Lion and Magic Boy

By the way, I should tell you that today I am writing from sunny Vancouver, having arrived here last night after only a “slight” (3 hour) delay connecting in Chicago. And my hair really really likes it here, in fact I have never had such excellent hair, so I’m afraid I am going to have to stay.

Can we talk about my trip? Sure, you’re a captive audience, why not?

TIP: When parking off-airport anywhere near New York, you should expect a New York Experience.

I wish someone had told me that before I stepped out of my car inside a chain-link fence next to a tiny broken-down charmingly and helpfully labeled “Office”. There were New Yorkish guys roaming around, one loading catering trays into a van. They ignored me. I looked around for Tony Soprano. Finally one New York Guy told me to park my car, which I did, and I got out my bags. Another guy stepped up and grabbed one of my bags, which had suddenly become very very important to me, something from which I was reluctant to part. I told him I had a coupon and wanted to park there (duh). He gave me a withering glance presumably usually reserved for people insulting his hair and told me, like EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS THIS, that I should take my coupon to the office. Duh.

So I get all New York back with him and tell him that he should COMMUNICATE, that this is not OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE, and he accuses me of yelling at him. Good. So we know where we stand.

At the office, another New York Guy was sitting down, eating something out of a “to go” container. He ignored me. Then Mr. Slick called me over to the counter, and again treated me as if Everyone But You Knows How To Do This Parking Thing. I surrendered my key (my key!) and received a flimsy slip of paper in return. Which may or may not be exchanged at some later date for my key again and, presumably, the car that goes with it. I should have taken another key with me, but who knew?

Then I’m struck with the realization that Patronizing New York Guy is also my driver, which means that my life and my timely arrival at the airport are both in his hands. Great. If it wasn’t for the TSA guy also riding in the van along with his catering trays, I figured I’d end up in the river somewhere with concrete boots on.

But actually Patronizing NY Guy was quite nice, despite leaving me miles from where I needed to go in the terminal, so I figure he must be used to the New York Treatment.

So I could write about my search for an available electrical outlet for my laptop in the airport in Chicago, or about the marathon tarmac session as we sat, stranded in a thunderstorm and hours after it passed, waiting our turn to take off, or about the AMAZING beauty of the mountains seen from my 30,000-foot vantage point all contrast in dark and light, the waning sun lighting the snow on the peaks, BUT NO!

Instead I am going to write about Eric.

Why not?

Last Friday was the last day of school for Nathaniel and Serena, and yes it has dawned on me that my available bike-riding time will be severely curtailed as a result, but hey, this isn’t about ME, IS IT?? NO!

On the last day was a two-hour assembly showcasing all the work done by each grade this year. Sounds interminable, does it? I can assure you that it was touching, humorous, and illuminating.

But the best part was Eric.

I think I’ve mentioned before that Eric likes to connect with people, haven’t I? When he was very small and I wore him in a sling, he’d telepathically call people over so he could get a look at them. When he was a little bigger, last year in Colorado, it was apparent that he loved connecting. Still riding in the sling, he’d throw out his arms to certain people he picked out, asking for hugs. Once in Large Discount Chain Store That Shall Remain Nameless, he made a worker there cry. She came up to him and, thinking he was a girl, likened him to her dead niece, and all of a sudden I was standing there while a woman in a blue smock wept and hugged my son. If I hadn’t yet known about Eric’s mission in life, I knew then: he’s here to connect.

And he knows how to work a room.

A bit bored of sitting on my lap and watching the children’s performances, Eric decided to go see various people. At times, even for long stretches, I didn’t have sight of him in the crowd of parents sitting on hard metal folding chairs, intently fixated on their children so proudly singing in Spanish or reciting lengthy verse or playing flutes. But I always knew where he was. One parent or another would make eye contact with me above everyone’s head and signal wordlessly, often with just a raised eyebrow or a simple nod, that Eric was with them, down at Eric-level where I couldn’t see. He was passed around, making his way as he pleased from one parent to another. I heard that he was especially fascinated by the piano player and stood there at the keyboard while she played, transfixed. He also enjoyed the African song performed by the 8th grade and some jamming parents, and I believe would have liked getting on the stage to dance with them.

But it dawned on me that day what a true community this school is. Due to circumstance I’ve backed away from it quite a bit compared to the level of participation I had a few years ago, but the community is still just as warm and welcoming to me, to Nathaniel and Serena, and to Eric as they always were. He connected with parents last Friday that he hadn’t really met before, or who only knew him from when he was a tiny sling-carried fragile thing, yet his gifts were seen, appreciated, and embraced He loved and was loved in return.

I know this wouldn’t happen in a public school, as wonderful as many of them are. I feel lucky to have this community as a resource, even if I’m not taking full advantage of it just now. It’ll be there for me when I’m ready again to allow it to embrace me, just as it is there for Nathaniel and Serena, holding them in loving expectation, and one day for Eric as well.

[tags]travel; airports; New York; Vancouver; good hair; Waldorf education; Waldorf schools; community[/tags]

So, in case you were wondering, I finally had a chance to find out what would come next after the “Hey”. Remember my lovely neighbors, them of the three (count them, three!) dogs and the blatant disregard for borders and yards and basically anyone but their own selfish selves? Remember them?

Well. After seething for several additional days while watching their dogs roam free through our yard, adding deposits at will, I finally had enough. It happened while I watched one of the neighbors stand in front of my front window, not fifteen feet from it, while watching her dog on the thirty-foot leash walk and poop indiscriminately through our yard. I put my shoes on and warned the children, “I’m going in! Cover me!” and stepped outside.

As I rounded the corner, the neighbor’s head whipped around as if it was on a string and her eyes got huge. I was grateful that there was a package on my front doorstep that I had been unaware of, as it gave me a reason to be out there besides telling her what I went out there to tell her, which was, “Hey! I’m your neighbor, and I have three children who would like to use their yard, except they can’t because your dogs are pooping everywhere, so I’d like you to clean it up. We talked to you about this six months ago and I thought the matter was taken care of.”

[I know, I know. I'm SO good with people, aren't I? Wait. It gets better.]

Eyes still the size of Eric’s pancakes, she said, “I’ll tell Joe.”

Joe? Who the fuck is Joe????? SHE’S out there with several of the dogs, doesn’t that mean anything?

Here’s a snapshot of who I think is living in that house:

Older-guy, 40-something, khaki pants and loafers-without-socks. You know the type. Real estate agent. This is Joe.

Woman-with-pancake-eyes, sort of, uh, solidly-built, wears long coats that make her look like a sausage. Hard to tell the age. I used to think she was Joe’s wife-woman, but Michael says as per a conversation he had once with Joe, she may be a daughter. Whatever. She’s not aging gracefully.

Several twenty-somethings or maybe teens (who can tell?), heroin-thin, ripped t-shirts and bad attitude, the usual. Maybe two girls and a guy? It’s hard to tell. Among them they have at least four cars and park right in front of our house, not like we ever have company or anything, but we might. Someday. Maybe. In another millenium maybe. But still, that’s “our” space, right?

So I go in the house, dusting off my hands and thinking I’ve taken care of the matter.

Not so.

This afternoon I was dumping cat litter in my own trash can (and NOT in my neighbor’s yard! Imagine!) and I noticed that the little yardlet out back between my driveway and theirs was covered in new dog poop. Lots of it, like four times the usual amount (not that I count it or anything). Bigger dog poop than previously, which meant that instead of being responsible ablout the whole thing from yesterday, they just let ALL the dogs out in the back instead of just the little useless yapper that usually is tied up there.

Without thinking, I walked over and rang their back doorbell. Instantly dogs barked inside and eventually the door opened to reveal one of the twenty-somethings, glaring at me and attempting to hold back three poorly-trained dogs who clearly wanted to gnaw my eyeballs out. I asked her politely to please clean up the dog poop back here, and she called me “ma’am” in a deprecating voice, told me it was their yard and they could do what they pleased, and she slammed the door shut in my face.

So I did what anyone would do.

I searched around for something, a piece of cardboard, and went over to the multiple piles of poop not a foot from my car door, right up by my driveway. They were wet and fell apart easily (hmm. SOMEBODY should have picked them up before they got that way!) and were difficult to move, but when I got them moved, they MIGHT have accidentally somehow been flung onto the neighbor’s sidewalk (which by the way already had poop on it in several places, but now it had, well, more). Might. Accidentally. Something like that.

Then we had to run out for cat litter, which I suddenly found we were completely out of and we had to get some immediately.

When we got home, the poop was gone from their walkway and the grass had been raked or something (not very well), and Joe’s business card was stuck in our door with the message, “please call.”

When I call him, I’ll let you know how it goes.

If only she hadn’t called me “ma’am”.

[tags]neighbors, dogs, poop [/tags]

I have decided that my headstone will read as follows:

Died of constant stabbing pain in side of head, but not before wishing she had a dollar for every time she had to blow her nose.

There. Days are incredibly long now, or at least this one is. I’ve been up for 5 hours and I wrote one small post at Strollerderby, wiped Eric’s nose and mine about 114 times, kept Eric from 1.) throwing cups into the kitchen sink, 2.) throwing various toys repeatedly at the door going down to the basement, 3.) throwing part of his bagel behind the TV, and 4.) playing his xylophone.

But that’s all I’ve done. I can’t really work and it has piled up enormously, people awaiting information about their lives and relationships, all because how can I listen to the voices in my head when half my face is sliding off and my eardrum is slowly imploding?

So my attention turns to the outside, still covered by snow and ice which plainly show the tracks of the next-door dog who again is allowed to roam freely through my yard, excreting at will. Last night when I was almost asleep I heard them calling and whistling for the dog, half-hoping that it had wandered out onto the road because I am astounded at the gall and stupidity of these people, letting their dog just wander around while they stay warm inside. They own three dogs and one is generally tied up behind the house next to where I park, that little yardlet having become the dog’s personal crapping station, a fact we became painfully aware of a few weeks ago when Serena was running in the yard and then we all got in the car and later we wondered what that yellow-brown stuff was on the back of my car seat where she likes to rub her feet. I’d love to approach these people and say, Hey! But then I’m not sure what would come next after the Hey. Maybe: Would you like to clean my car for me? Or: How about I leave my cat’s poop in your yard, would you like that? Or just: Hey, we talked to you guys about this six months ago, what gives??

[sigh]

I hate confrontation.

So I will sit here and seethe.

Care to join me?

On a happier note: For several weeks, the phrase “Mr. Clean Magic Eraser” has been going through my head. (Do you think that’s odd? It happens all the time actually. What was weird was when it was “Osama bin Laden” in August 2001. That was weird.) I don’t watch much TV, but I do remember hearing about this product on some Snopes-ish email about the evils of these mysterious Magic Erasers (which I had no idea what they actually were), which of course sort of made me want one, contrarian that I sometimes am.

So the other day I bought some. $5.00! On sale! That seems a mite pricey, but oh well, I thought. Maybe it will help cover up the evidence of Eric combined with the .00001 micron-thick coat of paint applied in the building process of the incredibly cheaply-built townhomes we live in. And….yes! I was right! This thing is very strange, and I do NOT want to know “where” it “disappears” to, but the marks of repeatedly thrown items, the fingerprints strategically placed at the height of a seven-year-old’s hands, are All. Gone.

Yay.

One more thing.

Michael has been telling me about a technique he has been using, something he’s known/read about for years, about getting yourself more present in the moment. Why would you want to do this? Well, I don’t know about your head, but generally in mine the narrative runs about like this:

Oh shit I have so much to do I am such an idiot I can’t even get it together to write or channel and what are all these people going to think of me oh there’s the laundry got to put that away hey there’s my pants the ones I can’t fit into yet am I ever going to be that thin again oh no look at me fat fat fat and god I am getting old I hate that why are there spots on the mirror I have to clean those off and look I need to dust the lights up there hey Eric is still watching TV while he eats his pancake and is that the voice of Greg Proops on that show what is it oh Bob the Builder that’s what it is okay back to the computer what was I writing?

Do you hear that stuff too?

So I’ve said before that we create our own reality. Actually, it’s not my own original idea, but I do believe it. So if you’re constantly throwing out all that energy in the form of words that essentially act as a diatribe about yourself, it not only serves to fuel your own negative beliefs about yourself but also confuses the universe about what you want. You might say: “I want to be happy”, or “I want to manifest abundance”, and you might believe you are sending that message to the universe, but if in actuality all day you are sending “hey there’s my pants the ones I can’t fit into yet am I ever going to be that thin again”, then how does the universe know what it is you want? You’re saying “I’m fat”, and so, yep guess what, you’re fat!

So. Instead. This is what to do. And for me it feels very strange, so bear with me. (I’ll report later on how it’s going.)

Instead of the running diatribe, give yourself a narrative about what you are doing in that moment. For instance, last night I took a bath, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Normal stuff, right? But they took on an extra glow, because all the while I was saying, “Here I am in the bath, it feels warm and my skin is getting clean and this is good because I have been sick and it will help me feeel better, now I am drying my legs/feet/hands etc. and I am really paying attention to how this feels I’ll bet I used to notice this when I was a child feel how good that feels all warm and dry now, now I am brushing my teeth I like the feeling, now I am getting into bed, feel how soft the sheets are…”

Okay. I know it sounds stupid. And I felt a little stupid. But. I felt, also, different. Present. And I felt the joy in the simple acts of what I was doing. So I am going to try this for awhile, care to join me?

I realize I am totally taking my life into my hands, or at least the fate of dozens of glass ornaments and the feet that might crunch into their shards, but today I did a 180 and bought a Christmas tree. The Christmas-tree place was thankfully devoid of customers, everyone else in the universe having already bought theirs weeks ago, leaving only the Charlie Brown trees on the lot, but I did get some personal attention from the Christmas Tree Guy.

CTG: Can I help you?

Me: I have two kittens and a toddler. Do you have anything I should take home, or should I skip the tree and just go straight into therapy?

CTG: [laughs deprecatingly]

Me: Seriously. I want a tree.

CTG: Well if you put it in a corner you can attach it to the wall with fishing line.

Apparently he does not know my landlord. No holes in the wall, please.

Me: [ignoring comment] How about this little one? I could maybe put it on a table out of their reach.

CTG: [laughs louder] Sure, if you want it to topple over and kill someone. No, your best bet is to put it in the corner.

Me: [withering stare] I don’t have a corner. [looks around] I’ll take this one.

So they put my tree in its plastic net on top of my vehicle and I don’t even care if it’s going to scratch the top. See how far I’ve come in letting-go?

Once home I unload groceries, taking them around to the front door, and prepare to set up the Christmas tree stand so I can bring the tree in and set it up to surprise the children who I have already informed dolefully several times that we probably won’t be having a tree this year.

As I step around the building to the door, I notice that my neighbor is standing on her identical-to-mine porch. In her socks. I can hear her talking, is she on the phone?

“I’m. Locked. Out. He. Locked. Me. Out. He. Locked. Me. Out.”

I put two and two together and figure out that her smaller child, about Eric’s size, has somehow locked her out. Fun!

Uh, what should I do? I’m pretty sure that my key won’t fit her lock, and if it does I do not want to know about it. So I won’t mention it.

I get another load of groceries, and bring it in and then begin putting the tree stand together. I can still hear her talking out there. Loudly.

I should mention that even though our front doors are, what, 15 feet apart? and we’ve been neighbors for, what, 3 months? we’ve never said a word to each other. I’ve never actually seen her face. Usually all I see of her is when she takes the trash-can-on-wheels around to the front of the building every Tuesday afternoon for Wednesday morning pickup (I do mine in cover of darkness of course). And all I see of him is about once every 2 weeks when he grills something outside my front door. Mmm, tasty!

So now I’m going back out to fetch the Christmas tree. She’s on the phone, still on the porch in her socks, and she makes eye contact. She starts saying, “My son locked me out and–” when I make that face, you know, the wow-I’m-really-shocked-face, big round O-mouth, wide eyes, the works. I am showing how shocked I am. Oh, no, she’s locked out! It must have been weird to her, though, because I think I began to make the face before she got the words out, not knowing that I’ve been eavesdropping and already know she’s locked out by her kid.

Oops.

[Is there a "How To Act Human" course?]

She tells me that her husband is on his way from his work, 40 minutes away, to unlock the door, and we make polite talk about getting locked out and how she was just taking a diaper out (must have been quite a diaper) when her son locked the door, and now of course he’s refusing to unlock it. (”Why is Mommy making that face in the window? Funny, funny Mommy! Hi Mommy!”)

I go and get the tree, and bring it toward the door. She’s play-by-playing my movements to the person she’s on the phone with, “The least I can do is open the door for this woman with her Christmas tree….” and she opens my front door. Which means she can see into my house.

Gah.

I close the door and proceed to erect the tree. The kittens are very interested in this process.

Soon there are voices outside. The husband? Nope, another mom and two identical toddlers. I work at the computer, trying to ignore the voices right outside my window. Should I go outside and be neighborly? Commiserate? Train binoculars on them through the window?

I think I’ll just stay in here and hide.

[tags]neighbor, ignore, oops[/tags]

I’ve told you already that I’m not a Dog Person.

When Michael headed back west for Colorado at the beginning of the month, he naturally took Mickey with him. Mickey, for Michael, is like his child, his best friend of something like 12 years. I found it odd that people would ask me, “Did Michael take the dog?”, because it showed that they did not know the obvious, that The Dog was clearly Michael’s, that I was making a fine show of trying to love him too, but that I could not overcome my predjudices as a Cat Person, while for Michael? Mickey is his life.

I was convinced, then, that there wasn’t much of Mickey that I’d miss, even though (for a dog, and for me this is saying a lot) I did love him as best I could. But he was furry. Quite furry. I pulled long black Mickey furs from the most surprising places this past year, and the vacuuming tripled after Michael and Mickey moved in with us. And, being a dog (which by definition means that you don’t wear shoes), he Tracked Things In. I rarely said much but it was a concern this past year, and like I said, the vacuuming tripled. Maybe quadrupled, though I wouldn’t want to get carried away with my exaggeration..

The children, of course, miss him terribly since they didn’t have the overwhelming anti-dog prejudice that I did to overcome. If I haven’t made this clear, I was able, though Mickey, to go from crossing to the other side of a street in order to avoid any dog, to having one live in my house and sleep in my bedroom! Only a dog as special as Mickey could have walked me through that transition.

So while the drool, did I mention the drool? and the fur, and the dirt, are all decidedly Not Missed, it’s been clear what has, other than the energy of Mickey himself.

Platelicking.

While it bothered me no end that Michael would at times give Mickey huge chunks of $30/lb organic grass-fed filet mignon* from our plates, or some other especially toothsome tidbits, while I was all the time thinking: that’s the best part (have I made it clear enough yet that I Am Not a Dog Person?), I am now finding it especially burdensome to have to scrape plates before loading the dishwasher rather than simply put them down somewhere on the floor for the Automatic Tongue Dispenser Machine to come and pre-wash them (I did have to get over the dog-spit thing, but that didn’t take long) for us.

And crumbs now sit and taunt me on the floor rather than being handily removed also by the Automatic Tongue Dispenser Machine.

Enjoy Colorado, Mickey. Take good care of Michael for us.

*Okay, we only had this ONCE, but still.

Dear Neighbor-Across-the-Way,

Although I’ve written you before, perhaps my letter got lost in the mail. Whatever.

Anyway, I wish to remind you about your laundry. I realize, what with the two children and all (I have three), that your laundry must pile up at times.

But I’m wondering if you realize, well, reminding you really, that I can see CLEARLY into your house? Without even trying? All I have to do is go up or down my stairs and for some some several seconds I am presented, against my will, with an embarrassing view inside your house. After all, your poorly-designed space-waster of a grand 2-story foyer is exactly across from my identical one, just mere feet away! So the time I saw you naked in that foyer? (Those windows are huge, aren’t they? And none of us - obviously - have window coverings of any sort for them, how could we?) Remember? I thought that would be message enough for you about what a fishbowl you live in, but I guess not.

So here’s a little piece of advice just from me to you: DO YOUR DAMN LAUNDRY! Or at least hide it somewhere.

Love,

Me

P.S. What’s up with that shoe that was on your porch for four days? Not that I’m, like, stalking you or anything.

Dear Neighbor-across-the-way,

I realize that energy costs have plummeted lately, but is that any reason to leave your porch light on all night? You know, the one with the 400-watt bulb that shines right into the grand 2-story foyer window in my house, 200 square feet of wasted space, just a mere ten feet from yours? That’s right, the one that lights up my entire house, cheerfully bringing us daylight at 3 am, as if we were suddenly transported to Hammerfest, Norway. In summer. That one. I notice how you turn the light OFF at 7 am every morning, so I know it’s not an oversight, and besides, who is coming to visit you in the night anyway that needs a porch light? You don’t have any friends EITHER.

Maybe that’s from your habit of allowing your moving truck to block the ENTIRE communal driveway, effectively blocking out 15 other neighbors from ingress or egress to their homes. After all, YOU are DEFINITELY more important.

But are you sure you want to store your dirty laundry in piles on the upstairs foyer where I can see them through our mutual 2-story windows? Because when you have THAT light on, the 200-watt beauty that lights up your entire house like a Macy’s shop window in December, we can see everything.
Like last night when you were leaning naked over the railing from the 2-story foyer while apparently calling to your husband down below. “Get me a towel!” you bellowed. Or maybe, “I’m ovulating!”. Don’t think I didn’t see you. Because I did. We all did.

So can I just say?

Ew.

Love,

Your Neighbors

Technorati Tags: neighbors, naked, wasting+our+natural+resources

There’s no other way to say this: I am now an SUV owner.

I can’t honestly say that I’ve no idea how this happened, how I went from quirky Volvo Waldorf mom to a four-wheeling gas-sucking SUV driver in one transaction, but there it is. I am now one of those I used to revile. Oh my. Please forgive me.

In my defense, the process wasn’t easy, in fact, to comply with inane Homeland Security rulings, I had to surrender my Colorado driver’s license in a 2-hour DMV marathon that left me with a photo ID clearly picturing someone who is Not Me. The photo I gave up was of a happy woman, finally free, perhaps with hair over-blonded, but dammit she was happy and had the Cannondale Silkpath 700 to prove it! The new ID portrays a woman ten years tireder, and 1800 miles moroser, not to mention one sadly lacking in proper adjectives and with clearly over-processed hair, which is a mystery given the fact that it’s been ONE YEAR FOLKS since I got my hair cut or otherwise touched by anyone wielding scissors or a charming plastic cap. ONE YEAR!

I’d like to say that at least I like the vehicle, but hey, it’s a CAR PEOPLE, that’s all, and I’m not going to anthropomorphize this one, or become attached to it, or anything. At least it’s a Honda, and some of my fondest memories are from in a Honda, the 1974 Civic my parents mistakenly let me drive to school and wherever (didn’t they wonder about all the miles suddenly appearing on the odometer? or the mysterious dents? or the smell of smoke?), that finally ended up in its own rust heap after generously giving over 300000 miles of itself to me and my brother before me. But I can’t get over the smell of the SUV, as it’s identical to the rental car smell of every vehicle in Dollar’s fleet. Go smell one, I don’t care where you live because it’ll be the same, but then you’ll know what I’m faced with. At least I can drive with the windows open and maybe one day it’ll be gone, like all of us will be one day.

A nice Paxil/Zoloft cocktail, anyone? Thank you, I believe I will.

technorati tags: SUV, lower than snakes, resignation

Last night Michael delivered the Bad News: there were people moving into the townhouse opposite ours.

We’re fucked. Er, I mean screwed. Uh, in trouble.

A little background, which would be EVER SO MUCH EASIER TO UNDERSTAND WITH PHOTOS, but I don’t have any. Yet. I am still refusing to document our lives in Humid-Hell Pennsylvania (which you would think by now would relax on the humidity dammit, as it’s SEPTEMBER ALREADY, ISN’T THIS AUTUMN YET? No? WELL IT SHOULD BE!), but I will. Soon. Because (shhhh!) I have located the Missing Camera Cord.

So. Background. We live in a little prairie-dog community (which would be great, if there were prairie dogs here, which there are not, because prairie dogs live in Colorado, and we do not. Anymore.) of apartments charmingly referred to as townhouses. Our building has 8 such beauties in it (I’ve previously referred to how well-built they are) and our front door inexplicably arises from the side of the building, where there is a sidewalk going not to the front of the building where guests might park, but only to the back of the building, where I park my car in the driveway that is sized to fit the car exactly and nothing more, because there’s absolutely no way the car will ever fit in the tiny garage (which apparently NO ONE here uses, except to house grills and other important accoutrements, since their Big & Tall SUVs barely fit on the driveway, let alone inside the garage without scraping both doors and probably the roof). So my front door faces the front door of another townhouse, its exact opposite twin, about 20 feet away.

So. Michael says, he says: There’s people moving in next across the way.

My first thought was: So they’ll finally turn off the light in the incredibly space-wastage two-story entry hall upper area, which has been lighting our entire house at night as well as the three nearest communities, for 2 weeks now. Yay.

But my second thought was: There will be people. Living 20 feet away from us. In plain view. (It’s easy to ignore the two twenty-something couples that live next door, six inches away from us, forgetting to pull their trash can to the front every week so that the trash piles up, and up, and spills over into their driveway 4 inches away from mine, and let their dog roam loose for hours in “our” yard, leaving little piles of reminders to rememeber it by.)

And so they are. They parked their Hertz Rent-a-Truck behind their driveway all day, effectively blocking their neighbor’s egress but also ours and everyone else down our line of 8 tiny driveways, and we could no longer navigate the tiny road attached to said tiny driveways, so thoughtfully marked “one-way”, because said Hertz was upwind of our tiny driveway, rendering it completely useless. So we parked in front of our house, near the signs that read “no parking” so thoughtfully spray-painted on the road.

We watched them bring in their stuff, one item at a time, all day. The rule was: bring in a dresser, take a break. Bring in the sofa, have a beer. Leave the truck a few hours, it’s not going anywhere, let’s go to dinner!

We hate them.

So should I bake them a cake or something?

technorati tags: neighbors, curmudgeon, get off my lawn

And getting nothing done in the process, except for calling our old post office to find out why none of our mail has yet been forwarded after 19 days.

Post Office Guy: Post Office.

Me: Yes, I put in a forwarding order on August 28th and I’m still not receiving my mail.

POG: You put in an order? To this post office?

Me: Yes.

POG: Hold on. What’s your old address?

[he disappears for about 8 minutes]

POG: Okay, we have the order, but they didn’t enter it until September 8. I don’t know why……

Me: Well, even if it wasn’t entered until the 8th, that was a week ago, and I should have received something by now, shouldn’t I?

POG: Well, it’s hard to tell. The carrier has left for the day already, so I can’t talk to her until tomorrow. She’s a regular though.

[regular what???]

Me: So what’s the next step?

POG: Well, if the carrier doesn’t know anything about it, we’ll have to put in a 3694, or check with Central Forwarding and see if they’re holding anything there.

[at this point, I'm certain there is a huge box of my mail marked "Destroy" somewhere in a dusty warehouse in Iowa]

Me: (What??) Uh, okay.

At least we still have cable (although it was out inexplicably for several hours the other day, prompting an hour-long call to Comcast to check all sorts of esoteric settings in the bowels of my PC, all to no avail, but fortunately for them it also came on just as inexplicably. Do I really want to my entire connection to the outside world to depend on a service that can be interrupted every time it rains?), which we want not for the TV but for the internet, of course. But our phone service, cheaply obtained from a VoIP company, works but it’s still the old number and no one seems to know what to do.

Ah, technology.

technorati tags: going postal, Comcast sucks