and reflective water, I came prepared.  I’m careful about sun. I don’t tan. I burn and peel. But for a detail-oriented person, I always seem to forget something.

Like a month ago, I went diving and snorkeling.

Wore my neoprene wetsuit or my UPF 50 long sleeve rashguard

In the hour or so I spent snorkeling I managed to get a sunburn from my bikini bottoms down.

The burn I can handle – but a peeling rump? No fun.

So this time, neighborhood pool. I have my sunscreen, I have my rashguard, I’m set. I spray me and my kiddo down and in we hop.

We play, we get out, lounge in comfy chairs and talk about what we see in the clouds,

we get hot, hop right back in and play some more.

At the end of the frolic:

Sundamage? Minimal.

Awesome!

My knees have some extra freckles on them – always happens in the summer, but beyond that, nothing.

Until I get home.

And realize that I didn’t put any sunscreen on my face.

And I look like an oompa loompa.

dammit!