The Odd Broad

Danger on aisle four!

It was the day after Christmas and we were making a quick family trip to Target to pick up some supplies.  Only, I'm not always so quick these days; in fact, Hubby often tells me I shop like the elderly.  (Well!?  I don't get out as much as I used to!)  And then there was the matter of the miniature tree I'd been trying to find for the bambino, for next Christmas.  I just needed to go and look at the discounted holiday stuff...

And that's when it happened.  I'd found William's tree: a whimsical little number, on sale for the unbelievable price of $4.50, and I called Hubby over to share in my joy.  "Hey, come see this!"  The aisles were crowded, and we probably should have left the store 20 minutes ago, and although I noticed he gave me a barely perceptible roll of his blue eyes, Hubby complied.

"Excuse me," he said to the woman and teenager blocking the aisle.  "Oh, sorry, sorry!" said the boy, who looked about 14 or 15, and I remember thinking it was a little strange the way he'd apologized like that.  

In hindsight, had I been playing the role of Hubby, I might have replied, "That's okay, man" or something to that effect.  But alas, Hubby did not.  And before we knew it, the kid's mother was screaming, in an outraged, aggressive tone, "What's his problem?  He's giving you a dirty look!?  Some people are so rude!"

Now that this soul had grabbed my attention, I couldn't help but notice she was a rough looking, pajama wearing, heavyset woman.  A tough broad, you might say; easily two times my size.

"I hope he teaches his baby some manners!"

Um, yes.  She was talking about us.  We were being made into quite the spectacle.  Hubby and I stood motionless, my hand on the baby's stroller, and it was only then that I realized I was still holding onto my tiny tree.  "So...what was it you wanted to show me?" Hubby asked, cool as a cucumber, not acknowledging the screaming banshee five feet to our right.  (So very Hubby of him.)

I should mention that my Scorpio husband possesses the infuriating ability to exude zenlike calm in the face of extreme anger.  Often he's looked at me, after I've worked myself up into a terrific Sagittarius frenzy, and has calmly asked, "Why are you yelling?" which naturally only adds fuel to the fire.  It seems he had the same effect on this woman, too.  She was becoming unhinged.  As she stomped over to the next aisle, still screaming about what a bastard my husband was, her silent teenager in tow, I hissed, "What did you say to that kid?  Were you rude or something?"  Hubby looked at me like I was nuts.  "I said excuse me, what else was I supposed to say?"

It was really time to leave.  But not before I picked up a miniature green tree skirt and some tiny garland (Yes!  Yes!  Yes!) and also not before a very large dude, who I took to be the woman's brute husband, walked by Hubby, looked him straight in the eye and said, "You're a f*cking asshole."

Holy schnikes!  Were we in Bizarro Land or something?  Hubby hadn't even done anything to this kid, and now these crazies were going all Jerry Springer on us!  "We're gonna get effing stabbed!" I whispered to Hubby.  "I don't want any trouble!"  I joked.  And I didn't.  I can be as mouthy as the next person, but there's a time and a place.  Something about this lady and her companions (there were several of them) told me they were not to be trifled with.  Some inner voice, or spirit guide, or maybe just my years of city living instructed me not to engage.  Truth be told I wanted to wrap that miniature garland around her beefy old neck when she'd made that crack about teaching my son manners, but her wrath had subdued me into a kind of mystified stupor.  Incidentally, what kind of an example was this crackpot setting for her own son?  

Are people going mad?  This wasn't the only spontaneous public meltdown I witnessed that week, I also saw an elderly man screaming F bombs at a woman in a crosswalk later that day.  Do the holidays bring out the crazy in people?  Did we somehow unconsciously manifest this ugly exchange?  

Luckily we made it home without getting jumped in the parking lot.  And after some reflection I was actually quite impressed by Hubby's levelheadedness, because a different man may have started screaming right back.  But that's not Hubby's style, especially now that he's become a father, and I was glad of it.

That night I wrote in the One Line a Day journal I've been keeping for William: "Bought you a miniature tree today for next Christmas!  With mini lights, etc.  Yay!"  A decidedly abbreviated and rose colored version, for sure, but that's the thing about life, and motherhood- sometimes we get to edit out the ugly.  Like unprovoked Christmastime altercations in Target and stuff.

Oh, seriously?

Just when I thought I might be momentarily spared from answering impertinent questions regarding my reproductivity, the doofuses come out of the woodwork and surprise me.

"So!  When are you having another one?" 

And it's not like they just ask once and let it go.  When they sense my hesitation, it's almost as if that's their cue to press the matter further.  Now, I'm not going to, say, punch someone in the throat for asking me such a personal question, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to fantasize about it.  Because I will.  I'm thinking about it right now, in fact. 

I know people mean no harm, and usually these questions reflect some anxiety they may be feeling in their own lives, but seriously.  My son is nine months old.  I'm not exactly awake at night winding my biological clock.  That boy is my whole world right now, every day he comes up with some new way of delighting us.  I waited years and years to become a mother, and right now this time just feels...well, sacred. 

Who are these people with their questions and opinions?  Where do they come from?  Are they just making conversation, or do they really give a rat's a?  It would never even occur to me to ask someone such a private question!  

Is there a classy way to handle inquiries such as this, Dear Reader?  I don't really want to have to resort to violence.

Stop seasoning my soup, people!

Of all the many side effects pregnancy brings, there is one that I find most especially disturbing: being on the receiving end of unsolicited advice.

It's as if my protruding stomach gives every Tom, Dick and Harriet the go ahead to make adamant, finite statements about me, my child, my spouse, our lives and my private parts!

Moreover, this advice is almost always specific to themselves and their pregnancy (or their ex-wife's pregnancy, their sister's pregnancy, their aunt Millie's pregnancy sixty-five years ago), so why in hell do I need to hear about it?

I've had it, Dear Reader.

I've never been a fan of unsolicited advice.  I liken it to approaching a simmering pot of soup or chili, that someone else has been cooking, mind you- and rashly seasoning it, without even tasting it first!  (I use this metaphor a lot, just ask Hubby.)  I didn't ask for my stew to be tampered with; I've already seasoned it myself, to my own liking!  I didn't ask for you to add fistfuls of cumin, or cilantro, or too much salt!  

I have been spiced against my will.  Is this making sense?  Or have I gone off the deep end?

Know-it-alls (aka: soup spoilers) may very well think I'm listening to their advice, and that I'm maybe even taking note of what they are saying; but in truth, I'd like to lift them up over my head and fling them far, far away.  But that's just me.  It's a pity I can't do any heavy lifting these days.

The kicker is, when I do need help or advice, I most certainly will ask for it!  I actually consider this to be one of my strengths.  Not everyone is able to do this, to really reach out for help when they need it.  And in turn, I like to think I generally bite my tongue when it comes to doling out unwanted advice to other people.  Who knows how impressionable someone is, deep down inside?  It just sort of seems to me like an irresponsible thing to do.

Aside from your run of the mill parenting tips and horror stories, there are other tidbits that people just seem to take a sick pleasure in telling preggos.  Has anyone else noticed this? 

"You're going to get stretch marks.  Are you using cocoa butter every day?"  (I am not.)

"You'll never sleep again."  (My husband suffers from something called severe obstructed sleep apnea.  Look it up.  I haven't slept a normal night's sleep in over six years.)

"Parenting isn't easy.  It's hard work."  (No shit, Sherlock.  What do you suppose I'm thinking of when I'm awake all night, after Hubby's snoring has woken me up for the thirty-eighth time?)

"Those boobs will go away the minute you stop breast feeding."  (Well this I find just plain mean.)

"Parenting classes are a waste of time and money."  (Knowledge is power, people.  Get over it.)

"You're going to have to ship your three month old off to daycare?  Geesh.  That's pretty young.  I'd say try to stay home for at least the first year, if you can."  (This from a stay at home mom and her husband, both of whom I immediately slapped, in my head.)

"Childbirth is painful."  (It is?  Really?  Why?)

"Breastfeeding is really difficult.  You might not be able to do it."  (This from a woman who has never been pregnant, which means, from what I gather, that she has never attempted breastfeeding.)

If I didn't know any better, I'd think these folks were trying to burst my bubble.  One could argue they're just trying to prepare me for the horrors of child birth.  But guess what: I'm about to push a child out of my vagina.  It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know it's going to hurt.  A lot.  Leave me the eff alone!

I understand they're simply trying to tell me "The Things That Nobody Ever Told Them."  Oh man, do people love using that phrase.  I hate it.  In my experience, it means they are about to tell me something truly awful about being a parent, or giving birth.  Something along the lines of: I felt my life was over for the first two weeks after giving birth.  I cried every day.  Nobody ever told me this was going to happen.  Or: No one ever told me parenting would make my spouse and I hate each other so much.

Yippee!  Thanks, guys!

First everyone felt comfortable asking me when I was going to procreate, and now everyone feels the need to tell me how my life is going to unfold, based on their own personal experience!  Ugh.  Here's the thing- not everyone's experience is the same!

Everyone loves to add in their two cents.  These days, I feel like people are walking around carrying sacks of pennies.  And I'm the piggy bank.

The other day I went to get my hair cut and the hairdresser marvelled at how healthy my hair was, even though it hadn't been cut in over five months.  This was one of the benefits of being pregnant, she told me; shiny, healthy hair.  She was impressed.  Of course, it was probably going to start falling out immediately after I give birth to my son.

"Don't be alarmed if this happens," she warned me, and went on to describe how chunks of hair would probably fall out once all the happy hormones stopped being produced.  It might not happen, though.   I would just have to wait and see.

"Alright, already!" I wanted to scream.  "Cut me some slack, Jack!"

Let's get something straight.  My body is so rotund that I am no longer able to see my private parts.  I sleep in 45 minute intervals, and it generally hurts to sit, stand, or lie down.  My stomach frequently makes loud, strange sounds at inappropriate times.  Once I sit down onto a couch, I will most definitely need someone to pull me back up.  And if tubby little me chooses to look on the bright side, ie: shiny hair, a bigger cup size, glowing complexion, healthy fingernails, giddiness at the impending arrival of my precious, long awaited first born...some jackass is bound to notice my good cheer and tell me:

"You'll be flat chested, bald and covered with stretch marks in no time, sister.  Oh, and by the way, it's hard.  And it's going to hurt."

And before I know it, someone has seasoned my chili with too much ground coriander.  Again.

Drama-rama

Years ago, I bought a really fascinating Astrology book that gives a personality profile for every day of the year.  It's uncanny the way each day's description relates so accurately to the people in my life.  (My particular day is entitled: The Day of the Hellraisers.  Tee hee.)

Each day comes with a custom meditation, and the one given for those born on my birthday is: Difficulties are lessons, obstacles are challenges, impossibilities are invitations.

Hmmm.  Now, I've been casually trying to figure out why things have been so topsy turvey in Odd Broad Land as of late.  I won't bore you with all the gory details, but suffice it to say my mouse of a landlord has been being a pain in the ass again.  In a nutshell, we were given an order to go to housing court, for possible criminal charges, for a gas grill that we do not own.  (We use an electric grill, y'all!)  This form was processed two days after we told the guy downstairs (and his cousin-in-law, our landlady) that the building needed to be treated for fleas.  Fleas that came from his dogs and feral cats, mind you!

Has the fool downstairs been reporting us to the fire department in retaliation for demanding basic renter's rights, or was it the witless, absentee landlord?  I can't be certain, though I must say I'm beyond curious.

Of course, when the fire inspector actually came out to our house he saw for himself that we don't have a propane tank and told us not to bother coming to court.  He also shook his head a lot and said, "These people have no class."  He told Hubby I sounded like a very nice girl over the phone.   (Well, I am a nice girl!  Plus I called him sir.) 

As the inspector was leaving, Hubby pointed out the vast array of paint cans and paint thinner piled on the steps leading down to the back entrance, which is why the landlord is now getting an abatement order of her own.  (Paint cans are a fire code violation, you see!)

So we hadn't done anything wrong, and in the end this was acknowledged, but it's the principle of it that annoys me.  I mean, on top of all of the valid things I'm probably supposed to be spending my energy on these days (the impending birth of my first child, finding suitable day care, buying a car, re-learning how to drive after a thirteen year hiatus, Hubby finishing school and finding a job a month before our son arrives, moving from this godforsaken apartment and finding a new place to live), it seems like instead I've constantly been putting out fires regarding our current housing situation. 

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I'd even go so far as to say this apartment has been nothing but a headache since the minute we got involved with it.  But why?  I like to believe everything happens for a reason, so there must be a point to all of these petty little trials.  But what lesson am I supposed to be learning?  And am I somehow unconsciously manifesting all of these troubles?

It could be a sign that we need to move outside of the city.  It could be the universe's way of forcing me to become more assertive.  It could be I'm supposed to learn how to let things roll off my back more easily.  Or...all parties involved could simply be f*ckfaces.

I do wonder about it, though.  Kittie the Wonder Cat has also been suffering a good deal lately, and after taking her to two doctors she finally seems to be a little bit better.  She's been put on the 'roids, a low dose, so as not to interfere with her dormant feline diabetes (Drama!  And...jazz hands!).  The vet told us we'll have to treat her for fleas for as long as we stay in this apartment.  Yipee!  The poor thing has been in itchy agony and losing hair from grooming herself so often.  It's sort of turning her into a lunatic.  I could punch that fool downstairs for doing this to her; and I would, I tell ya- if I had any upper arm strength.

In the meantime, there are less than eleven weeks left to my pregnancy.  The time has gone by amazingly fast.  I'm feeling good, still squeezing into mostly non-maternity clothes, which leads me to believe my pre-pregnancy wardrobe was either very, very stretchy, or just made me look preggers. 

The other day my friend Diane told me I looked like a Dr. Suess character, because I'm still skinny everywhere on my body except for my tummy.  (I suppose this has only been intensified by my deep affection for maternity stretchie pants.)  She eventually decided I looked like Mr. Grinch, the way my stick-like legs contrast with my enormous stomach.  But...not in a bad way, or anything.

Gee, thanks!

I think about my sweet little son constantly.  I can't wait to meet him, to hold him, to finally see what he looks like, to gaze into his eyes.  It pisses me off that an otherwise lovely pregnancy has been interrupted by my landlord and neighbors, but what can you do?  Everything is going to work out, I'm quite certain.  The future is still unclear, but it does seem like the fog is lifting.  Now is the time to be brave.  Now is the time to have faith, and fortunately that's one thing I've already got.

In the meantime, I'm focusing on staying centered.  And one of these days I've got to start doing those damn kegel exercises!  (A lady on the bus told me so the other day.)

And if this broad needs to raise some hell in between Qi-Gong moving meditations, so be it.  I can always go back to being a pebble in the pond afterwards.  Happy Friday, Dear Reader. 

Love,

The Grinch.  xoxo

This used to be a fun house...but now it's filled with evil clowns

If you're a reader of this humble weblog, then you've probably heard me make mention of the nutcases colorful characters who live downstairs. (You know, the weirdo who lets the flea ridden feral cats come in and out of the basement, leaving the back entry door open for any Tom, Dick or Harriet (be they human or rabid animal) to waltz in?  Yeah, him.)

Hubby ventured into said basement once, just once, and when he emerged, his legs were covered in flea bites.  This I filed under the "Not Okay!" category.  The tenants downstairs (did I mention they're related to our landlord?) told us it wasn't the stray cats that had the fleas; it was their dogs.  They picked up the fleas while being boarded, and he was going to flea bomb the basement to remedy the situation.

After that, it almost looked as if things were taking a turn for the better.  Almost, but not quite, because Houston, we have a problem.  Now Kittie has fleas!!!!!

Kittie, yes, Kittie The Wonder Cat, the feline who has never, ever been allowed outdoors, who doesn't come in contact with any other animal whatsoever, has fleas.  Oh, and I'm covered in flea bites myself.

When the vet confirmed the flea diagnosis, my mouth hung open in shock.  She said since Kittie is an indoor cat, the fleas had to have come from the other animals living in the house.  Two hundred dollars later, Kittie is thankfully on the mend.  There are still more tests and bloodwork the vet wants to do, since Kittie has lost four pounds due to what looks like either a tapeworm or parasites (caused most likely by...you guessed it...FLEAS.)

Did I mention that I'm six months pregnant?

Hubby decided he would write to our landlord, copying the man downstairs on the email.  (Email is our landlord's preferred method of communication, since it seems she doesn't like to talk to us on the phone.)  Hubby explained the situation clearly and calmly:  Our cat has fleas.  We've had her for seven years and she's never had fleas.  The vet informed us they came from the other animals in the house.  My wife is pregnant and covered in flea bites.  This situation needs to be dealt with safely and quickly.  Please advise.

Sounds reasonable enough to me, no?

Apparently, no.  The man downstairs replied in his usual curt fashion, flatly denying that his animals have fleas.  There are no fleas in his house, nor have he or his wife been bit.  He is sorry we're having a problem, though.

It was time for the Odd Broad to step in.  I rattled off an email of my own, stating that there have most definitely been fleas on the premises.  (Memba?  Three months ago?  Anyone?)  Being six months pregnant and having fleas in one's living quarters is simply not something one expects, and I'm sure everyone involved can appreciate my concern.

On a side note, Sissy enjoyed how I referred to our apartment as living quarters.  "What is this- a Jane Austin novel?" she teased. 

Nobody wrote back.  Not the neighbor, not the landlord.  I decided to take one more route.  After spending most of the morning on the phone with everyone from my doctor's office to the Pesticide Hotline, I discovered that getting rid of fleas will most definitely be a giant pain in the ass, but it's safe as long as we're not in the apartment.  The nurse told me the flea bites shouldn't hurt the baby.  Shouldn't?

Again I reached out to the landlord, herself a mother of three, and told her my main concern is a safe pregnancy.  (And a healthy cat.)  I told her I'd done the research, and luckily there were many ways for her (as our landlord) to safely remedy the situation.  Her response? 

Are you ready for this, Dear Reader?

She informed me that she had indeed gotten my messages.  "I don't know what I can tell you.  The animals downstairs do not have fleas.  Your cat could have gotten the fleas from the squirrels that are everywhere up at the third floor level."

Squirrels, Dear Reader.  Squirrels!

She continues: "If you go out on the deck and a flea jumps on you, it can come in the house and the cycle begins.  When there are animals in a house fleas are a possibility.  It is just a fact of life!"

Oh, I forgot!  I DO like to cuddle up with rabid squirrels when I drink my morning coffee!  I mean, don't we all? 

So my indoor cat magically contracted fleas from...squirrels.  An Immaculate Transferal of Insects, I imagine.  Seriously, I don't even know where to go with this latest piece of crazy.  And here I thought my old landlords in NY were strange, but this tops everything, truly it does!  Oh Boston, you never disappoint me! 

I am twenty-five weeks preggers today.  Mama Mia.  At this point, I'm praying for Divine Intervention.  As Mr. Dylan himself once wrote: there must be some way out of here.

Help us, Baby Jesus!

Itchily yours,

The Odd (squirrel luvin') Broad, and her scratchy Kittie cat xoxo

The curious observation

If you're a follower of this humble weblog, then you probably already know that over the past few years, coworkers, strangers and casual acquaintances alike have been asking me the same impertinent, ill-mannered, afternoon-spoiling question:

"Are you pregnant?"

If you would indulge me in a brief stroll down memory lane...

There was the Au Bon Pain delivery man, on the day I was wearing an oversized sweater, two ex-coworkers back in New York (I blame water retention and/or flowy empire waist tops), my former landlord (you're moving because you're pregnant, right?), that lady from Accounting who thought I had a "glow", our favorite waitress at The Last Stop Cafe who tried to bring me a glass of milk when all I wanted was a heavy pour of white wine (she'd gotten me confused with another customer, a pregnant one)...

It's not like I had a pot belly or anything, or was jaunting through town with a copy of Pregnancy magazine tucked under each armpit!  In fact, I think it's safe to say I've always had a rather slender build.  At any rate, after a while all of this unsolicited speculation began to give me a complex of the muffin top variety. 

And now I'm actually With Child.  I like being pregnant.  From the moment I got that positive test result back in May, I gleefully began waiting for someone to notice.  I just couldn't wait to answer, "YES!  Yes, I am!  You guessed it!"

But nobody asked.  Not one person. 

Amazingly, now that I'm finally preggers, nobody poses this query!  Nary a soul gestures to my midsection and asks, "When are you due?!" 

Even now, when I reveal my pregnancy to certain people, they'll sometimes raise their eyebrows and say, "Really?  I had no clue!  You don't even look pregnant!"

People can be so weird.

Don't take this the wrong way, but in my free time I fantasize about spraying you with mace

The saga of the lunatic neighbors continues.  When last we left these morons, they had reported us to the fire department for having a gas grill and were leaving the back door open to accommodate the three stray cats they like to feed.  (They love them enough to feed them and give them the run of the common hallway/basement, but not enough to actually let them live inside of their home.) 

Silly little me, I'd honestly thought this issue had been resolved, but it seems I was sorely mistaken.  While these two oddballs were away on vacation last week, whoever came to feed the kitties was once again leaving the back door open and unlocked.  In a passive aggressive turn, I decided to tape a small note to either side of the door that read: "Please keep door locked." 

It was short, simple, and to the point.  People pleaser that I am, I resisted the urge to write thanks! or doodle a smiley face.  I'm preggers and tired of being so agreeable!  In any case, it seemed to work, because the door was kept shut and locked for the remainder of the week. 

Fast forward to today, when I thought I'd just swing around back and see if the door was locked.  It was closed (Yes!  Victory is mine!), but when I tried the knob, it turned.  Dirty mofos.

Truly, what nerve!  Since we don't have a key to this entrance, I had to march around the front and up the stairs, through my apartment and down the back staircase to LOCK THE DAMN DOOR.  As I did so, I let loose a terrific barrage of curse words, which flew from my angry hormonal lips like so much rotten filth.  It felt nice.  An impressively obscene display, if I do say so myself. 

My neighbors and landlord prefer notes and emails to actual adult interaction, so that's what I gave them.  I taped a note on their door, asking for them to please keep the back door locked, as I do not feel comfortable with its being left open.  Signed with love, from the woman upstairs who wishes to pepper spray you.  (Okay so I didn't include that last part, but you get the gist.)

Now that I think of it, I do remember the previous tenants telling us they'd insisted on getting a lock for the front doors to the building, because prior to them living there, that entryway was kept open as well.  They'd had to make a stink, but in the end it finally got done.  Perhaps it was them who'd typed up the note that is now taped to the door that reads "Close Both Doors." 

Whoever wanted that door shut, I'm grateful they did, because yesterday afternoon Hubby went to take some menus off of the front door handle (they'd been tied on with a rubber band), when a bat flew out of the bundle!  This was a nasty little surprise, for both parties, and one that Hubby did not enjoy in the slightest.  (He enjoyed it even less than today's Odd Broad's Swear Fest 2010)

But honestly, these fools actually prefer to leave the main entryways ajar?  Forget about crackhead intruders, what about creepy little bats?  Or squirrels?  Or rats?  And have I mentioned this man actually knocked on my door shortly after we moved in, to tell me it was raining and to remind me to shut the skylights/patio doors?  (He doesn't want rain leaking through onto his ceiling, you see.  Rain is bad.  Human intruders or rabid animals, not so much.)

Hubby, he of the cool-headed calm, naturally thinks I'm overreacting with my angry tirades and notes.  I probably am.  But we're good, reasonable tenants, very quiet, and we pay our rent on time; why do people always have to f*ck with us?  If you ask me, Dear Reader, I say I'm reacting, not overreacting!

Sweet Baby Jesus, will we never own a home sweet home of our own?  Will we forever be dwelling in flea infested quarters, sharing our personal space with control freaky weirdos?

    

Zen Schmen. Let's eat.

The other day, I listened politely as an acquaintance cheerfully told me I should probably already be on a waiting list for daycare.  Because I'm already to my second trimester and all.  This was right before she asked if I'd be looking into one that apparently cost $2600/month.

What motivation could this woman possibly have had but to inspire me to plot her grisly demise?  Oh, I know...she was trying to be helpful.

To quote a quaint old phrase I remember from my youth: Well, poo on you, and caca, too. 

Tomorrow morning I start my new job.  (I'm staying with the same company, but was recently offered a new position in a different department.)  With all these sudden changes happening in Odd Broad Land, I'm trying my best to stay Zen; but let's face it, these days my mind just isn't able to shut down!  Especially at night.  In lieu of sleep, I'm taking comfort in food.

Since crossing back over to the dark side (ie: eating meat again), I've been revisiting my most favorite recipes with abandon.  Each dish has returned to me, effortlessly, like an old friend.  And, like the best kind of friend, it seems we're able to pick up right where we left off.  Like Rachael Ray's mini meatball and broken spaghetti stoup.

Hello, old friend.  xoxo

I'm pregnant, don't make me dropkick you

An update on my downstairs neighbor, whom I initially suspected might give my old landlord (Smeagol, of Lord of the Rings fame) a run for his money.  It looks as if my instincts were correct!

For one thing, he continues to insist on leaving the door unlocked and open to accommodate the three morbidly obese stray cats who come and go at their leisure.  (Hubby went into the basement last week and left with flea bites all over his legs!)  For another, the fire department has mysteriously issued us an "Abatement Order" because our gas grill is a fire code violation.  Failure to comply will result in court action.

In case you didn't know: Everyone has a grill in South Boston!  If you were to stand on my back deck and look either left or right, you'd spy intoxicated twenty-somethings and barbecues as far as the eye can see!  Why were we the only ones being targeted?

I smelled a rat.  Obviously it was the meddlesome busybody downstairs.  Who else?  All this happened yesterday, and it was such a downer that I nearly didn't answer when Hubby called for me to come look outside. 

"What is it?" I asked, already not wanting to know the answer.

"Just come outside and look..."

And there, sitting silently on my back deck, I spotted my blooming tomato plant in all its luscious glory.  Only this plant had been the victim of a vicious attack!  The biggest tomato, the one that had been the first to bloom and the source of so much genuine hope and excitement, was now strewn on the chair, with a BITE TAKEN OUT OF IT!!!!

Another tomato, still green and on the vine, had also been nibbled.  Initially we suspected it had to have been a squirrel, and the little shit obviously doesn't even like tomatoes, since he took one bite and then discarded the poor thing.  But then another idea popped into my head: what if it was one of those cats?  Portly though they are, the little buggers can still climb.  We've seen one of them on the highest branch of an enormous tree.

I'd had it.  The grill, the door, the fleas, the tomato...

"If one of those filthy, disgusting cats ate my tomatoes..." I said in a far too loud voice, "I'M CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL!"

Hubby had had enough as well.  The man really hearts grilling.  He sat down and emailed our landlady, and to paraphrase: The basement needs to be fumigated, to get rid of the fleas that are a result of the stray cats who come and go through the unlocked door that the downstairs neighbors insist upon leaving open 24 hours a day.  Ha!  Take THAT, a-hole!

Did I mention the neighbor and the landlady are related?

The landlady never responded to Hubby.  Instead, she forwarded the email to our neighbor, with nary an explanation to Hubby.  "We need to talk," was all the neighbor wrote in his reply.

Is it me?  Or are these people completely frigging fracking insane?  And why is it always us?  Why does everyone else on the block have grills?  (And potentially flealess basements?)

To make a long story even longer, Hubby wrote back a curt email of his own, saying only that his wife is pregnant and living in an apartment with fleas just isn't an option.  (He never mentioned the grill business.)  The neighbor wrote back once more, saying he planned on fumigating the place, that the fleas were from his dogs being recently boarded (Huh?), and by the way- congratulations on my being pregnant!

So, sadly, no more grilling for us.  Sigh.  Perhaps Hubby can toss a hunk of meat over to the dude on the next deck over.  ("Hey, man, can you cook this medium rare?")  He called the fire department today and confirmed our suspicion: "someone" had indeed reported us.  He was also told not to empty the propane tank, but not to keep it on the deck, either.  When he asked whether or not he could drop it off at a fire station, the man on the phone answered, "Yeah, I guess; I'm sure one of the guys would be happy to take it home and use it!" 

Again, is it me?  Or are we living in Bizarroland??

        

Crackbook

Facebook.  It's a bit like crack, only more addictive.

I'm grateful we didn't have Facebook around as a distraction during my college years.  I shudder to think of the foolishness my comrades and I would have unleashed upon the world wide web.  As it is, I cringe at the majority of the stuff I see posted on there these days.  Like my eighteen year old cousin virtually "liking" the following: Taking your shirt off (the sexy way).  Um, I didn't need to know that, young lady. 

People can "like" just about anything, it seems.  Well, I don't like it.  And while I'm on the subject, how about those two friends who recently became lovebirds and now can't stop posting make out pictures of themselves?  No thank you, if it's all the same!  It's a bit like a Josh Grobin concert; my instinct is to block it out, and yet if I do, I won't be able to mock it. 

Some things, unfortunately, cannot be unseen.  Like the girl from my old neighborhood who likes to upload photos of her newborn's SHITTY DIAPERS.  I kid you not!  This person has done this not once, but twice.  I can't be sure if she's done it again, seeing as she has since been blocked from my news feed.  Oh yes, I went there. 

I'm an open minded, tolerant individual, but something about having to look at feces sort of pushed me over the edge.  I mean, enough is enough!  There I was, logging onto facebook for a bit of mindless diversion, when suddenly I was staring at a baby's backside covered in green poo.  Surely this woman has broken some sort of unspoken code?  Whatever she's done, I vehemently object to it.

Oh, Facebook!  Sometimes I think I need to wean myself off of you.  (Not that I will, of course.)