Less than fabulous (more news about the toilet fountain)

Remember the house with the toilet and sink fountain in my neighborhood? The poor next door neighbors are trying to sell their house. A for sale sign went up last week. They should just put up a sign that says “Free To Good Home” on their front door because, seriously, no one is going to buy the house. First and foremost, it is sort of unfortunate looking to begin with…it is on a street that is in decline…and, oh yeah, the house next door has a toilet in the yard!


The house next door to me is in foreclosure, but I’m lucky – the bank seems to be taking better care of the lawn and landscaping than the owners did. So, despite the fact that the foreclosed home has caused my home value to plummet, thereby chaining me to my home and neighborhood for eternity, I can’t complain about overgrown rose bushes or grass. Despite this little sliver of sunshine in my ridiculous neighborhood, I’m a bit off-kilter this week.

It all started when I went “out” on Sunday night. I’m too old for that! The worst part was, it was a visit to my favorite neighborhood bar and at 11 p.m. they started letting people SMOKE in the bar. Michigan has a law (that I LOVE) that requires all bars and restaurants to be smokefree. This issue is very close to my heart so I was absolutely disgusted and outraged. The smoke caused me to high-tail it out of there (thankfully, because 11 p.m. is past my bed time on a “school night”) but not before I told the bartender that allowing smoking is against the law and that I would be filing a complaint with the health department immediately. I’m thinking I won’t be welcome back there with open arms any time soon…

I have this irrational fear of falling off the elliptical at the gym. I’m not sure why – I just do. Of course, it was completely unjustified and irrational until yesterday…when I fell off the elliptical at the gym. At least it was a somewhat graceful fall. I held on to the machine for as long as possible (thank goodness it did not fall on top of me!), resulting in sort of a slow motion roll to the ground. Graceful, I know.

This morning I was ready to head out the door for work, sporting my favorite gray pencil skirt. I bent over to pick up my running shoes and I heard a “ziiiiip.” My zipper had split. At least it happened in my home and not at the office – that would have been embarrassing. I realize this is a “first world pain” (by the way – if you are on Twitter – First World Pains is fun to follow) but, it is embarrassing and I tend to share embarrassing things in the name of my blog all the time (see last blog post as prime example).

I suppose my off-kilter feeling is heightened by the fact that: 1) Crime is up in the ‘hood (shocking, I know) and I have to be away this weekend for work and 2) Of all places, I have to go to Missouri this weekend. Those of you who are long-time blog readers know Misery/Missouri and I are not friends.

I would say wish me luck, but I know all will be fine and I’ll escape Misery unscathed. Do me a favor and wish some luck to the poor home owners next to the toilet house. No wonder their home is sort of unfortunate looking - if the home next to me had a toilet fountain I would be more than off-kilter, I would give up on life!

How do you measure a year? (or 5 days)

One hundred thirty three hours, thirty minutes (to the tune of "Seasons of Love" from Rent). One hundred thirty three hours, thirty minutes.

What could you do with that time? It breaks down to five and a half days or so.

One could use that time to take a trip, learn a new skill, volunteer in their community, or....watch 817 condensed (key word here, people) episodes of "General Hospital."

Yes, it has happened...I am writing to you with tear and mascara stained cheeks because I have come to the end of the(infamous) Robert and Katherine storyline. Tear.

While watching the breakup scene I was totally transported back to 1990 (totally! Totally was still a totally relevant word because 1990 was practically still the 80s) and the damn turkey cake (you have to see the clip or know the story to understand it).

I was out for drinks with a friend tonight who is up to speed on my Robert and Katherine obsession viewing and I explained I had come to the end of the road and started to talk about the turkey cake when she interjected, "Yes, I know about the turkey cake." She also referred to my "viewing" as a hobby. Yes, hobby is a much more sane sounding word. Hobby. Sure. Hobby.

Damn.

Clearly, I am permanently traumatized by that stupid turkey cake. I'm like Chandler on "Friends." You know, traumatized by pilgrim holidays (or in this case turkey holidays). Speaking of trauma, I can't believe this breakup made me cry. Clearly, my cold, unfeeling heart is not as black and shriveled up as I would like people to believe. Double damn.

In the event I am in the position in the future where I am proposing marriage to a man ('cause let's face it, I'm not exactly fighting off potential suitors so this is a real possibility), for the love, someone remind me not to propose using a turkey cake or any other baked good. If it didn't work for the skinny, blonde, rich concert pianist (Katherine) it sure as hell won't work for me!

Next up? I (totally) discovered "Melrose Place" on You Tube. So...next time someone asks me about my current hobbies I will have two words: Melrose. Place.

Hey, at least this new hobby is getting me out of the 80s and in to the 90s. That's progress.

In another life

Ever wonder what your life would be like in an alternative universe?

From time to time I get a glimpse of mine and that's because another woman with my name is living her life in Los Angeles and, on occasion, I receive her emails.

We have the same first and last names and I would imagine our email addresses are nearly identical.

When I first received the info about "my" new Nissan purchased in LA I freaked out thinking I had been the victim of identity theft. Then I realized that I had received some random emails to "me" that were definitely not to "me" a few months prior and that all these messages were intended for West Coast Jen.

Recently, I started getting more detailed, personal emails for West Coast Jen and I must admit, they're sort of freaking me out but they're also very intriguing.

Based upon the emails I've received this month, I learned West Cost Jen has a child named Emma. Emma is messed up. Big time. She has issues at school. So many issues she has a whole team (Team Emma) lending her emotional and extra academic support at school. Every time I get an Emma email I shudder. Can you imagine me with a kid so messed up she needs a whole team to support her? So sure, I probably would mess up a kid...but I would not handle it well. When would I have time to obsess over the latest J Crew catalog and Kate Spade's summer line?

West Coast Jen also has a baby daddy named Brad who seems like a total prick. Worse than Brad is his (I presume) wife, Leslie. Leslie works at the NBC affiliate in LA. She sent West Coast Jen a nasty email about "Emma's worksheets" to which I finally responded, letting Leslie know she had the wrong Jen. (If you are interested, Emma has these worksheets that she doesn't want to do but they only take ten minutes. Leslie was accusing Jen of not doing them enough with Emma).

Jen also has a friend (personal assistant?) named Stephanie setting up all kinds of crazy appointments for someone named Lucy. I'm thinking Lucy is code for Emma because, why would Jen care? Unless Jen has two effed up kids...because Lucy's appointments are crazy. This week Lucy is going to "Neuro-Fit" and vision therapy. I finally responded to Stephanie to let her know she has the wrong Jen. The thought here was Lucy missing her vision therapy and brain development appointments may spell disaster. Poor Jen is already getting beaten up about Emma's worksheets! What would happen if Lucy was a no show for her appointments?

Last night I got to thinking about West Coast Jen and her messed up child/children, her ex-husband/baby daddy and his bitchy wife/woman and how much I do not envy her. She lives in LA and probably can't even enjoy the great shopping, restaurants and beach time because of all her personal drama. On the other hand, I don't have baby drama and would enjoy close proximity to the Pacific but, let's face it, I'd be even more broke than I am now so I'll just stay put.


I'll stick with my furry children and my single life, thank you very much. 
 
Next time my mind wanders off wondering about the roads not taken, I'll think of West Coast Jen. Getting her emails is sort of like when I'm in New York City and I spy New Yorkers in their apartments and wonder about their lives. 

Wait, it's totally not like that. After all, I would give my right arm to live in a tiny New York apartment to live the broke but fabulous life in New York....but you couldn't pay me enough money to live West Coast Jen's life!  

Everybody's heard about the bird

I enjoyed an exhilarating run this evening after work - one of those runs where I actually got "in the zone" and felt true mental clarity I seem to only achieve while running (note to self: install a treadmill in office at work).

I ran on a paved trail less than two miles from my house. It is one of my usual running spots because I can stop there on my way home from work to get a run in and because it is so close to home.

On the post-run drive home, I followed a beaten up Buick down a narrow city road. We stopped at a red light. The light turned green but the Buick didn't budge.

In my neighborhood this could mean a number of things, including but not limited to: the car stalling out at the light because the car is such a piece; a broken turn signal because the car is such a piece; operator error because the driver is drunk or high (this is my neighborhood, after all). Irritated that we were just sitting at a green light - and suspecting the beaten Buick intended to turn left but the driver just didn't feel like using a turn signal - I beeped my horn.

What happened next was surreal.

As the horn blew, a tiny brown hand emerged in the back window. Clearly the hand of a toddler in a car seat. Then, the tiny middle finger slowly unfolded.

I had a flash of Mini Me giving Austin Powers the finger.

This was even worse. Because it was a toddler.

Yes, I was flipped off by a toddler.

Nothing says welcome to my neighborhood like being flipped off by a kid in a car seat.

You and I ( You, you and I)

We.

Single girls only use that term when talking about hanging out with their girlfriends. The term "we" is rarely used in mundane but oh-so grown up phrases such as, "We went to church and then the grocery store" or "We cooked a wonderful dinner, ate and did the dishes."

For a short period of time one of my single friends thought she could be a "we."

Why you ask? Well, she thought she had a parasite.

Turns out she doesn't, but she got the news after she went ahead and named it.

We had a lot of fun talking about all the things she and her parasite could have done together, turning her from a "me" to a "we."

Personally, I'm sad I have no excuse to write her a poem I planned to title "My Parasite and Me."

Ho hum. Better luck next time.

I call it a toilet, you call it a fountain

To-mato, tom-ato, po-tato, pot-tato...toilet, fountain?

A couple of weeks ago I walked the 'hood looking for potential housing violations. Ok, I was actually walking to the local pub to meet a friend for a beer but it was a great excuse to look for housing violations.

I found one that I thought was a real zinger, too: A home with a toilet and a sink in the front yard.

Gross, right?

In retrospect, the toilet and sink seemed strategically placed but, really, who would purposely have a toilet and a sink in their front yard?

Someone in my neighborhood, of course.

Tonight at my neighborhood association meeting my community organizer informed me she filed the report of the toilet and sink to the city. When they investigated they discovered the toilet and sink are a fountain.

Yes, a fountain.

Someone apparently had the brilliant idea to say, "Hey, I know what I'll do with this old sink and toilet, I'll turn it into a fountain system because it will look lovely as a permanent fixture in my front yard!"

And, the kicker? I know, you're wondering how this could get any better. The kicker: It has been there for eight years.

Eight years.

And I'm the first person to complain about it.

And, since these items are "a fountain" they can stay.

Lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be (another day at Family Pantry)

Spring arrived in the 'hood today! The warm weather wasn't the only indication - the other indication was the fact that the streets were crawling with 'hood rats as I made my way home. I knew I needed to get a run in today and had a gut feeling any run through my neighborhood would be nothing short of an action-packed adventure. After all, the warm weather always brings out the freaks.

Toward the end of my run a Michigan State Police SUV flew through a stop sign and I knew something was up. I know my 'hood well so I knew exactly where he was heading - the Family Pantry. Family Pantry is this really trashy "convenience" store in my neighborhood where you can get your smokes, Jack Daniels and lottery tickets with your Bridge card. For your convenience you can also buy crack here. Quite possibly with your Bridge card. Yes, it is crack central. Every week my crime report shows an arrest (or two) for selling crack in the parking lot. After awhile you would think the drug dealers would "get it" but, alas, they don't (perhaps they are smoking too much crack themselves).

As I turned the corner near the Family Pantry, sure enough

Not just the city police - the state police had descended upon the Family Pantry. This is serious, right? Of course, I had to walk by for a closer look.

All these crazy people were still there mulling around in the parking lot, while an officer slapped a purple latex glove on his hand and another stood there in a bullet proof vest scanning the crowd. Purple glove was searching this tan car owned by this woman -

Yes, that is her and her CHILDREN. And she's sporting a shirt that says "Vagina is for Lovers." Yes, "Vagina" not "Virginia."

Nothing but class here in my neighborhood. Of course, I was helping to "class up" the joint as I stood across the street from this scene snapping photos and giggling like a school girl looking at a Ryan Reynolds calendar.

As I nearly tripped on an empty Five O'Clock Vodka bottle on the sidewalk I simply smiled. After a long day in Indiana, it sure felt great to be home!