jennsylvania

Great Job Again, Chicago PD!

Time we called 911 to report an act of prostitution happening in the backyard next door: 12:10 AM

Time the customer, um, finished his transaction and drove away: 12:21 AM

Time the police actually showed up: NEVER O'CLOCK

Time I visit my Alderman's office tomorrow morning, demanding some goddamned answers on why the police refuse to respond in this neighborhood: The second they open

First Ward, YOU SUCK.

Go ahead and grab yourself an iced tea, Alderman Manny Flores, because we're going to have ourselves a nice long chat.

Smokey, Smokey, Smokey

The last post may have given you the impression that I've been doing nothing but buying cute dresses to prepare myself for the tour. 

That's not at all true - it's just that I've purchased almost nothing but Champion t-shirts and mesh workout bottoms for the last year, so shopping for pretty stuff has been a delight.  (Especially since new shoes may or may not have been involved.) 

In case you're wondering, here's what I got:

Available from Nordstrom.com.

(I got these exact same shoes, only in taupe, available on Zappos.com.  They look really comfortable, but trust me, it's an illusion.)

This swirly-skirted dress comes in white, chocolate, or lilac.  I picked lilac because the beads are silver.  I got it at Vive La Femme on Damen Ave in Chicago, possibly the greatest store ever for items size 12 and up.  (Not local?  Buy it on Alight.com.)

I bought these shoes for my book events last year and will be pairing them with the lilac dress.

They are, hmm... what's the word I'm looking for?  Oh, yes, CRIPPLING.  They cause pain to shoot up my spine with every step I take.  Yet they completely dress up shorts and a polo shirt, so you can see my dilemma.

This one's available on LolaandGigi.com.  The weird thing is, I got this exact same dress in person at Nordstrom and the label says Jessica Howard Woman but the one online is by Donna Rico.  It's almost as though these dresses were all made in the same factory in China and someone simply slapped a different label on them depending on vendor.  But that would be impossible, right?  (I also got a boring white cardigan and black shrug to wear over these because I care not to expose my armpits in a formal setting.) 

Regardless, the impromptu fatty fashion fiesta was not the intended purpose of this post but it illustrates my point nicely.  I have 10,000 things yet to do, thus I have been procrastinating like crazy.  This aversion to finishing my tasks has led me directly to the internet.  Normally I'm a lurker - I read scads of blogs but never comment.  But since commenting is much more pleasant than say, reorganizing my closet or raking up the mountain of defrosted dog poop in the backyard, I've suddenly become prolific.

Because I should strive to be more prolific on my own website, I'm going to give you the long version of the key-losing-neighbor from a couple of days ago.  Here goes:

A bothersome family moved out of the house two doors down last month.  No surprise, I was thrilled to see them go.  They bugged me because they had a very nice, private backyard with lots of lawn furniture, but they preferred to gather up all their friends and family, sit on their front stoop in kitchen chairs, and shout to each other, leading to my never being able to watch TV with the windows open for two summers running.  (FYI, it took them weeks to clear out of their house because there's apparently a rule in this 'hood that you aren't allowed to rent a truck or hire a moving van and there's only so much furniture a 15 year old Chevy Malibu can transport in one trip.)

So, it's a Friday night and Fletch has his friend Hurricane Joel over for cigars and rye and Military TV programming.  After Joel goes, I pour Fletch into bed.  (No one survives a night out with Joel.  NO ONE.)  As I'm closing the curtains, I see two huge men park their big red car in the middle of the street.  I notice they start poking around a couple of the other cars up and down the block, including mine.  They don't actually put their hands on my vehicle, but they keep diving under it.  They're super loud and they've got their headlights shining directly on themselves.  I figure if they're car thieves, they aren't particularly good ones.

I attempt to rally Fletch, but all he does is mumble, "Smokey smokey smokey," into his pillow before passing out again, so it's up to me to deal with the situation.  I'm trying desperately to stop going Gladys Kravitz all over everyone's asses because it would be nice if at least someone in the neighborhood didn't hate me.  In neighborly solidarity, I let the situation play out a little longer.  The guys poke around a while more and then I see the bigger of the two guys open up a Zippo and dive under my car again. 

OK, smile and wave at people on my street in an insincere attempt to be more friendly?  Yes.  Willingly allow arson?  No.  I call the police and they arrive in record time.

The police talk to the two guys for a few minutes and then drive away, leading me to assume they aren't criminals and are neighbors who have lost something.  But what?  Maybe someone dropped a stone out of her ring while shoving a plastic potted tree in the passenger seat?  Possibly a wallet fell out of the pants riding mid-thigh on the gentleman with the bass loud enough to rattle my fillings?  Obviously the missing item was valuable enough to keep up the midnight recovery effort.  However, even if they are my neighbors, they're still strangers and I'm not about to dash out in the dark and volunteer to help.   

The two guys continue to light their lighters and dive under cars.  I watch as they leave them open long enough to get hot, then flick them closed and wave their burned fingers in the air.  Sometimes they pause, dust off their knees, and scratch their heads.  Finally, one of them opens his cell phone and uses the dial light to illuminate the ground under my car. 

This little dance goes on for FOUR HOURS.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

I am flabbergasted at their lack of problem solving skills.  As the night proceeds, I find a million different ways to locate the lost object myself. 

I drive to any one of a dozen all-night grocery stores in the vicinity and buy a flashlight. 

I knock on neighbors' doors, explain what I've lost, and ask to borrow a broom, rake, or shovel to scoop out the contents of what's below the cars.

I decide the missing object is a key, so I call a locksmith because the phone in my hand is more than just a very dim source of light. 

I call a friend to help.

I say, "Fuck it," and come back as soon as it gets light out.

At no point would I use my lighter on a McDonald's cup, only to be shocked at its sudden, violent incandescent, thus singeing off my eyebrows and setting fire to the brim of my hat.  I'd probably also forgive my friend for hitting me in the face in an attempt to douse the flames and would not let the situation devolve into a shove fest.  And were I to engage in these actions, I wouldn't blame my friend for screaming, "Fucking burn next time then!" either.

At this point I go to bed because the show can't possibly get any better.  But I have to sleep in the guest room at the back of the house because of all the I-burnt-my-eyebrows-off noise out front.  Also, Fletch smells like a bachelor party.

The following Monday I'm coming back from the gym and the two guys are on the street again, only this time they're busy moving furniture out of their car and into the old neighbors' house. 

Of course they are.

They call me over to say hello.  They're very friendly despite the fact they've only got one set of eyebrows between them.  We chat for a couple of minutes and I learn about the lost key, but I don't mention my having called the police.  I just smile and nod.  Look at me, what a good neighbor! 

Then one of them tries to sell me a box of meat out of his trunk. 

And I... I... I give up.  I excuse myself abruptly and dash into my house. 

Someday I'll live in a neighborhood where people don't set their hair on fire or try to sell me a trunk full of flank steaks. 

'Til then, I'll keep buying pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes so I look nice when I get to meet you all and tell you the stories in person.

This Is Too Stupid Not to Post

Tell me this - who takes a FUCKING BITE out of a loaf of organic multi-grain bread at Costco and then puts it back on the shelf?

(Notice I didn't ask who doesn't think to check for FUCKING HUMAN BITE MARKS when purchasing a loaf of organic multi-grain bread at Costco.) 

(Because that would be me.)

The Final Chapter?

The idiots next door are gone.

For a while, I contemplated if I was being unfair calling them idiots.  Honestly, I never got to know them and it's not like I ever had the opportunity to administer an IQ test or examine their SAT scores.  (And like I, Miss-400-on-the-math-portion-and-seriously-how-did-I-even-get-into-college-with-that-score?, had any room to talk.) 

Maybe the folks next door had good reasons for covering their broken windows with garbage bags rather than panes of glass? 

I began to wonder if the family wasn't really pragmatic and I had no business laughing myself into a pant-wetting asthma attack when their son decided to trim up their diseased tree, wearing a scuba mask and snorkel instead of safety glasses.  And surely there was a good reason they chose not to cut the whole stupid tree down before its rotting trunk collapsed and crushed my garage, right?

Perhaps there were solid, smart environmental motives prompting them to forgo shoveling and simply pour salt directly from the shaker on their sidewalk after every storm?

Could it be they had a higher purpose in mind and they deliberately chose to never mow their backyard, and thus attract all those rats?  (Technically, I can't say they never, ever cut their lawn because that one time I did see them attack their five-foot weeds with a pair of kitchen scissors.)  Speaking of yards, maybe they intended to give back all my empty garden pots that blew over the fence last year and just hadn't had the chance?

It occurred to me that maybe, MAYBE my quick-to-judge-self was being a bit too hard on them.  Maybe they weren't idiots.  Maybe it was just me being a jerk.  (Wouldn't be the first time.)

And then I watched them move.

* * *

November 27 - I'm sitting in my office upstairs when I hear commotion outside.  It's different than the usual garbage-pirate-pushing-a-stolen-cart-full-of-scrap-metal down the street, so I peep out the window and see two burly men forcing a For Sale sign into the frozen ground next door.

My screams of joy can be heard as far as Iowa.

November 28 to December 7 - I log onto their realtor's website almost every hour hoping to catch a glimpse of what's behind their blanket-and-towel covered windows.  I don't find their listing, but do run across a number of other neighborhood properties and I'm horrified/fascinated at how much people are charging for the privilege of owning a house here.  Although, I guess if you want to buy a bag of weed locally or desire to know what traffic on the expressway is like by simply looking out the window, then my street is ideal.

December 8 - SCORE!  The listing goes live!  However, there are no photos, just a description saying the property needs to be gut-rehabbed, like, yesterday.  Pfft, I KNEW that.  Also, the place is already under contract even though all the other homes on this street have been on the market for over a year, most likely because the next door asking price was between three and five HUNDRED THOUSAND less than neighborhood comps.

December 9 - Speculation about the buyers begins and Fletch gets a lot of annoying phone calls at work.

"Who do you think bought the place next door?"

* * *

"What if I sell another book and I have to live next door to a construction site?"

* * *

"Do you think they'll just burn the place to the ground and start over?"

* * *

"What if the assholes who re-did the place down the street are hired to do the rehab and they leave a propane torch on again and almost poison us like they did the neighbors' baby?"

* * *

"What if they DON'T rehab it?  What if a slumlord bought it and turns the place into two low-income apartments and a bunch of loud people sit outside on the stoop and yell at each other every day?  I realize I said the new owners can't get worse than the current crop of idiots, but that's not true.  It can ALWAYS get worse."

* * *

"What if the new owners are a bunch of uptight Yuppies and they think we're the trashy neighbors?"

* * *

Not coincidentally, Fletch starts letting all my calls go to voice mail.

December 14 - A Realtor-type guy pulls up in front of the house next door.  In the past week, wind has caused part of the For Sale sign to come unhooked from its chain on the post.  Naturally, the neighbors have re-secured the flapping piece of metal with an old tube sock.  Um, that's one way to reduce. reuse, recycle, I guess.  The Realtor clenches his jaw before tossing the sign in the back of his SUV.  Does this mean the deal is done?

December 16, 10:00 AM - I wake up to eight inches of snow and the most glorious sight in the entire world - a UHaul truck parked across the street!  I make Fletch get out of bed early so we can sit on the couch, drink coffee, and see what kind of crap the neighbors move out of their house.

I sip and gloat for about five minutes when I realize the people next door are having to trudge through my unshoveled sidewalk to cross the street to get to their truck.  It's one thing to sit and mock them, but if I actively participate in making this move harder on them, then it's ME who is the jerk.  I throw on my winter gear and head out to shovel. 

While I'm working, the kid comes out with a Playskool My First Shovel and begins to clear his own path with his twee little tool.  Since my car is in front of their house, I ask the kid if it would be easier for them if I move it up a couple of houses, thus leaving the equivalent of four car lengths open in front of their place.  He says yes, so I do, and then because I'm not a jerk, I offer to salt their walk.  I don't salt their stairs because they haven't shoveled them yet.  I return indoors to my coffee and quiet snark.

* * *

"Hey, they've been out there a while.  Why do you think they haven't shoveled their stairs?  And why haven't they moved their truck?  There's plenty of room."

* * *

"Seriously, why haven't they moved their truck yet?  They keep walking across an unplowed street with all their shit.  Wouldn't it be easier if they just parked in front?"

* * *

"OK, it's been THREE HOURS.  Surely if someone left with the UHaul's keys, they're back by now.  Every step they take on the street is through eight inches of snow."

* * *

"Now the kid has some friends over there and they're having a snowball fight.  KIDS!  Get back to work!  You're paying for that truck by the hour!"

* * *

"There's the mom and the dad and four open spaces.  Surely one of them has the keys - use them!  It's been FIVE HOURS.  Why are they not moving their truck?  And why do they refuse to shovel their stairs?"

* * *

At some point during the afternoon, Fletch and the dogs slink off to a less yell-y part of the house, yet I can't pull myself away.

* * *

"Stop throwing snowballs, Dad, you're getting the loading ramp all wet!  And kid, you're a sixteen year old boy - you can carry more than a wicker basket and a roll of paper towels!  While you're at it, MOVE THE FUCKING TRUCK!"

* * *

"Why would they turn the truck's headlights on and then walk away for an hour?  Why?  WHY?"

* * *

"The lights are STILL ON.  And no, I'm not going over to tell them.  They keep passing in front of the truck - at some point, you'd think they'd notice.  Jesus Christ, these people are like the goddamned pandas they talked about on Fight Club who are too goddamned dumb to reproduce and save their own species."

* * *

"OK, fine, if I'm driving you crazy, I'll stop spying and go to the ATM and to Target.  But I'm taking my car and I swear to God, if they're gone when I get back, I'm parking in the space they had and FORCING them to move their stupid asshole truck closer to their stupid asshole house."

* * *

I'm coming back from the ATM and I'm stopped at a red light at Elston and Fullerton.  When it's my turn to go, I'm about to cross northbound.  Before I get the chance, I see a big UHaul truck come careening westbound against the light.  All the truck's occupants are screaming and flailing their arms like the Team America distress call.

Of course it's them.  Of course it fucking is.

* * *

"It's 1:30 AM and they're still moving shit.  Doesn't that kid have school tomorrow?  Now they can't get up the ramp because it's too icy.  YOU KNOW WHAT?  THAT'S WHY YOU DON'T THROW SNOWBALLS."

* * *

December 17 - I think they're gone.  They leave their ancient foil-covered screen door open and flapping in the wind.  If it breaks, will they have more tube socks to fix it?  Or will it matter?  The banging finally starts to bother Fletch and he goes over to shut it.  He says the stairs are covered with dirt, as though someone had hauled out bags and bags of potting soil.  There weren't any in the backyard, so the dirt must have come from the basement.  Weird. 

Fletch says the second he touches their door, the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he gets a vision of basement shelves lined with Mason jars, filled with human hands.  He runs back to our house and bolts the door behind him.   

December 18 - The truck is back.  They're still moving. 

December 18 - Still moving, still using the truck.

December 19 - Still moving.

December 20 - Still moving.

December 21 - Couldn't they have hired movers for the cost of renting a UHaul for six days?

December 22 - I wake up to more banging.  This time it sounds as though they're tearing the banister off the staircase on the other side of the wall.  The banging continues all day and at dusk, we see the neighbors haul out a huge stack of unfinished 2x4s and put them in their trunk.  Fletch comments, "There's not going to be a wire, toilet seat, or light bulb left in that place."

December 24 - The truck is finally gone and we haven't seen it/them for a couple of days.  In the garbage, there are a bunch of ten year old computer monitors.  The backs have been pried off and circuitry removed.  "Why would they pull that stuff out?" I ask Fletch.  He replies, "My guess is to keep the black helicopters away." 

December 25 - "Honey, look, they're moving today.  You can't move today.  It's Christmas.  You're either supposed to celebrate and open presents and stuff yourself on prime rib or get Chinese food and go to a movie.  You can't move today, no matter how stupid you are.  You just... can't."

I begin to feel bad.  For whatever reason, they're still moving today and it has to suck.  Moving is hard enough as is, especially when the process is drawn-out.  But today's it's got to be a special kind of hell because it's freezing and it's dreary and surely they have ten million other things they'd rather be doing.

Something odd begins to happen in my chest.  (In Whoville they say the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day.)  As I watch them rubbing their hands together in the cold between trips to the car and wrapping their scarves more tightly around their necks, I suddenly kind of don't want to mock them any more. 

I kind of want to, I don't know, maybe be...  nice.

Thoughtful.  Helpful.  Sweet.

Like, maybe... I could bring them cookies or hot chocolate or something.  You know, be the kind of neighbor that's more concerned with human decency than selling exploitative stories. 

This could be my moment to redeem myself.

I'm in the kitchen, yanking down a box of powdered Dutch chocolate and pulling out a pitcher of heavy cream when Fletch calls me back to the living room.

"Hey," he says, gesturing towards the huddled gray figures out front, "aren't those all your pots that they're loading into their car right now?"

I take a deep breath and pause for a long time before I say, "Merry Christmas, you assholes.  Maybe your new neighbors can make you cocoa."

* * *

Now it's mid-January and I haven't seen them for weeks. 

It's over.

The new owners have placed a giant dumpster in the backyard as they prepare to rehab.  Contractors have been in and out and officials with clipborads have been crawling all over the place.  What's most interesting to me is the first order of business next door was to completely cut down the rotten old tree looming over my garage.

I don't know who owns the place next door now.

But I'm pretty sure I like them.

Merry Forking Christmas

First, I don't know what happened to my Christmas post.  I was fooling around with some stuff on here yesterday and I think I accidentally deleted it. 

I'm not going to recreate it, but here's a summary -

Jen and Fletch think they're all fancy because of their snappy new forks.  Thusly inspired, they attempt to recreate the entire suggested menu from last year's Fine Cooking magazine.

(But first, here are their new forks.)

(And friends.) 

(Get it?  Like a FOX and Friends pun?  No?  Just me then.)

(See?  Aren't they forking gorgeous?)

(All right, no more fork puns, promise.  Am entertaining no one but own self.)

(FYI, they're embossed with bees, which is not a fork pun, and yet seems worth mentioning.)

(OK, fine, none of this would be worth mentioning except Jen and Fletch just ended a seven-year fork-finding odyssey because SOMEONE in this house - not Jen - was obsessed with finding flatware that was sharp enough to stab pasta and ended up trying out every single piece of flatware Target and IKEA had to offer, thus wasting a shitload of money and ruining a lot of perfectly lovely spaghetti dinners with excessive whining of the non-stabby-fork variety.  So when SOMEONE - not Jen - found some forks he thought he could live with at the over-priced gourmet gadget store, Jen insisted he buy a couple of sets so they'd never run out, but he had to promise to never, ever talk about flatware again or else Jen would demonstrate the new forks' superior stabbing power.)

ANYWAY, the day before Christmas, Jen gets second thoughts on cooking her portion of the menu - a chocolate caramel macadamia nut torte.  (Or tart.  Or pie.  Jen does not know the difference and therefore claims the right to use these terms interchangeably.)  Plans are made to get up early and start on pie on Christmas Day.

Jen does not anticipate being up all night on Christmas Eve with stabby stomach pains.  (BTW, guess what Jen got for Christmas?  That's right, gall stones!  Like Jesus's version of a lump of coal in her stocking.)

(Well, that's what she's diagnosed herself with according to WebMD.  Perhaps her doctor will have a different diagnosis when he sees her next week.)

Jen gets a late start on the stupid pie in the morning.  Jen quickly discovers she didn't read past the ingredients part of the recipe.  As she begins to make the crust from scratch, she realizes she does not possess things like a "pastry paddle" or a "pie weight."  Further, she's not even sure what these things are, yet fears they may be important.

Crust number one is completed.

FAIL

Crust number two is completed.

FAIL.

The internet is consulted and she finds out how to compensate for no pie weights and pastry paddle.  (FYI, dried beans, coffee filters, hands.)

SUCCESS!! 

Except she just burned off three hours of daylight/standing rib roast cooking time.

Jen roasts macadamia nuts in the oven using specific cooking time according to Fine Cooking.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen swipes macadamia nuts out of candy dishes and roasts, shaving three minutes off Fine Cooking's suggestion.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen thinks now would be the perfect time to crack open something -pagne or -nog based, but doesn't because her stomach hurts.  Jen is out of macadamia nuts, so she improvises and roasts cashews.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen is hopping mad, particularly when Fletch suggests she simply roast the nuts on the stove where she can watch/control them. 

WHERE WERE YOU THREE SETS OF NUTS AGO, FORK-HEAD?

Walnuts are roasted to perfection.  At 5:30 PM.

Fletch stops heckling Jen's pie-ruining abilities for a moment and realizes he should have started to season the standing rib roast two hours earlier.  (HA!)

Panic ensues.

Fletch fools around with the roast while Jen attempts to make the pie's filling.  She needs to boil the butter, sugar, and corn syrup until it appears caramel colored but Jen screwed up and bought dark corn syrup and filling looks caramel colored from the very start.  Jen boils and whisks and mixture does not change color or consistency so she decides to taste it, not taking into account the fact that roiling, bubbling sugar-butter-syrup might be, you know, hot.

BURN. 

SCREAM.

FAIL.

Mixture is poured into pie-shell where it is supposed to firm up in fridge.

One hour passes.  Mixture not firm.

Two hours pass.  Mixture still not firm.

Three hours pass.  Mixture still pretty much liquid.  Roast not even at room temperature.

Four hours pass.  Jen melts chocolate to put on top of caramel-pie soup.  Jen tosses whole goddamned thing in freezer.  Roast now warm enough to register on meat thermometer.

Five hours pass.  Dinner is ready!  And it will still be Christmas for almost another whole hour!  Food consumed, stomach hurts, pie refuses to freeze, Fine Cooking is cursed repeatedly. 

Forks work out nicely, though.

Kitchen is cleaned, Maalox is guzzled, holiday programming is watched.  (Yes, TiVoed Gossip Girl is considered holiday programming because the Waldorfs and Van Der Wootsens were totally celebrating Christmas.)  Jen checks on pie and finds it's possibly even more fluid than when she threw it in the freezer a few hours ago.  A brief discussion takes place vis a vis whether pie filling could be sold as anti-freeze, but quickly dismissed as roasted walnuts would likely clog up windshield washer tubes.  Jen and Fletch go to sleep.

Jen wakes up in the morning and immediately goes down to check on stupid, stupid pie.  Despite freezing all night, it's still liquid. 

What?  Wait?  Did Jen just violate a law of physics here?

Jen decides to taste the damn thing and in true O'Henry fashion, has to use a SPOON to do so.

Jen decides that heated up, pie will make the world's best ice cream topping.

In short? 

FORK YOU AND YOUR HOLIDAY MENU, FINE COOKING MAGAZINE.

Next up, Jen and Fletch discover the only thing funnier than living next door to idiots is watching the idiots attempt to move...

 

Quickly Losing My Enthusiasm for This Project, Yet Soldiering On Anyway

Setting:  The little alcove off the bedroom where I write.  Fletch is on the computer, I'm putting laundry away in the closet behind him, and the dogs are wrestling on the bed a few feet away.

Fletch: So they'll deliver the shoes free?  And I can order however many pair I want, try them all on, and then decide which I want to keep?

Me:  Uh-huh.

Fletch:  And I can send back all the rejects for free?

Me:  Yep.

Fletch:  And I never have to deal with a salesperson or go from store to store, digging through sale racks to find what I want?

Me:  That's right.

(a few minutes later)

Fletch:  Check out what I've picked so far.

Me: (scanning his selections) Honey, Zappos.com is going to have to use a dump truck to deliver all those shoes to our house.  Maybe you should narrow your choices a little.

Fletch:  I would but I can't concentrate - the dogs are wrestling too loudly. 

(the entire time he's been online, the dogs have been biting each other, diving over one another, woofing, snarling, and picking pillows up off the bed and shaking them like British nannies)

Me:  Pfft.  Welcome to my world.  They beat each other up all day long while I'm trying to write.  You just have to learn to work past the distraction.

Fletch:  Why do they have to do it on the bed?  We have a whole house they can terrorize each other in.

Me: (shrugging) I guess it's more comfortable so they they can fight longer.  (pause) Hey, wait a minute - I just thought of something.  That's why the floors are all springy when you see people in a boxing or wrestling ring, isn't it?  The bouncy floors cushion their landings.  Did you know that?

Fletch:  Um, yeah.

Me:  Oh, wait - is this one of those instances where everyone was aware of this fact except for me?

Fletch: (thoughtfully) What number is greater than "everyone"?  Everyone and a bag of chips?  Everyone and the horse they rode in on?

Me:  Whatever.  Just promise me you're not going to order 900 pair of shoes.

Fletch:  Promise.

"Technically, there aren't 900 pair here."

Blogs to Boots

First, some reminders of upcoming stuff: 

June 6th – I'll be on NBC 10's show 10! at, um, 10:00 AM in Philadelphia. Will I stammer and sweat less than when I was on WGN?  Will I be fined by the FCC for dropping accidental f-bombs? Tune in and find out! 

June 6th – I'll be reading and signing at the Rittenhouse Barnes & Noble, 1805 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, PA at 7:30 PM.   

June 7th – I'll be reading and signing again at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble, 4 Astor Place, New York, NY at 7:00 PM and there are drinks to be had afterwards... regardless of what Jenny Craig says.  (Apparently seventeen dirty martinis are BAD for you.) 

June 10th – I'll be reading, signing, and “in conversation” with Stacey Ballis on the B&N Heartland Stage at Printer's Row in Chicago, IL at 11:00 AM.  Come if for no reason other than ROBIN GIVENS appears right after us! 

July 27th, 28th, and/or 29th – I will not be at that convention and instead will be having drinks at the Four Seasons on one of those days with anyone interested in hearing my advice on turning blogs into books.  (Specifics TBA.)   

Because of the above, this would be an excellent place to post a photo of me posing with the new car with the caption “Knows nothing about turning blogs to books, and yet...” but I am not petty.   

OK, yes, I am totally petty; I just don't have an actual picture of it, but it looks kind of like this.  (The great irony is the only places I've driven it so far are to my trainer and to Jenny Craig.  Also, I gave myself a touch of whiplash because my neck can't handle the fine, fine Bavarian acceleration. Hey, look at me - I'm a human bobblehead!)   

Anyway, I'm thrilled not because we're a two car family again or because I'm no longer trapped in the house every day while Fletch has the car at work, but because this is tangible proof of how hard we've worked for the past four years.  Being able to get financing directly from the car manufacturer probably doesn't seem like a big deal to most adults, but considering where we've been, this is a gigantic leap forward.   

In other news, our old car is now housed on the street and within the first twelve hours of being parked there, it got booted.  One of our neighbors didn't recognize our car (despite the fact I've waved hello to her from it every time I've driven by on the way to my garage for the past two years) and called the police to say it belonged to one of the kids who go to school around the corner.  The police came and found our car legally parked with a permit.  So they didn't waste a trip, they ran a search of all the cars we've ever registered and found three outstanding tickets Fletch had from five years/three cars ago, and we got booted.  We immediately paid the old tickets online and then spent two days arguing with a bunch of city employees who said we didn't have a boot on our car because there were no tickets against this car in the system.  Aarrggh. 

Long story short, all is fine now and the boot is finally off.  However, what really makes me mad is we can't get the police to come when we call 911, and yet they have all the time in the world to find a way to ticket an innocent car.  At least now I know the next time there's a knife fight in front of my house or kids are selling drugs or vagrants are breaking into a construction site, I can call to report an illegally parked automobile and a cruiser will be there lickety-split. 

Also, I'm never waving to that fucking neighbor again.

Also?

Five.   

 

The correct answer is five. 

 

That is, if my question were, "How many assholes have driven the wrong way down my one-way street since I've been sitting at my desk today?"