jennsylvania

Fine, Fine, Fine

Let me start by saying we're fine. 

We're better than fine, actually, and I'm saying this up front to make sure I don't accidentally build a whole bunch of dramatic tension based on a wrong assumption, only to have the payoff be that we're fine. 

The dogs are fine, our stuff is fine, everybody's fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

Oh, wait, I imagine the idiots I sent to jail last night aren't fine.

But too fucking bad for them.

To recap, last night I was up in my office around midnight doing the final email check before bed.  My office is at the very front of the house on the top floor because it has the best light as well as the premiere vantage point for neighborhood patrol.

All of a sudden I heard a clang, which sounded exactly like my front gate closing.

Which... what?

I rolled my chair over to the window a couple of feet away and noticed one person standing outside my gate while another person was coming down my front steps.  In my head I was all, "Hey!  I wonder who's here!" until a split-second later I realized no one should be here, what with this being a single family property and our gate always being locked. 

Also, I'm pretty sure I don't know any meth-heads.

So I unleashed my secret weapon.

No, not that one.

My other secret weapon - yelling.

I let them know in no uncertain terms they were trespassing and that they needed to get off my property right that second.

They told me they were allowed to be there and to mind my own fucking business.

I assured them they weren't allowed to be there and went off on an entire tangent about the notion of private property.  I explained the how my concept of ownership was influenced by the capitalist school of thought and how I didn't subscribe to their clearly more Marxist views of said concept, although, really, Marx was more about the means of production and not so much about that which is considered "social wealth" such as clothing, jewelry, designer handbags, and high end electronics.

They told me to go fuck myself.

I told them I was calling the police.

They told me if I did they'd "fuck me up."

Oh. 

Really.

I realized it was time to bring out the big guns.

No, not those.  I mean Fletch. 

He was on the other side of the second floor in the bathroom and heard me squawking, "Perimeter breach!  Perimeter breach!" the entire length of the hallway.  He assumed I was having a weird reaction to my Ambien, perhaps having mixed it with a side of crazy.   I briefed him and he took off up the street after them while I dialed 911.

While I waited for the police, I watched Fletch sneak up on the idiots who were now up and across the street.  He stopped them saying, "My wife tells me you decided to pay us a little visit."

They got very nervous and agitated, saying, "Um, who's your wife?"

To which Fletch replied, "The woman I married."

That's as far as Officer Fletcher got before the police arrived.  Many of you know I've had a number of complaints about the CPD's response time, but I have to say this - the one time it really counted, they were here in a flash.

Both of the tweakers immediately started to cry, with the female in the group claiming, "I thought my friend lived there."  When further questioned, neither of them could come up with an actual name of their mystery friend.

So let's let's look at this story with a critical eye.  These people decided to stop in and see their Friend With No Name.  And they chose to pay a visit to said nameless friend at midnight.  On a Tuesday.  In a darkened house.  And instead of, say, ringing the bell or knocking on the door, they forced their arms through the thin slats of the security gate, reaching around to unlock it before heading to the stoop to peek in the windows.

Yes.  Clearly that is the most logical explanation.

And when I questioned their being here, instead of offering a genuine reaction like, "Oh, holy shit, I'm so sorry!  I really thought Holly lived here!  Totally didn't mean to disturb you!" their first response was to swear at me before jogging away down the street while carrying bags full of bags.  Right.  Totally innocuous.

The fact that the woman had no ID and was currently on probation from having previously committed a felony didn't exactly lend a lot of credibility to her story, either.

We explained to the police how we'd noticed our house had been marked lately.  First, we got hit with tags and lately we've found items deliberately planted around here, like pennies glued to the front of our mailbox and soda bottles lined up on our fence spikes in odd patterns.  Plus, people ring our doorbell half a dozen times a day before running away, which certainly feels like they're trying to get a sense as to when we're home.  The police readily agreed and said they had no doubt our place had been targeted as it's one of three nice homes right on the periphery of a terrible neighborhood. 

In summation, the police were all, "Yeah, that wasn't a social call," and suggested we press charges. 

Which we did.

I have to appear in court next month now.  Because I didn't actually see them trying our front door, they were only charged with simple assault and trespassing.  But there's not a single doubt in my mind they tried the knob.  They wanted to enter my house.  Period. 

What really gets me is I've done so much volunteer work lately with charities that help women prisoners based on how Piper Kernan's memoir Orange Is the New Black moved me.  I've done book drives to get them their choice of reading material while serving time and taught new parolees computer skills and helped them craft their resumes.  But suddenly after seeing an ex-felon in my yard, having let herself in my locked gate and looking in my goddamned window, I'm suddenly feeling a whole lot less charitable.

Anyway, many of you wonder where the dogs were during all of this. 

They were asleep the entire time.

Someone on Twitter last night suggested that this is because poodles make terrible watch dogs. 

Agreed.

Fletch and I kept shaking our heads after the whole conflagration, saying, "This right here is why we're leaving this goddmaned city." 

Funny, but if those idiots could have just waited three weeks to try and get in then they wouldn't have been my problem. 

Yet here we are.

I guess my point is this - don't tread on me OR my lawn.

And Now You Know The Rest Of The Story

I promised myself I'd sit down to write a long-overdue blog post today. 

When I finally did, I realized I have nothing to say, even though I've been plenty busy for the past few weeks. 

No, I don't have writer's block, nor am I troubled in any sense.  It's just that I've already told all my stories in short bursts on Twitter.

The good news is when you make a living getting paid by the word, it's not too hard to expand upon what's previously been written. 

So, because you've been waiting for it - at least that's what I tell myself - here are the stories behind the stories.  (With photos and everything!)

* * *

The Tweets About My Stupid Haircut And Neck Punching

wonders how we have the technology to clone a sheep, yet it's scientifically impossible for me to get two good haircuts in a row.

will consider it miraculous if I DON'T end up punching someone in the neck today. My aggravation meter goes all the way to eleven.

used a new anti-aging eye cream last night and now both eyes feel infected. Christian Dior, your neck has a date with my fist.

advises the Neck Punching Threat Index Level has been lowered to yellow, due to a better haircut and a Filet-o-Fish. Proceed with caution.

Now for the rest of the story...

 

Why would anyone give me this bowl stupid haircut?  Why? 

FYI, I'm wearing clown makeup here because this is from the day we filmed my Pretty in Plaid video, which is basically shot and cut like a movie trailer, only to promote books.  This particular video will include plenty of Breakfast Club dancing and my hope is it will be really funny, except for my haircut, which is obviously tragic. 

I had people in town for a few days last week because of the video, which partially explains my absence from the blog.  Also, I had to clean for two days prior to their arrival since I spent all my allowance on a stupid bowl haircut and couldn't pay a maid service.  (Bit of a false economy, really.) 

During the shoot we kept trying to capture a Risky Business-type slide across the hardwood, which Fletch would not consent to do in Ray Bans, a big oxford, and skivvies because he is NO FUN.  (Also something about him having a real job and not wanting coworkers to see him on the internet sans pants?)  Anyway, he's the worst slider ever, so to grease the skids as it were, I sprayed an entire can of Endust on the floor.  For the rest of the night, the dogs kept wiping out every time they got to the bottom of the stairs and I had to spend the whole next day stripping off all the greased skids.

The happy ending here is that instead of just complaining about my stupid cut for the next six to eight weeks, I went back to my stylist and she fixed it for free.  No necks were punched.  And that brings us to last Saturday.     

* * *

The Tweets About The Stink

going all CSI to determine the stink in the family room. Cats are at the top of my suspect list.

has located source of carpet stink. Culprit not identified, but dogs pretty much cleared; not capable of this kind of evil. Cats on notice.

initiating vacuuming and deodorizing sequence.

has informed cats of their rights and advised them not to leave town.

is queasy from Arm & Hammer fumes and currently being mocked by both cats and carpeting. On to the soap-and-water-scrub portion of our show.

is AAARRRGGHH! CARPET STINK IS JUST LIKE GREMLINS! NEVER ADD WATER! RUN! SAVE YOURSELVES!

has gone to DEFCON ONE - carting my lazy ass down all those the stairs to get the Spotbot.

overheard cats by water dish whispering, "Steam cleaner, pfft. She's going to need an exorcism to get that stink out."

gives up. Cats = 1. Jen = 0.

can't believe that even with the aroma of pies baking and briskets... brisketing that The Stink Abides. Maybe something did die in the wall?

Now for the rest of the story...

What's funny is I really thought I'd never need the Oh, Holy Fuck, There's A Rat In My House blog post category anymore after moving out of the old place.  But something is clearly amiss in my family room as the stink lingers.  Our walls are made of giant, impenetrable cement blocks, but there's an opening to the outside via our stove vent so it's possible something could have gotten in.  I'd heard some odd clanging at night last week around the stove area, but I assumed it was the wind. 

Now I'm not so sure it wasn't something living.   

Also, I presently live next door to this construction (crime?) scene:

Not pictured: the ancient Native American man standing on my porch, a single tear running down his grizzled brown cheek.

Honestly, I'm thankful they've finally stopped jackhammering over there, so the mountain of garbage doesn't bother me nearly as much as you'd think.

As for stink abatement, I'm following a strict course of opening windows and avoiding the family room.  The TV's bigger in the basement, anyway.  Also, Fletch says there is no stink and I'm just imagining it.

Regardless, I've had bigger (filets-o) fish to fry this week because of the electricians.

* * *

The Tweets About The Electricians And Shamrock Shakes

won't have electric all day tomorrow due to meter repair. I'll be just like Abe Lincoln! I mean, if Abe had a BlackBerry.

already lost my $5 bet with myself on the electrician showing up on time.

has now been waiting FOUR HOURS for the electrician. But I don't need regular electricity because I'm about to go freaking nuclear.

unplugged everything so essentially I'm sitting here being all environmental (and unproductive) (and Bret Michaels-free) AGAINST MY WILL.

On the bright side, I'm sitting outside with Rush Limbaugh playing loudly. Neighbor scowling. Listen, if I'm mad, everyone's gonna be mad.

quivering in anticipation of waiting for the electrician again tomorrow. NECK PUNCH THREAT INDEX RED - proceed with extreme caution.

starting the "how late is the electrician today" clock.

is 14 yrs out of college and no longer has to have green beer today. Is also 29 yrs out of grade school, but still NEEDS a Shamrock Shake.

we went six hours yesterday before cancellation, so I'm hoping for less than that. (Right now we're at 20 minutes.)

is embarrassingly happy to see the electricians. Greeted themlike conquering heroes.

may not have electric right now but I can still boil water for French press coffee! Ha!

well, shoot. How do I grind the beans?

has officially run out of anything to do that doesn't require electricity.

would make a lousy pioneer. My manifest destiny is TiVo.

The city code inspector just announced his arrival by whistling and shouting, "Yo!" This bodes well.

Now for the rest of the story...

When we moved in, we called ComEd to switch the electric bill into our names.  Two months into living here, I realized we never received a bill.  Turns out our house never had/passed the city's final electrical inspection, thus we had no meter and could not be billed.

In the short term, yay!  No electric bills! 

But I figured the long term would entail a month-long stretch while our home's owner fought a monolithic utility company and we sat in the dark roasting weenies in a garbage can fire.  Best to get this taken care of before there's trouble, you know?

That brings us to Monday when the electricians were supposed to be here to install a meter.  Instead, I spent six hours waiting and being told, "Just another half hour and they'll be there." 

LIES.  DAMN LIES.  NECK PUNCHING IMMINENT.

Then, on to Tuesday when the guys finally showed up... three hours after the four hour job was supposed to be complete, I toyed with the idea of switching the breakers back on because THAT would certainly teach these gentlemen a valuable lesson about timeliness and deadlines.  In my mind I was all George Bluth, "And that's why you don't keep me waiting!" 

But I fought temptation, figuring that flash-frying these guys was technically a felony. 

Plus I'd never get the smell out of the family room.

The bulk of Tuesday's problems stemmed from my being too stupid to realize that I own a variety of devices that might have amused me (e.g. personal DVD player, iTouch, powered-up laptop, etc.) and I spent quite a bit of time sitting on the living room couch sighing loudly about everything I wasn't accomplishing. 

However, the bigger issue was when someone I follow tweeted that her McDonalds was out of Shamrock Shakes at 11:30 AM, I began to panic.  Could that happen here?  I feared my 36 year old St. Paddy's Day Drinking-of-the-Shamrock-Shake streak would be broken and if that happened, I knew of two pokey electricians about to get a serious neck-punching. 

At 5:30, five hours after the proposed finish time, the electricians left and I was free to pursue the Drinking of the Green (Shake.) 

Except every single local McDonalds was out of them. 

I know.  I checked.  (When it comes to Shamrock Shakes, I have that kind of time.)

So I bought a vanilla shake, came home, and added peppermint extract and green food coloring.

It was a perfect replica. 

The streak remains unbroken.

No necks were punched.

And now you know the rest of the story.

The House That Bitter Built (OK, Fine, Rented)

Did I recently mention here that I was moving? 

I can't recall, because this certainly isn't a topic upon which I might fixate or anything.  Oh, and I had a deadline, too.  But I probably forgot to say anything because I tend to keep my stressors pretty close to the vest.

Heh.  (Or I'm sorry.  Your choice.)

So, we're here in the new house.  And we're nowhere near finished unpacking.  My shoes and pajamas still live in a box somewhere and we only have one television hooked up, so pretty much that's the only room that's even close to being done.

As I might have mentioned, the new place is a tad on the ridiculous side, starting with the fact that it's thirty-six hundred square feet larger than our last home.  You guys?  It's a fucking barn, stacked on top of another barn, stacked on top of a third, and then filled with Brazilian cherrywood flooring and granite finishes. 

* * *

Lest I sound all braggy-braggy about my sophisticated new house/life, I just took a break to chase the dogs around the basement for half an hour with a can of compressed air.  I'm sure Town & Country is going to call me any minute now. 

ANYWAY.

The only reason we got in here at an affordable rental price is because of the crappy housing market.  No one wants to buy such a luxurious place right now.  However, the owner hopes to sell it to us next year, which is awesome because we hope to buy it.  (If that has any chance of happening, I'll need to work harder than I may be capable of working.  So if we don't get it, then I lived in a castle for a year, and that's cool, too.)  (The downside of buying is if we owned this place, our landlord's dad wouldn't come over here to fix stuff any more and he's completely adorable and brings me Cuban coffee and tells me stories about his travels.  You can't buy that kind of built-in cute.)

Before I get into the The Window Covering Debacle of 2008, I have to mention the old house.  We moved on election day, and I went over there Wednesday, which was my birthday.  We planned to scoop up the few things the movers had missed and then to return here where Stacey would bring take out and we'd all celebrate the big four-one. 

What I didn't anticipate was how lonely and empty our old house would look, which made me cry... and not just a little bit.  I'm talking big, wracked, sobbing-like-that-baby-with-a-bowl-full-of-spaghetti-on-his-head poster. 

The thing is, even with all the stupid neighbors and the sinking and the mold, we were really happy there.  I feel like that's the place we got our lives back on track.  I stopped temping while living in that house.  I had my first book party in that house.  I became successful in that house. 

Reflecting back on our time there, I was just overwhelmed with how sad it was to leave.  Even Fletch got verklempt.  He said that what did it was walking out of the garage and seeing the back of the house.  It made him reminisce that no matter how bad his day had been, he'd come home and see the dogs and me waiting for him in my office and suddenly everything would be better.  So, when he opened the door, even though I was behind him, he was somehow expecting to be greeted by a smiling me and happy dogs and the smell of dinner.  But all that was there were some empty cabinets and the hum of an industrial dehumidifier.

So, I called Stacey crying to bail on dinner plans and instead went back to the new place, determined to make it look and feel as much like home as possible.  We're not at 100% yet, but we're getting there. 

We had to stop at the old place one more time last night because our movers had accidentally packed our landlords' mower and we wanted to return it.  This time it wasn't so melancholy because it looks so different.  The entire kitchen has been gutted because of the water leak and now all forty-seven of my pretty white cabinets are scattered throughout the wee first floor.  Also, I could see the wall where'd they'd barely been hanging on to a rotten stud surrounded by giant blooms of black mold and I knew from looking around, there's no way we could have stayed there.  There's too much damage.

And, in a bittersweet moment, I was vindicated for a year's worth of argument.  Along the open area where the wall joined the floor behind the cabinets, I saw droppings.  Not mouse droppings like Fletch assured me, but rat droppings.  Big, fat, filthy, disease-ridden rat droppings.  So I was right.  There really was a ratinmyhouse, ratinmyhouse, ratinmyhouse.

'Tis a hollow victory, indeed.

Anyway, part of making this place feel more like home is getting window coverings.  I've counted the windows a whole bunch of times and I generally come up with different numbers.  The number I've gotten the most consistently is sixty-eight.

Sixty-eight means a lot of curtains.

For a number of the windows, I took your collective advice and put up little tension rods with sheers.  At approximately five bucks a window, that's almost as cost-effective as my idea of covering them with old newspaper.  Unfortunately, the very nature of them being sheer means these can't be in any rooms where I might eventually disrobe.  Plus, I noticed that I can totally see into the neighbor's house next door, as it's five feet away.  The first night here, I may or may not have spied him looking at porn and I figure if that's what he's into, he's REALLY not going to appreciate seeing me waddling from my bathroom to the master closet down the hall wearing nothing but a ratty towel and a look of distress. 

I figure I have about ten windows where it's mission-critical that the covering be opaque and it's such a nice place that I don't want to half-ass the installation myself, so I called a professional.  I wasn't sure what my budget was but I figured if simple white Roman shades cost $20 at Target, maybe getting them custom made would double or triple the cost, which would still be a small price to pay for saving the neighbor's retinas.

Long story short, I called Empire Direct, a consultant came out, and I learned that ten base-model, simple white Roman shades would run me four thousand dollars.

FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS.

And if I chose to do the whole house in them, then they'd cost as much as the 2006 Mercedes I walked by on my way to the bathroom at Carmax a couple of nights ago when I was there getting my tires rotated.  (If I wanted to cheap out and go with wooden blinds, they'd only run about twenty-eight hundred dollars.)

Do you know how many months of student loans I could pay with four thousand dollars?  Do you know how much rent I could pay for four thousand dollars?  (Or, if you ask Fletch, do you know how big of a TV I could get for four thousand dollars?)

As of right now, my short-term plans for maintaining my privacy include buying a goddamned bathrobe.  And maybe a newspaper.  Longer term, I found a couple of affordable custom options online so we'll go that route should I tire of the robe.

I guess my point is that living here has been full of strange little adjustments, especially because there's so much space-aged gadgetry due to the new construction.  I mean, we have a whole room of electrical panels.  I'm not so sure of how I feel about a house that is absolutely smarter than me.  (Sidebar?  Our alarm system is wired for video surveillance.  Tell me I'm not getting THAT hooked up immediately.)

Everything in here is beeps and chimes and little tones.  All day long the house sounds off with noises I can't identify.  (It's a bit sad that I could immediately tell you what a rat in my wall would sound like.) 

A couple nights ago I almost fell down all seventeen stairs because something was beeping and I couldn't figure out which was the proper light switch on my way to investigate.  (Do not ask me how many recessed lights are in this place.  I'd have to consult NASA for an estimate.)  I'd been in bed when I heard the first set of beeps and I ignored them.  But when they went off again and then a third time, I figured it was important and I'd best find out which is when I slipped and twisted my ankle. 

As I hobbled into the kitchen, I discovered I almost broke my freaking neck because the dishwasher wanted to let me know the cycle was complete.  As I stood on my now-gimpy leg, I saw it sitting there all smug and beep-y, like it was expecting a cookie or a pat on the head for a job well done.

It was all I could do to not kick it with my healthy foot.

Point?

Just because I moved doesn't mean the adventures are over.

And if a rat ever does manage to get in, the good news there's enough space that we may never run into each other.

Not Really Gone And Also Not Forgotten

Still busy with edits and getting ready to move at the end of the month and, ha!  Not panicking! 

Not panicking at all! 

And certainly not wasting time obsessing on how the hell I'm going to cover the SIXTY-TWO bare windows in the new place, either.  For example, here's the window situation on the stairs going to the second floor:

  

What am I supposed to do with this?  Right now the only options I've come up with are "newspaper" and "accidentally flashing my neighbors when I run from the bathroom to the bedroom in my underpants."  I'm not sure which option might cause more aesthetic distress for all involved.  (Perhaps at the holidays I'll go all festive and put up wrapping paper.) 

Also, because it may be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, here's the kitchen:

   

Please note how it is not raining in this room.  (And is anyone else nervous about the way Fletch is eyeing that stove?)

So, I have to finish my edits so I can get paid (and thus afford to move anywhere), but I won't leave you empty-handed. 

Many of you became fans in the last year, which means you never heard about the website I used to write for called Snarkywood.com.  Everyone involved went on to do other stuff both on the web and in print, but the archives still exist.  I didn't create Snarkywood and only started writing for them towards the middle, but from the very first day, this was some of the funniest shit I ever read. 

Click here to access the archives. 

My favorite is Don't Hassle the Hoff, but really, you can begin on any entry.  Enjoy!

And yeah, Maisy's sad I'm busy, too.

 

"This is what happened when the penguin saw you in your underpants." 

UPDATED WITH 100% MORE SQUALOR - HALP; Or, The Universe Does Not Want Me to Finish This Book

Remember last week when I said our new sink was leaking?  And I was upset because I thought it was a big deal?  And I was all stressed out?

Well, guess what?  I'm not stressed about the tiny leak anymore. 

BECAUSE MY HOUSE IS SINKING.

As in:

THE BACK OF MY HOUSE IS SECEDING FROM THE FRONT.

(Caveat: Yes, I realize I didn't just lose all my shit in a hurricane and I'm really sorry for anyone who did.  But I don't live in hurricane territory and yet MY HOUSE IS SO WATERLOGGED IT'S SINKING ANYWAY.)

I live in an old row house and there's a small addition off the back.  That's where my office is.  Part of the floor in there is now a good two inches lower than it was last week and the foundation beneath is cracked and water has been spilling into the basement.

But wait!  There's more!

Water's been gushing down the interior wall in my kitchen between the addition and the office - at least a gallon has come through the wall in the last day.  All the drywall is so saturated the under-cabinet light fell out of the wall and is now an on-counter light.  I'm concerned the studs are wet to the point that the cabinets may come down.  I'm just now figuring out this has all been leaking for quite a while, but each time previous I'd assumed a cat had peed on the counter and that dogs had whizzed in the basement.  (What?  We're a tad bit ghetto, so it was a rational assumption.) 

What's really scary is water's been pouring over the electrical outlet in the kitchen and washing over the breaker box in the basement.  The flow has stopped for now, but everything's still soaked.  Also, I've noticed I can see daylight through the bottom of the exterior wall because the entire corner of my office has rotted clean-through.

I'm no structural engineer, but in my professional opinion, this seems kind of bad.

Apparently my landlords don't find this to be nearly as immediate a problem as I do, because no one's coming over here to look at it until Tuesday.

Do you know how many times I can die in an electrical fire between now and Tuesday? 

(I bet it's a bunch.)

I rarely solicit advice, but for this?  Consider me soliciting. 

Has anyone had this kind of water damage?  If so, what did you do? 

Do we call the fire marshal in the interim?  Fletch said something about blah blah blah water grounds but the electric won't spark unless there's combustible material blah blah but I'd rather not take Mr.-C-in-Science's advice when it comes to my possibly being incinerated.  Worrying about fire kept me up almost all night last night and I came down to feel the wall for heat at least a hundred times.  I won't leave the animals alone in the house until we're given the all-clear and I've got a bag packed with extra clothes (and all my jewelry) in case something happens.  Yes.  This is exactly how I'd like to be living right now.   

I shouldn't be able to poke my finger through drywall, right?  And how moldy do you think this place is now?  (BTW, want to guess how great wet hundred year old insulation smells?)

Has anyone else ever had their office sink? 

And should we have gotten some sort of rent concession for losing two out of three bathrooms for two months and having our bedroom used as a garage?  Also, the construction got both dogs really sick and I had to pay $400 in vet bills for their upper respiratory infections.  Should that have been a concession?

Did I mention I still have one chapter left on this book which is already late because of the previous construction and this is the last fucking thing I need in the world right about now?

HALP.

Light fall down, boom.

Note: you're not on shrooms - the wall really is that wavy.

It's just a flesh wound.

Like the movie Titanic, only nobody gets naked.

Mah squishy walls, let me show dem to u.

What was lurking behind a really lovely pottery barn filing cabinet.  If you angle your head, you can see outside!  THIS CAN'T BE GOOD.

Technically, the Category Should Be Ants But Whatever

THE PART ABOUT THE COOKIES

Did I mention I was back from tour yet? 

I can't remember if I said so or not because I'm still so freaking tired.  Mind you, I'm not looking for sympathy here as it's not merited.  Seriously, what could you say?  "Oh, I'm so sorry you're tired from flying all over the country and staying at nice hotels and ordering room service French fries cooked in white truffle oil.  It must have been SO HARD for you to meet all kinds of lovely people who gave you gifts in addition to buying your books."

However, this next story should illustrate my level of exhaustion last week.  I'd had about three hours of sleep the night before the Seattle event because I had to fly out of Portland at the asscrack of dawn to make an early call time for a TV show.  By the time the Seattle event was over, I was a complete zombie.  But because I received so many cool presents that night, I couldn't go right to bed as I had to totally re-pack my bag to make room for all the treats.  (I know, I know.  I told you I didn't deserve any pity.)

As I was unwrapping and stowing, I came across a twee little box wrapped with a ribbon.  I tore it open and found a stack of beautifully decorated sugar cookies and without a second thought, I began to stuff them in my mouth.

By the way?  I inhaled these despite the fact that they:

A) WERE CLEARLY MARKED AS HAVING COME FROM THE DOGGIE BAKERY

and

B) THAT I WAS INFORMED THESE WERE FOR MAISY AND LOKI WHEN GIVEN TO ME.

While eating them, I was vaguely aware that they weren't as sweet as I'd have liked, but they were so pretty that it took me two whole cookies to fully realize what I'd done.

Shameful.

What's even worse is if I weren't basically sleepwalking, I'd have still been tempted to try them.

Double shameful.

THE BIT ABOUT THE ANTS

I'm blaming the exhaustion for my utter and complete hysterical breakdown in Menards on Sunday. 

We needed to buy poison because there are such huge ants in my office that my throat keeps hurting from all the screaming.  (They're the size of wasps without wings.  UGH.)  While Fletch busied himself looking at garden tools, I perused the insect-killing aisle.  I didn't know what to get, so I just picked up various packages and began to read.  Here's the description from the box of Terro that not only prompted me to purchase it, but also caused me to double over and cry all my eye makeup off from laughing so hard:

Attracts and kills all common household ants including Argentine ants, Ghost ants, Cornfield ants, Pavement ants, Acrobat ants, White footed ants, Little black ants, Odorous house ants, Crazy ants, Big headed ants, and other sweet eating ants.

Acrobat ants?

Big-headed ants?

CRAZY ants?

My guess here is that someone who works for the Terro corporation is an extraordinarily frustrated copywriter, e.g. "I have a Master's in English and I'm writing about fucking ants," or there are brands/varieties/species of ants that do some wacky shit. 

Either way, I'm still tired enough to find this very, very funny.

Now it's time for some ant genocide... and possibly a nap.

New Year's State of the Blog Address, 2008

UPDATE:  Thank you all for thinking of my mom - she's gotten over 300 greetings so far and you guys have totally made her day!  I'm taking the link down now because I guess we have kind of overwhelmed the volunteer staff.  Thank you again!

A lot of you guys have been emailing me about what I've been up to as the site's technically been dark since last year. 

But before I get into updates, I've got a request. 

My mom's in the hospital recovering from surgery (short version is she's going to be fine, long version is when your doctor tells you to avoid certain foods for the rest of your life OR ELSE, you should maybe listen) and I found a way for people to send her a quick electronic greeting.*  She's definitely on the mend because she's getting restless, so I thought she'd get a kick out of hearing from anyone who's interested. 

*I'm hoping this hospital has some redundancy/latency built into its network and the act of you guys sending e-greeting cards doesn't cause it to crash or slow down.  I admit I'm slightly dubious because this is the same town where my 4Runner broke down back in 2002 and it took the auto repair shop almost six weeks to fix a cracked engine block.  (I sensed I was in trouble when the tow truck guy showed up and said something along the lines of, "I ain't never seen no car like that before."  Yeah, Toyotas are EXOTIC, ain't they?  Of course they charged us $1500 for a repair that would have cost $5000 up here, so it wasn't a total loss.) 

Anyway, onward and upward.

As for me, I haven't posted because the only thing I would have written was OW OW OW over and over again.  Among other assorted holiday maladies, I had the GENIUS idea to cash out the rest of my 2007 FSA by getting all my dentistry taken care of on New Years' Eve day as I was not about to let that $255 go to waste.

Again, GENIUS, right?

A bit of advice, if I may?  If you ever decide you'd like to shitcan all ten million of your silver fillings and trade them in for porcelain ones because you are vain enough to think anyone cares what the inside of your mouth looks like, keep in mind the process will HURT LIKE A BITCH and that doing them all at the same time is EXTRAORDINARILY STUPID.

Also?

NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT WHAT THE INSIDE OF YOUR MOUTH LOOKS LIKE. 

So, instead of going to any festive New Year's parties, I spent three days crying every time air hit my teeth and sucking down the Codeine Fletch had previously ferreted away from me because he figured I'd have used it recreationally.  (Strong is the force in that one.)  I have high hopes to begin chewing again this week.

What else?  Oh, yeah, I wasn't even going to address this because it kind of isn't worth it, and yet I've gotten enough email to be annoyed to the extent I have to respond.  People, I don't think New Year's resolutions are a bad thing, OK?  And if you've made resolutions, stuck to them, and found ways to improve your life, that's great!  Good on you!  The point of my post was that everywhere I'd gone that day strangers asked me about my resolutions and I thought it too personal a question to pose as a generic silence-filler.  Period.  So please cease and desist attempting to engage me in an argument about whether or not resolutions are effective and sending me detailed lists of all the things you've accomplished via resolution because I don't care, WHAT WITH YOUR RESOLUTIONS BEING NONE OF MY BUSINESS.  Aarrggh.  (And no, I didn't respond to each of these emailers suggesting they resolve to improve their reading comprehension.)  (I blame the Codeine for taking away my edge.)

Finally, the ratinmyhouse situation... two weeks ago Fletch said there was no way any rodent would still be here, what with the six hungry carnivores we keep.  He swore up and down that nothing could survive the killing fields of our house and that the second the guys caught the scent of vermin, their instincts would kick in and it would be over.  Dogs and cats would work together to circle and trap their prey, snapping and tearing and rending flesh before going all Lord of the Flies, putting the tiny rat/mouse head on a stake as a warning to any other who dared cross their paths.

Fletch sounded convincing, yet when I looked at the five furry mass murderers, all snoozing comfortably together on the guest bed, I had my doubts.  (FYI, the sixth killer was in the guest room closet, curled up on my cashmere sweaters.)  Oh, yes, he promised me again and again over the course of his Christmas vacation, that rodent was long gone, so I returned to eating my room-temperature soup and trying not to cry.

A couple of days ago, Fletch had to access a plug in his little back-porch office.  I heard him moving furniture to get to the outlet before poking his head into the kitchen to ask me, "Hey, why do you think there's a hundred pieces of dog food behind the couch?"

"Hmm," I replied.  "I guess maybe because the ratinmyhouse you promised had left?  Didn't."

The good news, and I use the term loosely, is we've definitely determined him (please, God, let it be a him) to be a mouse based on, um, what he left behind.  The bad news is he's evaded every means/person we've employed to chase/capture/kill him. 

Also, the creature in question is definitely NOT Remy from Ratatouille because he much prefers his traps loaded with plain old Wisconsin cheddar over the more nuanced flavors of artisanal Machego and smoked Gouda.  (Yet another unimportant side note?  I thought watching Ratatouille would make me less squicked out over the idea of having a ratinmyhouse and yet I swear my heart stopped beating every time I saw the vermin congregate.)

Even worse, this goddamned creature is turning me into Carl Spackler from Caddyshack as I try to get him with non-traditional means and by non-traditional means, let's just say there's been more running around the kitchen banging pot lids together than I care to mention. 

Last night I decided the reason we haven't been able to flush him out is because we don't know where he's hiding anymore... so I came up with yet another GENIUS idea.  I spread flour out in front of all the places I thought he might be, thinking he'd walk in the flour, leave little powdery footprints and I could ambush him in his home.

Again, did I mention the GENIUS part?

Here's what I learned from this little CSI: Martha Stewart exercise:

• Although they will leave a slash where their tail trails (thus confirming their continued presence) mouse-feet are too small to pick up enough flour to leave tracks.
• Cat-feet, however, are not.  Would you like a detailed account of every place each of my extraordinarily busy cats walked last night?  Because I can give it to you. 
• Stupid pit bulls named Maisy think raw flour is the most delicious treat imaginable and will lap that shit up until the combination of flour and saliva glues her jaw shut.
• Flour, particularly when having been licked to the point of adhesion, will never, ever completely come out of hardwood.  Or leather.  Or wool.

Aarrggh.

So... that's what's been happening around here.

Aren't you glad you asked?

   

THE RAT JUST RAN ACROSS FLETCH'S FOOT...

... and under the stove, in a room full of WORTHLESS cats and dogs eating breakfast.

It's possible that it really was a mouse.

Regardless, I'm going back to bed.

RATINMYHOUSE RATINMYHOUSE

OK, I'm calmer now. 

Somewhat. 

The exterminator is en route and I've finally stopped clasping my knees, rocking back and forth, muttering, "Rat in my house.  Rat in my house.  Rat in my house." 

Here's the situation - again, lest you think we're filthy - Fletch and I ordered exercise equipment and it's in the process of being installed as I type.  We love our gym (West Loop represent!) but some days it can take up to thirty minutes to get there even though it's only three miles away and I find myself skipping cardio when I'm short on time.  Which would be fine if I didn't, you know, have a book on weight loss coming out in the spring.

Anyway, we ordered a deluxe set up - there's a treadmill, an elliptical machine, an all-in-one weight machine, and a heavy bag/speedbag dealie.  (I'm not sure what my life will be like now that I have something to hit, but am interested to find out.)  Point is, it took FOREVER to clean out enough space to get it all set up.  (Yes, we measured wrong AGAIN and we're going to have to walk sideways through the basement now, but it's not like we don't do that in every other room in this place.)  We made multiple trips out to the garage and garbage over the past few days and the basement door was open for quite a while, essentially inviting the rats to come inside where it's warm and nice and happy.   

Today it took the set-up guys a couple of hours of in-and-out to get all the pieces into the basement, hence more open doors.  Again, we may as well have set out a RATS WELCOME mat.  (Technically I should be glad it was only a rat.  Maybe I should count my blessings that it wasn't a bear or a coyote or, considering where I live, a vagrant.  But I digress.) 

Because of all the comings and goings, I locked the cats in the guest bedroom and the dogs in the master.  But since it's been an all-day process, the dogs had to go outside a couple of hours ago.  Afterwards, Maisy and I were sitting on the couch and Loki was positioned by the ottoman at my feet.  Fletch was on a conference call and I was waiting to talk to him before the dogs and I went back upstairs.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.  I turned my head to look, subconsciously expecting to see one of the cats.  Instead I saw something smaller skitter past.  My initial reaction was Oh, look, cute!  Fuzzy!  Pear shaped! until my brain fully engaged and....

RAT!

RATINMYHOUSE!

RATINMYHOUSE!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT!

The rat, looking plump and healthy with nary a care in the world, wandered around the corner from the kitchen and had strolled halfway to the living room before he caught my eye.  With zero sense of urgency, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the kitchen while I sat there paralyzed. 

Did the pit bull , A CARNIVORE, notice the rat five feet away?  No.

Did the German shepherd, ANOTHER CARNIVORE, notice the rat five feet away?  No.

Did any of the four cats upstairs, whose Spidey-senses really should have been tingling to the point they were compelled to hurl themselves at the door, make any sort of noise?  No.  (Related story, guess who paid $1400 yesterday for annual cat exams and now won't be able to go on vacation to the Atlantis in the Bahamas because all four cats require oral surgery?)

Anyway, when we locked eyes I inhaled so quickly and deeply that I sucked all the air out of the house and we passed out for a moment.  When we came to, I very quietly told Fletch there was a rat in the kitchen, in my house, in my house, IN MY HOUSE.  Fletch went to inspect and I mustered every bit of calmness I could and dragged the dogs back upstairs before they noticed, as I didn't want this afternoon to turn into the squirrel scene from Christmas Vacation.  Except with blood. 

Fletch went into the kitchen, found nothing, shrugged, and returned to his conference call, mouthing that it was probably a mouse and more than likely found its way back outside.

Yeah.  Like I'm going to take that chance.

Upstairs, I googled "Chicago Rat Extermination" and began to make calls.  The first place didn't believe me when I said my pit bull - part of the Terrier family, meaning they instinctively go after things that are terrestrial - didn't notice the rat who was practically whipping up a batch of gourmet soup in front of her face.  I eventually convinced them I wasn't A) crazy, and B) living in squalor, but it didn't matter because they couldn't come until Thursday.

I left out the pit bull part when I called the the second place.  However, they kept  telling me about their patented no-kill collection process which I'd normally be all about if they rats were, say, in my alley.  Sure!  Let them live!  Take them to a nice farm in the country!  But in my kitchen, the pristine place where pink and green birthday cake is served?  NOT SO MUCH. 

I talked to a guy at the third place and when I said, "Then he turned the corner," he interrupted me and said, "Hey, it could be a she." 

Really?  REALLY? 

I mean, yay for equal rights and all, but is now the very best time to play the politically-correct pronoun game?  Then he said something about HER being pregnant and I think I may have passed out again.  Clunk.  Hang up.  Dial vendor number four.  Extract promise to coming bearing poison and traps NOW NOW NOW. 

So I'm waiting for the exterminator to show up while my pulse slowly returns to normal and I attempt to unclench. 

UPDATE:  The exterminator can't come tonight.  Looks like I'm going to Home Depot to purchase 10,000 traps.  Perhaps I'll put little bows on them to make them look festive as they're strewn about the house.  BTW, who wants a cookie from my rat-infested kitchen? 

UPDATE:  The vet hospital called with lab results - one cat has early stage kidney problems and another is borderline diabetic.  Obviously we're going to do what it takes to keep them healthy... even though it's going to mean the Vegas trip is off, too.  Sigh.   

UPDATE:  The gym is done and Maisy has already claimed the treadmill for herself.  Yes.  Acquiring a treadmill for the dog.  THAT certainly merits getting rats.

UPDATE:  Fletch still says it was a mouse.   

And Yet the New Treadmill Is Nice

There is a RAT IN MY HOUSE.

RAT.

IN.

MY.

HOUSE.

RAT IN MY HOUSE.

Am hiding upstairs right now, waiting for exterminator to call me back.

(Story to come about really, honestly, not being filthy people - rather,the issue is a basement door being propped open for hours while our home gym being is installed.  But I can't write it right now because THERE IS A MOTHERFUCKING RAT IN MY MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE AND WHY OH, WHY ISN'T THE EXTERMINATOR CALLING ME BACK?)