life according to me

Tag: Neighbors

Getting the mail

I realize with a start that it’s been a while since I’ve been out to get the mail. A while as in days. Remnants of past mail piles have been disbursed from their less than attractive spot on the dining room table to the trash and a basket that seems to accumulate that sort of thing as if someday, one of us may actually look through its contents.

I find myself using the floury fingers of hands recently finished kneading pizza dough to count the days before realizing I also have to think about what day of the week it is. I think it’s Wednesday. So, it’s been almost a week since I’ve walked across the street to get the mail. I’ve never counted the steps, but thinking about it now, the distance cannot be more than 20 yards from door to kiosk. Big yards. Yards created by huge strides that you imagine are at least three feet long.

The mailbox problem is beyond one of memory. Not much comes in the mail these days other than the few bills we’ve still not converted to paperless, newsprint advertisements for local markets’ sales, catalogs I need to email companies to stop sending, and requests for donations to charities I can’t begin to imagine are real. Why bother to get the mail? The routine — once something looked forward to — is more about whether I’ve got my hair combed, am dressed for the day, and wearing something that won’t draw attention should anyone see me walking those 20 yards.

God forbid.

I might not care if the occasional neighbor or dog walker from around the block was pleasant. That she smiled or at least nodded without my having to do so first, indicating she was a happy sort, enjoying the day and glad to be out in the sunshine, breathing the fresh air. But that rarely happens. The one person in the neighborhood who was friendly and knew everyone, who always stopped to say hello and ask about things has moved, and the quiet cul-de-sac is more quiet than it’s ever been.

I picture our small box in the kiosk and know it’s a toss up: it’s either crammed full, or a lone slip is sitting inside. I give in because it’s been so long, picturing the pinched expression on our mail lady’s face — not exactly the friendly sort — as she works to push yet another day’s mail contents into the small opening of our mailbox, annoyed and thinking about how difficult must it be to collect mail on a daily basis. I take pity on her and decide that since Wednesday is also the day I’m supposed to remember to pick up the MoH’s shirts at the cleaner, I get dressed. Sans shoes and sporting a pony that has to be jutting from the back of my head at a 90 degree angle, I venture out the door. Ever present readers are perched on my head. A black tank donned, clean for 15 minutes until I brush my floury hands on it.

Nice.

Luckily I make it to the kiosk without being noticed. No one is around to take stock of my horribly penciled in eyebrows, toenails with specks of a summery color clinging to each, and legs in need of a razor. I unlock the box, relieved it contains our mail instead of a slip requiring that I drive to the post office to collect it. But the box is stuffed. It’s so full thanks to a ridiculously sized Restoration Hardware catalog, that I have trouble wedging the mass from the box. It’s caught on the latch. I try to avoid tearing the contents as I release them, my thoughts lost in the effort. Suddenly, I notice someone passing directly behind me and turn my eyes to see a slight figured woman, older than myself, cap donned, hair fixed, head down and walking at a rapid pace. She’s been exercising and has clearly fixed herself up to do that, wearing well-fitted black and white sweats. But there’s no acknowledgement of me. No interest in turning her head to allow me to make a self-deprecating comment and share a laugh.

Nothing.

I look down at my heels after she passes, trying to imagine what I must look like from the rear struggling with a mailbox and noticing that it’s been a while since they’ve seen the callous remover I use on them. I notice the darkened spot on the leg of my comfortable grey bermuda shorts, remembering with a smile the night the MoH and I made fish and chips. I walk quickly back to the house, head down in determination to get back inside before the car approaching passes. I bury myself in mail sorting, determined to avoid the pile that is inevitable. I’ll feign productivity with this inane task instead of doing something I’d rather do so I can think think about why it’s such a challenge to pry myself from the house.

October 5, 2011
Sunrise and Musical Cars

I’ve spent some time going back through what I’d written at this time last year. In much the same way that I can go through photos, which always tell a different story than words, it helped me understand more than ever, two things.

Some things never change.

The sun will always rise in the morning and when it does, I will always be distracted by the light cast and shadows created by its brilliance. I will struggle with wanting and needing to go outside, but probably won’t even though I truly want to. The neighbors I’ve tried to be friendly with will have yet another car in their driveway, flaunting their strange obsessive compulsiveness to my complete fascination.

Remember Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun? Each day from her balcony, she observed an old man in black placing flowers in a vase in the wall, and each day he ignored her smile as she watched him. That kind of fascination. Except mine isn’t as fascinating, and the last time I looked, I wasn’t Diane Lane.

Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about the sunrise, and I work at changing my determination to exercise my body consistently, but when the sun does rise, I’m mesmerized, then spend countless minutes wondering why that black SUV is centered perfectly in the neighbor’s driveway instead of one, or both of the silver sedans normally parked there. I wonder why they don’t greet me when I’m outside, or worse, hesitate to respond to my greeting without making eye contact. Nothing to lose sleep over, but it keeps me occupied so I don’t have to exercise or write about something constructive — like the body that has changed so much in the past two years, sometimes I feel as if I’m wearing someone else’s. It would be nice to be Diane Lane.

It hurts, and it doesn’t matter whether I’ve exercised or not, whether I’ve had a busy day around the house, or a long day of sitting at my Mac. It hurts. I don’t understand the abdomen that was once so taut, and now is anything but. It’s soft and pudgy, and feels like it did after I gave birth to each of my sons — empty, a bit lumpy, and sore. My shoulders hurt, my back aches, my arms sting, and my hip bones throb nearly all day long, every day. Some day more than others.

I’d say this is quite a bit of change, but to some extent, it’s normal. All I have to do is trawl through the message boards and forums on women’s health websites full of complaints like mine. Words like “debilatating,” “excruciating,” and “chronic” permeate the comments. Most come from women my age — some have had hysterectomies, and some haven’t.

Like I said. Normal. I can obsess over trying to fix it or deal with it.

I’m dealing with it. Sort of.

Everything changes.

I’ve noticed the neighbors spend quite a bit of time moving their cars around. Their garage is meticulously organized, but there’s only room for one of their cars, so often, the second is parked in the driveway. Other days, they’re both in the driveway, side by side. Perfectly. Although they recently bought a new car — no, make that two — they’ve kept one of the older cars. Three cars for two people. Some days, I’m not sure where the old car is, and other days, after they’ve opened the garage, I notice it’s parked inside the garage, with each of the others parked in the driveway behind it. Should one of them want to drive the old car, both of the others have to be moved in order to back the old one out of the garage. Sometimes, all the cars are gone and I wonder where three cars have gone with only two people. I wonder why the lady backs her car out of the driveway, pulls forward to circle around the cul-de-sac, and then swings widely before pulling back into the driveway. Musical cars.

Some things never change.

The sun is exceptionally bright today, this first day of the new year that I’ve been alone in the house. The RTR is back to school, the MoH at work. House guests back to their homes and lives. The old doggo is on her bed downstairs, and the Yack Star curled on a pillow near me.

My coffee cup is empty.

There’s work to be done.

January 5, 2009
I don’t think my neighbor wants cake

I pour cold creamer into my second cup of coffee and set it in the microwave to heat, pushing in my usual 45 seconds. The beeps seem loud in the early morning quiet and I wonder if my neighbor can hear them through the windows that will stay open well into the fall.

I’m a respectable neighbor, but I won’t drink luke warm coffee for anyone. And at this time of year, I’m not closing my windows to keep our sounds of life from annoying a crank next door. I will try to muffle the sharp clacking my extra bold Italian Roast coffee beans make in the grinder, though. That’s not a pleasant sound at any time of the day, but at 6:30am, it’s something I wouldn’t appreciate — especially if I worked late each night.

If you were to walk down our street, you would notice that, like many other neighborhoods today, the houses look exactly like one another. Some are attached, others aren’t, and although they are reasonably sized, they’re lined up right next to one another. It’s quiet except for when the morning and evening commute begins, and other than an occasional dog walker, or nanny strolling a baby, it can seem as if no one lives here. Rarely do children play outside, or neighbors stand to talk between the perfectly manicured strips of lawn. Windows are shuttered in most homes. When a car passes to enter a driveway, the garage door glides open, allowing the car to pull in, and then closes behind it like it was never there.

In the six years we’ve lived here, the monotony of who does what and when is only rarely interrupted. We’ve learned most of our cul-de-sac neighbors’ names, and may hold up a hand in a salute of, “Hey,” and a single nod before heading for the mailbox, or pulling in the trash cans. But that isn’t the case with everyone.

There’s the older man who walks intently from one end of the community to the other, back and forth, quickly, one foot slightly scraping the surface of the asphalt, never acknowledging anyone. There’s the woman at the end of the cul-de-sac with the dark grey Mercedes who drives too fast, and doesn’t brake at the speed bumps, her small body comically bouncing upward each time she hits one. And the tiny woman who walks with her much larger friend, eyes darting from one open garage, or window to the next, watching, and listening. Always aware.

A year after we bought our home, a couple moved into the unit directly across the street and began renovations. Although they were never friendly to begin with, we were doomed after the woman knocked on our door one day to ask whether we’d sign a petition to prevent our homes from being painted. The MoH and I had taken the time to preview the proposed color scheme and liked the new rich tones which were quite an improvement over the pink we then tolerated. Yes, I said pink. Picture a flamingo, and you’d have the correct image. So, no, we wouldn’t be signing the petition. Since others in our area of the complex were against the new color scheme, evidently, there must have been quite a bit of gossip about those of us who wouldn’t help stall the work.

I can begrudgingly admit it’s impressive that after working each day, the man has come home for four years to work on that house. It must be beautiful inside. But considering that a kitchen and bath contractor took care of that aspect of his renovations, I wonder exactly what took four years. They seem to be very precise, so perhaps there has been a lot of detail work.

Each Sunday morning after I drag my ugly self out of bed, I can hear the couple already outside for their weekly car washing session. Same time. Same day. Every week. I don’t have to worry about going out to scrounge for our newspaper in my hag state, because after all these years, I know they won’t look at me. I could don my son’s Arnold Schwartzenegger mask and they wouldn’t acknowledge my existence. Instead, they remain bent over their task, rubbing intently at some microscopic mark on a window. I’ve been tempted to yell a chipper, “Good Morning,” to their backsides, and flippantly inquire about whether they’d be interested in wiping the week-old seagull crap off my windshield while they have the Windex out, but know the humor would be lost on them.

It’s funny what you learn about people you see regularly but never talk to. My dog barks when she hears the UPS man stop outside their house almost daily. That they spray the lids of their trashcans with Windex and wipe them more frequently than I clean my fridge. That in the five years they’ve lived here, only once have I ever seen anyone visit them. Or that the one time the woman actually spoke to me, it was to question why the gardeners had killed the grass in front of our house, and when I explained it to her, then ask what bermuda was, anyway? That she doesn’t like the color of the house next door to her because when the sun hits it, the reflection distorts the color of the inside of her house. That she stays up late at night to read our community by-laws. That you can, on more than one occasion, look directly at the man and say, “Hello,” and he does not respond.

I’ve thought more than once that somehow, this must be my fault, and that I might share a cake or some bread with them. That I’ve done something wrong or that I’m not friendly enough. That my dog leaves yellow spots on the grass where she pees even though I try to rinse it with water. That our cars aren’t as shiny as theirs. But at some point, I know that some people are just not capable of being friendly to those who don’t share their opinions — even if it’s about something as inane as paint.

August 4, 2008
Wordle and Other Excellent Friday Distractions

Have you spent time with wordle yet?

It’s fun if you don’t have anything better to do. In fact, it’s perfect if you do have things to do, but just can’t seem to motivate yourself to do them.

Cleaning the house seems more attractive by comparison considering the dark mood I was in after spending some time pencil writing last evening. I actually accomplished something while sitting in the late afternoon sun, thinking, remembering, questioning. And then my neighbor came home and wandered over to talk. This would be the neighbor who feigns neighborliness until one’s out of earshot. The one who puts his trash out on Sunday morning to sit for an entire day so the rest of the neighborhood can enjoy its loveliness. The one who who seizes any moment to mention that our dog barks when she doesn’t. And who lets the spindly trees that are supposed to be a hedge grow without trimming them. Robert Frost had something to say about good fences making good neighbors, didn’t he?

Sometimes, I like to think that things happen for a reason, and the exercise was enough to make me really wonder about whether some aspects of our lives need to be put down on paper — even if they’re fictionalized. And if they actually happened, then why the need to fictionalize?

I’m just not sure.

But my mood was with me through the night, and it wasn’t until after I returned from my early walk with my friend that I realized the mood was gone, my spirits lifted.

That’s what exercise, non-stop blathering about everything under the sun, and laughter will do.

Of course, finding more interesting ways to distract myself also works. I haven’t been able to decide whether I look best in Mucha,

Modigliani,

or Botticelli,

but I’m leaning toward the latter since we saw La Primavera, The Birth of Venus, and other beautiful works while we were in Italy.

Well, and the eyebrows are right. Nonexistent. Or very nearly.

In my next life, I will have eyebrows.

Perhaps I will write about that.

August 1, 2008
Dear Neighbor Lady…

Is this Day 5 of NaBloPoMo? Jeez. Are we having fun yet? It has served one purpose thus far. I’ve corrected my time/date stamp and so now it’s actually correct! Amazing. Too bad nothing else is. Well, except my letter writing, which continues today and is sponsored by: Milk Bone Dog Biscuits…

November 5, 2007

Dear Neighbor Lady,

I’m sorry I don’t know your name, although there’s no real reason I should. I’ve seen your house on my walking circuit for the past couple of years now, and outside of its very verdant landscaping, its situation at the end of the block, and what must be a spectacular view, it blends in with all the others. And I’ve only seen you outside once in all that time, carefully avoiding making eye contact as I passed, even though I was ready to say hello and smile, practicing good neighborlyhoodness.

Of course, that was until you attached the sign to the front of your garage door.

It only took a few seconds to glance around and notice that you had just finished adding upgrades to your driveway and the retaining wall surrounding the rear of your home. Although the stone, which appears to be a type of limestone is new and attractive, it isn’t something I’d choose (the flecks of ore that glisten in the afternoon sun are a bit gauche), it is an improvement over the concrete and stucco that it replaced, and I’m sure your neighbors appreciate the added value to their property and have already checked with their realtors to obtain comps and analyze possible gains that they may brag to one another about incessantly.

What exactly were you thinking when you wrote that sign? And what grievous error had someone committed? Surely it isn’t the eight million service and delivery people who crawl in and around our area throughout every day. Or the landscape maintenance trucks. I’ve noticed they only park alongside the curb, and never in a driveway. Was it the errant traveler, looking for a particular address who became lost and needed to use your driveway to turn around? And if so, did said lost soul make the mistake of turning the wheels of his car at a standstill, thereby making black rubber skid marks on the pristine stone intricacy of your driveway?

I’ve wondered as I’ve walked by, and imagined you out there, down on your knees, compulsively scrubbing at the marks. Wait. No. I’ve gotten that wrong. Standing over someone you hired to scrub away the offending black marks.

In any event, clearly, you antagonized someone out there in the world. Someone who just couldn’t let a sleeping dog lie. Someone who just had to pick up that bone you threw in your driveway. Someone who came in the night, in the dark, and most likely had their particular brand of fun marring the perfectly arranged stones in your driveway. How could you not know that there are people in this world who live for those opportunities? Who thrive on what you may as well have just invited them to do.

Perhaps a better sign might have been: “To the Jerks in the World. Please vandalize my new driveway. I paid so much money for it, and it’s so beautiful, I think you should break your neck to figure out a way to destroy it. Please hurry.” Yes, your neighbors might have thought you crazy, just as they most likely do because you put a sign on your garage. But still.

It must have been a mess, because I can see where the sealant has been eaten away by whatever caustic substance was used to remove whatever the vandals poured on it to damage the stone work. I imagine it’s paint, as it’s a favorite of the ~~stupid entitled as*h*les~~ adolescent pranksters who toss it out of their cars at night onto the freeway so oncoming cars can drive through it, not realizing they have, and then the next day when it’s too late, find a Jackson Pollack design all over the wheel area of their cars. That is, of course, less harmful that the ones who throw large rocks from their cars into the windshields of oncoming traffic. But still.

And then you put up the second sign. I’d have never known anything had happened if the first sign hadn’t been there, because the driveway actually looks fine. The stone looks as stone should; it’s coarse and not very shiny. You know, like the stones in the roads in Europe that have lasted hundreds of years with all kinds of traffic and weather, war, and general use.

What were you thinking? And how long will you leave the sign on your house, causing everyone to wonder what you’re really about?

Take it down, and give yourself a rest.

Sincerely,

A neighbor.

p.s. I certainly hope that you do not have a bumper sticker adhered to your car that cautions others to not tail gate.

November 5, 2007
German Cars and Scarlett O’Hara

Sometimes, life throws a few tacks in our paths when we should stop, take notice, and reassess. I’m probably not one to be discussing how to handle these particular opportunities since I’m currently the poster child for What Not to Do. I am better now, though, at recognizing the tacks in others’ paths so that they can avoid problems that will only make things worse.

The MoH is swamped at work right now. Buried. Shot. Flatter than a pancake. His tongue’s dragging on the ground. So unfortunately, his optimistic, “I’ll be home by early afternoon” this past Friday didn’t pan out. It rarely does, as he’s usually the last one in the office taking care of what needs to get done. When he did finally arrive, he let me know that he’d be working both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday is normal, but Sunday? During football season? Like I said. Swamped.

He set the alarm for 7AM, but he’s stuck in that cycle of not being able to sleep because he thinks about work while he’s sleeping, then wakes up. I guess he was awake for over three hours, so the alarm snooze button was hit several times over the course of an hour Saturday morning before he dragged himself to the shower, and then without making his morning cup of tea, went down to the garage telling me he’d be home after 2:00 or so.

Some time passed, and I could hear noises coming from the garage. It sounded like the MoH hadn’t left yet, so I tentatively went to find out what was going on, and he opened the door right as I was ready to turn the knob.

“What are you still doing here?” I asked, cheerfully, because I’m never sure what kind of reaction I’ll get. I glance behind him to notice his car still in its spot in the garage, and the hood and trunk open. “What’s wrong with your car?” I continued, wanting to help because the MoH is not mechanically inclined in any way on this earth. I know he could be, but he’s just not interested, and that’s fine with me because he throws things occasionally when he’s forced to deal with small parts that don’t look like numbers. “What’s it doing?”

“It’s not doing anything. That’s why I’m still here,” he told me, more resigned than pissed off.

“Get in and start it,” I told him, nudging him back to the car. He complied and instead of an engine turning over and the resulting low growl of the mean, lean, driving machine, all we got was a series of loud clicks.

“The battery’s dead,” I said, because it sounded important, but I found myself thinking it could also be the alternator. Ugh. Or the starter. No, the starter makes a funny sound when it goes, but it had been so many years since I’d experienced that, I went back to the more attractive battery diagnosis instead.

“Do we have jumper cables?” he asked, looking at me and knowing what my answer would be.

“Uh. No,” I told him, remembering that when my oldest son was “en casa,” we were completely spoiled, because he completely understands cars. He’s the one who would have the jumper cables. Not the MoH or myself. I sighed and asked him to get out his car manual being the nerd I am, thinking that somehow, the manual would provide some insight. At the same time, I couldn’t help but think that the MoH was just not supposed to go to work that day. It hadn’t been more than a year that his car was completely gone over after the conclusion of his lease, and presented as a “certified pre-owned” brand-spankin’ sorta new car. And since we were the former owners, what could be wrong?

What is up with the way car engines look now days? Everything has some kind of a cover over it and is so tightly packed together, none of it resembles anything recognizable. I used to be able to find a battery in my old Honda Civic and my ’72 Jeep CJ-5. I knew where the alternator was, the carburator, the radiator…Now I can sort of tell what the engine is, but it’s covered in some kind of a case, too. By the time my daydream ended, the MoH was searching through his car manual trying to find where the battery was. It was a bit sad, the two of us standing there, feeling like we were supposed to know something — anything — about automobiles.

He ended up digging in his wallet for his Roadside Assistance card and headed into the house before I told him to take my car and that I’d take care of his cute little, very high maintenance vehicle that shouldn’t have any need for any attention. Ever. Especially considering that my trusty car is in dire need of a check up and just keeps plugging along. How long has the “Service Needed” light been glowing on the dash?

I called the Roadside Assistance number sheepishly wondering if one’s garage counts as “roadside,” and feeling very incapable. The woman who answered the phone was the goddess of all customer service representatives as far as I’m concerned. I’m still in awe just thinking about the experience. I don’t think I’ve ever been called ma’am, or Mrs. W. as many times as during that phone call. N. I. C. E. I was told a service vehicle would be out within 60 minutes and that he would jump start the car. If that didn’t work, I was to call her back so she could send a flatbed tow truck out to pick up the car and take it to have it looked at. I wondered if they’d send a blanket to keep it warm on its ride as well.

Well, the guy got there in 20 minutes — just enough time for me to put real clothes on, brush my hair, and slap a bit o’ make up on. I didn’t want to scare him off with my usual hag state. The car started right up, he told me to let it run for about 20 minutes, and then things would be fine. I didn’t have to sign anything and was told to have a nice day. Okay. Roger that.

But I did make the very conscious mistake of deciding to go down the hill to Trader Joe’s even though I’ve never liked driving the MoH’s car. Even though I don’t know where any of the buttons are. The store is only five minutes away, and I needed things for a friend’s luncheon, so down the hill I went, making it half way there before my constructively pessimistic brain began its litany of reprimands about:

1) choosing to use the car when we weren’t really certain whether anything serious was wrong; 2) leaving the Roadside Assistance card on the kitchen counter right next to the car manual; and 3) having a cell phone most likely hidden and uncharged in the depths of my purse, and wouldn’t that be a bummer if the car didn’t start and I had absolutely nothing to help myself.

I enjoyed my shopping time at Trader Joe’s anyway. Right up until the car wouldn’t start after I’d loaded all my groceries into it. Yes. Then.

Since I’m the epitome of a calm human now, I had nothing to be upset about. No pressing issues, no stresses or strains. Absolutely not a one. So after taking about ten minutes to find how to hook my cell phone adapter to the cigarette lighter and smiling the entire time, I tried to call the MoH to tell him my news. There was enough juice in the battery to operate the windows, dash readouts, and so I knew I’d be able to use my phone. The MoH had put his cell on message, so didn’t have to listen to me tell him about my morning adventure so I called my VBF who was supposed to be getting ready for the luncheon (no, not crustless sandwiches and tea) for our mutual friend.

She had jumper cables.

It took her a while, and in the time I waited, I began to worry that she couldn’t find them, or that she was trying to call me, but didn’t have my cell number. None of my friends have my cell number, because I don’t really use it. I know. Stupid.

I sat there, beginning to think of alternate plans, like guarding the empty parking stall to my right which was close to the battery. Luckily, I had watched the technical service guy that morning and at least was armed with a modicum of possibly worthwhile information. But then two females pulled into the space, sitting there a while discussing a drama from their Friday night. Bummer.

Plan B was to call the RT and have him read me the Roadside Assistance number, and they could send a tow truck to the parking lot to get the MoH’s car. I could have my VBF take my groceries to my house, and I could wait for the tow truck. Then I could walk home since I had my tennies on and god knows needed the exercise. If that isn’t making lemonade outta lemons, I don’t know what is.

But my VBF pulled up behind me right about the time the two females came out of the store, so things were looking up. We’d get the MoH’s persnickety car jump started, I’d be able to make the treats for the luncheon, and we’d figure out what to do about the car later.

As Scarlett O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.” Right? And one would think that this situation would be much easier a Southern Belle having to eat potatoes out of the field and saving Tara, wouldn’t one?

Well, fiddle-dee-dee. I couldn’t figure out how to open the MoH’s hood. My VBF couldn’t figure it out, either. So that got her wondering if he could open her own. We had already begun to giggle because it was a bit embarrassing. But at least she had her car manual.

She didn’t, however, have her glasses, and she’s more blind than I am. Even in the sunlight. At least I can see in the sun. With my arms extended as far as they can and my head tilted back so I can squint down my nose at the small print.

I called the MoH to find out where the hood latch was, and thankfully, he answered his cell. He quickly let me know where the release was inside the car that would allow me to release the latch in the grill. I told him not to worry, that I’d figure things out, and to go back to work.

When I got off the phone and went to help my VBF find her own hood latch, a nice middle-aged couple who had come to Trader Joe’s expecting a pleasant morning of grocery shopping and not two intelligent women fiddling with their cars, were headed over in our direction. “Can we help?” and “Pop the hood,” began their offers of help. But we laughed and said we didn’t know where the hood latch was. So she got on her cell to call her husband, and about the time that she was opening the driver side door to follow his directions, another young Indian couple came up, the man saying in his musical accent, “the release is usually right next to the door beneath…” he clearly knew what was going on and headed over to figure it out. And so did his wife, because by the time my VBF had ended the conversation with her husband, the woman had popped the hood. Hilarious.

But then we had to find the battery. So out came the manual again. The young couple couldn’t help us here, but after locating the battery — in a bizarre place behind the back seat? and talking about repositioning her car so we could hook up the jumper cables, the young man asked, “So if you need a jump, I can do that.”

We both looked at each other and laughed, because somehow until that point, no one had thought to ask that very simple question.

“She doesn’t need a jump, I do,” I said, surprising the young man, because through all the commotion of trying to get her hood open, and find the battery, I guess he thought that I was trying to help her. Goodness.

So they popped their hood, spent some time trying to get the cover off their battery as my VBF remarked that all the casing on car engines must be some attempt to force us to need mechanics for the simplest things. You know, like finding your battery. And hooking up the jumper cables.

The Moh’s finnicky little car started right up. Gushing with thanks to the good samaritans who were headed in to finally do their shopping, I quickly headed for home before something else could happen. After unloading the groceries, I left the motor running a good 40 minutes before shutting it off, letting it rest for five minutes, then trying it again to see if it would start.

I did. Hmmm…did I not let it run long enough before heading down to the store?

When the MoH arrived home from work several hours later, I had him try it again, but reminded him to let it run again to recharge if necessary. All went well. Things were fine.

Until this morning when he went out to the garage to go to work.

So there it sits. Waiting for later.

Sometimes you just need to pay attention to the signs.

October 8, 2007
Mint Juleps end the BBQ Saga in Paradise

What a busy weekend — but a great one considering the less than pleasant shopping expedition to The Home Depot last Thursday. Perfect weather — something we were seriously due considering all the very grey days we’ve had since early May. There was good company, time to relax, and of course, our standard lots of good eats and the accompanying perpetual mess in the kitchen.

The MoH was able to snag the truck at The Home Depot on Friday after work — not bad for a second attempt. I guess all the DIY folks were already partying hearty, leaving the rental for those of us who are challenged in the “Managing to get a BBQ to their House” category.

“So who put the BBQ on the truck?” I asked the MoH as he jogged up the stairs to change his clothes after pulling the behemoth alongside our curb.

“Me and a guy at the store.”

“So then I can help you get it off the truck, right?” I responded like there was some sort of a legitimate comparison between my own strength and a guy’s–any guy’s. “It should be fine,” I mumbled, already wondering. “I’ll just look for something we can lower it down onto.” This had worked in the past when the two of us had to place a large TV into an armoire. Now that was scary, I remembered, picturing one or both of us bent backwards with an enormous TV ready to fall back onto our heads as we fell through the hardwood floor. Or the time that we moved the same armoire up to our bedroom after getting a new TV.

We lovingly refer to ourselves as The Doopids, because we can get things done most of the time, but it’s somewhat of a 3rd class circus act in the delivery. “All elbows and a-holes,” as my mother would say before pushing one of us away from the task and getting it done herself with a few grunts and a snort. Sadly, my mom wasn’t available to remind us that one buff senior can handily put to shame two younger desk jockeys — or act like she could.

But the MoH had his own plan in mind, and after locating the trusty toolbox that the RT and I got him for Christmas a few years ago, went to work removing the heavy lid and drawers to make it a bit lighter for yours truly to be able to tackle. “So what if it doesn’t work?” I asked while he was shoving screws and washers into his pockets. You know, one of those motivating questions that only a wife can ask at that perfect moment. Always the planner, I.

“Well, we’ll just have to go and knock on doors to beg neighbors we never talk to for help,” he replied with just the slightest twinge of sarcasm, head still bent to his task. *On a Friday evening at 6:30?*

But then the guy next door who plays the piano at a posh restaurant appeared from his garage, calling his usual greeting. He was quickly into his car and backing out of his driveway, all the while asking what we were doing, like it wasn’t plainly obvious. “Hey, you guys need some help?” he continued in reverse, paying more attention to the MoH on the back of the orange truck than his rear view mirror.

“Sure, if you’ve got the time,” the MoH responded, cracking me up, knowing he wasn’t serious.

“Well, I’ve got a slipped disk, but I’ll do what I can,” the Piano Man answered before I could interrupt.

“You’re not going to help if you’ve got a back injury,” I called thinking about not wanting to be law suit bait. The MoH had the BBQ to the edge of the truck by this time, and was getting ready to lower it down to the chest of drawers I had dragged from the garage. I figured if we could lower it to sit a bit on that, we could muster up the energy to lower it the rest of the way to the ground. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought it was going to be, but the Piano Man was out of his car at this point doing what he could to “spot” like we were engaged in some bizarre gymnastics routine.

No sweat outside of my wondering whether the MoH would slice his throat on the edge of the damn thing because his grip was much lower than mine and the weight of it was leaning heavily on his neck. Done. Well, not the neck slicing — the lowering the thing to the ground. We hoisted it up the outside stairs and around back to its new home in only a few more minutes. Voila. Not bad for a day-and-a-half’s work, two stores, eight employees, a truck, 550 bucks, and two less than mechanically inclined and not very muscled suburbanites. The MoH was back in the orange flatbed and back to The Home Depot, but just over the 70 minute mark that would keep the rental in the 20 buck zone. Just another jab to make it burn.

Finish things off with two hickory-roasted pork tenderloins, and a top sirloin, served with Henry Bain Sauce and some Chow-chow. I know. I’d never heard of it, either, but my wonderful father-in-law is from Kentucky, so I decided to delve into a Kentucky influenced southern spread for our Father’s Day celebration. Yes, there were Mint Juleps all ’round. I did quickly discover that I’m not quite up to sucking bourbon and mint flavored sugar thorough a straw. My father-in-law told me that it was okay because after all, Mint Juleps were most likely the reason the South lost the Civil War. Sheesh. No doubt. *hick*

Thank goodness that BBQs last us about eight years. Now to rid ourselves of the beast sitting in the garage. Oh, to live in a neighborhood where you’re allowed to put an old BBQ by the curbside with a sign that says, “Free” like we used to be able to do. Not here. Our trusty monthly newsletter included a pleasant reminder that we will have a more attractive community if we remember not to put our trash cans out until after 6PM on Sunday night, keep our garage doors closed, and park our cars in our garages instead of in our driveways.

I have noticed that residents park their cars outside the community gate when they’re trying to sell them. Well, until somebody gets pissed off that there is an “inactive” car sitting in the street and they call the police to ticket it. Which the police do. Whatever.

So maybe I’ll roll the Great Black Grease Beast down the street tomorrow morning when I set out for my 5:30 walk. A bit of WD-40 on the wheels will certainly keep it from making as much noise as the paper lady’s truck, and I’ll park it on the curb with a big sign that says, “STILL WORKS.”

June 18, 2007
Will Schlep to Help Sale

My sister has had her former home on the market for months. Her husband retired from the navy and took a job across the country, so they slapped a For Sale sign out front and blew out of here in January. Unfortunately, the house is still there, unsold, and no one seems to love it. And it’s a bit stressful trying to manage this business when she’s so far away. Things just don’t go the way she’d like them to all the time.

So she flew out from VA this past weekend to make sure her recent investment in trying to get her house sold in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood works. What that entailed was rounding up the family mules: Gramster Mule, Betty Mule (yours truly), and Officer Mule, the brother who keeps his distance from the female crazies in the family. It also involved rounding up as many yard tools as possible– either by begging, borrowing, or stealing — to get the whole curb appeal thing done, because all her yard tools moved to VA with the family. And most importantly, it meant checking out what she’d very recently paid $20K for on the inside to get the old homestead securely into someone else’s hands as soon as possible (new counters in the kitchen, new appliances, new light fixtures, new light switch plates — yes, I said light switch plates, and new hardware for the front door). It seems reducing the price $100K wasn’t enough for the fickle and taste-lacking Paradise bargain shoppers, (Example: two women who offered $70K under the asking price, with no money down, wanted $20K out of escrow in cash, and could they please rent it cheap and live there until escrow closed?) Uhhhhhh…..And the turnip truck you just got off of is parked where? So a bit of surface glam was called for, as well. You know, staging the house. You’ve heard about it on TV. But the price tag was so high to have furniture sit in the empty house, that props had to suffice. Tricky.

Who figured that after she took a red-eye flight out here and hit the ground running — or digging — that it would rain. And not just rain, but black clouds, wind, a perfunctory bolt of lightning and single clap of thunder just to make it official. But this didn’t stop our dusting and polishing, or our trip to The Home Depot for flowers and bark, our furious activity, or our end of the day sleepover in my mom’s absolutely freezing casita up in big, big hilly type mountainettes way east of Paradise. So freezing that we slept unshowered, with lots of clothes on, thinking that the dirt on us helped a bit with insulation, and that her head-light could double as a light to read in our dirt by. Or maybe ambient heat for our hands. Open and say Ahhhhh……

But we were halted in our fervor to get the place spruced up by the pond that the storm left on the side of the house. So much rain, that the “low spot” pond threatened to become a lake. The low spot that the realtor frets about where the downspout from the gutters sinks into the ground. Where the downspout appears to connect to some unseen drain that will conveniently, and efficiently take away the rain water. But no. The downspout just goes into the ground. There’s no drain. Not the thing an anxious to sell her house person wants. Not the day before the Grand Re-Opening Open House. Not.

The family mules set to the task of leveling a portion of the side yard, digging around the seemingly non-functional drain, and generally spiffing the place up and hiding the pond. And it worked pretty well until we wanted to walk on it, and it had a gelatinous feel to it — all quivery, and spongy. But we whistled while we worked, anyway, gossiping loudly about the neighbors who were in their yard next door, surrepititiously doing yard work even though my sister said they never went out in their yard. Some of us groused about the ridiculous hairs realtors split in doing their work, while blindly over-looking things that should be focused upon. I’m thinking you’ve got to have a bit of stoopidity in your system if you can say things like, “…and maybe you can put a bit of mulch around the roses while you’re at it…” on a Friday afternoon when a couple of rear ends are in the air , heads bent to their task of weeding, turning soil, and trimming brown plant edges. I just don’t think they get it. They seem not to see all the good things.

For example, you have to walk through the pool area to even see the roses. Or to wander up to the back part of the property to remember where the trampoline used to be, and where fruit trees are in bloom. And it’s quite the pool area that has hosted some pretty great parties over the years. My mom once broke some bones in her hand swinging on the rope before launching herself into the pool like the boys were doing. Pool floatie water polo battles were fierce. And many a young girl played water princess, exhibiting exotic underwater poses, and featuring gymnastic feats. The jaccuzzi? Well, the banana mudslides went down well as we stewed ourselves to a prune state. It’s a bit strange seeing it so empty and to know that as much as a family once loved it, others don’t seem to notice what made that family happy living here. In the end, it’s just a house, and there seem to be millions on the market in Paradise right now.

And the neighbors. Oh my gawd, the neighbors. Outside of one person who graciously invited the soaked, muddy, and fairly ugly group of us over to have wine and snacks after it became too cold and rainy to work, the rest were fairly grotesque in their behavior. Two were seen across the street smack-talking the fresh, deep green color of the front door, which couldn’t possibly pass the architectural committee’s approval. So we hopped into the car and took a cruise around McNeighborhood to write down the house numbers of those individuals who also had “painted” doors, instead of natural woodgrain doors — some in dire need of refinishing. Or houses that had beyond ugly screen doors, or fences in need of repair, yards in need of care, or just plain butt-ugly anything in front of the house. Routinely, neighbors drove by, slowed down to gawk like we were performing nude rituals in the yard, and to maybe slink over to the For Sale sign and take a flyer with up-to-date information. By the end of the day, the flyers were all gone. All in the hands of neighbors who anxiously waited with bated breath to see what the house could sell for. Waiting to know if they may continue to have the opportunity to brag to one another what they think their houses are worth — whether they actually are or not.

But my sister is going for the jugular. The house is going to sell or else. So she’s dug in there today with my mom, camped out in the back yard — mostly to keep the neighbors out, and to make sure the realtor is actually doing something to sell the house. — like answer questions about it that prospective buyers may have. What a concept, huh?

And when the house does sell within the advertised range this week, the McNeighborhood comps are toast. People will have to get off their high horses and get real about their property values in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood. Perhaps thinking about the place where they live as being a home with a family and memories thrown in instead of a house that has a market value would be a great start. But the experience was enjoyable because my family did the work together — something that doesn’t happen often now. Being able to help in this little way just sort of cemented in the fact that my sister and her family are really gone from this home, and living on the other side of the country. Snif!

April 23, 2007
Grey days and Flying Snails

I’d forgotten how peaceful it is on grey days in Paradise. I used to love this weather when I was working because it was cool, and I could wear sweaters and jackets that helped me dupe myself into thinking I looked thin, or perhaps, thinner. Warm, sunny days meant no jacket and blouses whose buttons bulged at the bust or trouser waistbands that cut in painfully at the waist, revealing a rather unnatural indentation through any knit top I wore, more noticeable from the rear than from the front. I won’t discuss exposed arms protruding from sleeveless shells. Yes, grey days have their merit.

But it has been extremely grey for days now, causing me to think about all the perky people in the world who thrive on sunshine. I’m beginning to see why they enjoy it now that I don’t have to wear anything but pajamas, sweats, and yoga pants. I’ve thought about all the college kids who come here for spring break to relax and party, and know they’re probably fairly pissed off about all this June Gloom business in March.

Even though my only intention in going outside this morning was to gather up the brown cuttings I had left in piles a week ago, I soon found myself reaching through the plants with the hand rake to straighten things up a bit. I love doing that. It’s so satisfying making all that dirt look so clean, but there’s a drawback when you are supposed to be “cleaning up.” The patio was again covered with brown, moist leaves, spent blooms, and snails that had been dragged from their hiding places and were now helter-skelter making a run for it. One by one, I hijacked the slimy plant wreckers in mid-flight and threw them over the wall where, at some point, a car would put them out of their cracked misery. Exactly what part of the food chain are they anyway unless someone like me exposes their soft, mushy parts to organisms looking for a snack? One of these days, some unfortunate walker is going to get whacked in the head and I’m going to have to run and hide.

I could hear the woman next door, upstairs on the phone. From her vantage point, I knew she could see everything on my patio and was probably thinking I was nuts raking in the mud in my pajamas and chucking snails in the road. She has gardeners that do her patio. Thank goodness the RT scooped the poop yesterday. Ever the cool one when I’ve been caught, I paused to take hold of my coffee and acted like I was sizing up the situation (which was sort of true because I still haven’t planted those flowers I bought on Saturday). I moved toward the door so I could slink back in the house, leaving yet another mess outside to turn brown waiting to be picked up next week. Such a tiresome cycle of inefficiency. But as I made it inside, I saw my new pair of Fiskars sitting near the door, and knew I’d have to go back out again. What difference did it make anyway? I’d already gotten rid of all the snails and it wasn’t like I was slinging dog turds.

The Fiskars were a vast improvement on the pruners I’d been using for the past year. But that’s usually the case when you are in the habit of leaving them outside to get rusty each year and then throw them away. Unruly vines of honeysuckle, woody begonia stems, and dead lavender sprigs soon joined the mess scattered across the flagstones, but things quickly began to look better. A dove called mournfully nearby, most likely waiting for me to go back in the house so she could drink from the fountain. Nearly finished, I scraped and swept the pungent cuttings into a large black bag and tied it off to take to the trash.

I’m waiting for the day that I see a neighbor peering through their blinds to wonder what it is I carry out from such a small garden in those huge, plastic bags.

March 26, 2007