Wordless Wednesday (Gem Sweater Edition)

I’m Not Cut Out For These Clean Streets.

I’m bored.

Out of my mind.

As in Spent-Two-Days-In-My-Jammies bored.

As in Looking-Forward-To-A-Trip-To-The-Grocery-Store bored.

As in Actually-Cleaned-The-House-A-Little bored.

The problem?

I hate the suburbs.

A lot.

Last week man found me in our bedroom staring at my computer and blubbering like a psychotic quietly weeping all over a torn tissue.  I’d been ruminating over photos of my old neighborhood, of the coffee shop where I hung out, of a  street that I could navigate with my eyes closed…

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, handing me a new tissue to replace the one I’d demolished.

I remained silent.  Well, unless you count the mewling.

“Well…?”

“I…” I began, but lost my nerve. 

He stared at me.  Stared through me.

“Baby, I love you, and I love our life, and I’m so glad I’m here, but…”

“But what?”

Then, with all the emotion of a guilty spouse divulging the excruciating details of a torrid indiscretion, I pulled in a deep breath and blurted out the following words:

“I-I-I H-haaaate the Sub-bur-bur-(choke)-burbs!”  And then begin to sob.

The confession hung in the air between us for what felt like forever.  He stood in heavy silence as I blubbered and bawled over and over again “I hate it!  I hate it so much!  I’m so sorry, but I hate this town!”

I watched, helpless, as he pulled a screwed up face.

He got all tight lipped, like I’d just fed him a lemon.

His eyes watered.

Then he began… To laugh.  Hysterically.

“FINALLY!” He chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye, “I’ve been waiting a year for you to admit you hate it here!”

“W-what?” I sniffled, coughed, wiped.

He sat on the bed beside me and wrapped his arm snugly around my shoulders.  Respectfully he tried to contain his giggles.  Thanks.

“Baby, nobody in their right mind likes it here.  I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with you because you keep saying you like it here.”

“I lied.”  Sniffle, wipe, weep. “I didn’t want you to think I was going to up and leave someday.”

“Oh, Baby.. I wouldn’t think that!”

Thanks.  Not only am I bored, but I’m boring and predictable to boot.  Not to mention stationary.  I feel better by leaps and bounds now.

After he graduates, we’re moving.

What Do Garden Gnomes, The Eiffel Tower, Rain Boots and Coach Sneakers Have In Common?

I can’t leave the house without adult supervision anymore.

At the very least some sort of electronic monitoring device.

Or possibly a shock collar.

This past Wednesday I went to Pier One because I needed a new coffee mug. I came out with a complete set of China.

Before that I went into Target for… Honestly, I forget what I went in for, but I left with a couple of pint sized garden gnomes and a pair of sock monkey bedroom slippers. Are they not all kinds of awesome?



Be that as it may, they weren’t what I’d initially gone in for.

Then there was the rain boots I got while looking for new work pants.



Another trip to Target a week later landed me this adorable, but useful for nothing but ascetics, Eiffel Tower candle holder. We’d originally gone in to look at desks for me, but they didn’t have the one I wanted. (Had I actually paid attention to the web site, I’d have known that.) Instead I got something I thought would look cute on the desk that I don’t actually posses yet.



I know.

That brings us to this afternoon when I insisted Man take me to the mall so I could find something to wear to The Video Game Symphony. I found a Yoshi tee shirt at Hot Topic-- a store I only go into anymore when I want to torture myself with the reality of being at least 15 years removed from anything even remotely cool. (Do they even say “cool” anymore?) That reminds me, who the hell is this Justin Bieber? There was a wall of tee shirts dedicated to this kid’s face. Since when am I so out of touch that I have no idea about popular culture? This reminds me of Grandpa Simpson when he said “I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it, and what's it seems weird and scary to me, and it'll happen to you, too!”



But I digress.

So I got my shirt and I should have known to leave the mall immediately.

However, there’s a problem.

Sitting square between myself and the exit closest to the car?

The Coach store.

And there’s a new pattern in the window.

Ladies and Gentlemen, an addict knows they’re going to use before anyone else does. Perhaps there’s something in the air surrounding them that buzzes with relapse-- or maybe it’s just a certain kind of craving that takes hold at the most base level of the soul-- but the addict knows even before he knows. I knew when I stepped through the door that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The sales girls saw me coming a mile away (perhaps it was the large Coach purse already slung over my shoulder), and they descended on me like a pack of back-alley crack dealers that just saw someone twitch. The bag, the matching sneakers, the scarf, a wallet and something called a “wristlet” which is just a tiny purse big enough for a pack of cigarettes, a compact and possibly a house key, were all thrust into my hands. It was all “NEW NEW NEW! Just released Friday afternoon! MUST HAVE! MUST HAVE! Isn’t this adorable? And this…? And this would look so cute with this!”

Once in my hands, a fabulous, brand new, designer purse is harder for me to let go of than puppies.

It was dizzying. I mean literally, I became dizzy and disoriented. It was like one of those movies when all the characters’ heads grow to the size of HR Puff N Stuff creatures and words become unintelligible. They had just about talked me into dropping every cent in my wallet when I threw up my hands in the universal sign for “Back da F* up!” and stepped away from them backwards, the way one would an advancing pack of brain-hungry but incredibly snappily-dressed zombies.

“Just give me a minute here, ladies. I need to take a breath before I make any decisions.”

I grabbed Man’s hand and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and a little perspective.

Five minutes later I marched in that store with every intention of explaining to them that—thank you very much, but I’d be back next week for the purse when I had a little more cash to move around. (Creative Economics I call it. I should teach a class.)

Which I guess wasn’t a lie…

Since I came out with the shoes.

I Have A Feeling The Dog Lady And I Are Going To Be An Ongoing Saga All Summer…

Blah.

I was in a terrible mood all day. (I seem to find myself in this mood once every 28 days. Go figure)  Like the kind of mood that causes me to want to kick in the throat anyone who looked at me funny. 

Or seriously. 

Or at all. 

As a matter of fact, the simple infraction of being anywhere in my presence was kick-to-the-throat-worthy in my eyes today.

(Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to work this morning.)

Speaking of things that make me want to punch a staple into the webbing between someone’s toes… The Dog Lady. (The story begins here.)

It seems Mister Steven “I’ve Gained A Few” Segal has labored up onto his winded white horse and trotted off into the sunset, leaving me to deal with Old Drunky and her three tiny terrorists on my own.  I’ve considered everything from valium laced Milkbones to borrowing the neighbor’s Pitt Bull. (It’s a dog-eat-dog world, right?)  However, I don’t actually hate small dogs--I just hate their irresponsible cheap-beer swilling elderly owners-- so neither option sits well with my conscience.

Come see me after two more weeks of that incessant barking and ask me about my conscience.

Anyway, I think I’ve formulated a plan.  Next time I venture into the back yard I’m going to record those little dogs yapping, yapping, yapping at me.  Then, next time I’m alone in the house I’m going to load up the recording, set the biggest speaker I can find in the window of our house closest to a window of hers, and turn it on.

Continuous loop.

Top volume.

All day long.

And when she finally sobers up long enough to figure out what’s going on, she’ll either realize the error of her horrible dog-ownership ways, or she’ll toddle over to my house to ask me to turn the sound off.  At that time I’ll calmly explain to her…

Who am I kidding?

I tried to warn you…

The Secret Failed To Mention That The Dishes Can Be Mystical…

I’m as happy as happy can be!

Well, I’m as happy as happy can be, having completed her set of Pier One place settings. 

We can now have two friends over for dinner, and have matching salad bowls, appetizer plates, dinner plates and coffee mugs to serve them with.  That is, provided mom sends me the other two sets that are sitting in her storage facility in Jersey.

Aren’t they just adorable?

They’d discontinued the pattern on the big serving tray, and it was the last one in all of existence (I swear!) marked down to $26, so I picked that up as well.

Now we can eat our Domino’s pizzas in class, baby!

And now for the sentimental back-story…

My mom started buying me this set when I gave up on my treacherous party girl life and moved into a quiet little apartment by the shore.  She provided me with a set of two, because she said that according to The Law Of Attraction, a single woman should always keep two of everything.  It attracts to her home a romantic dinner for two.

So I sat in my quiet apartment eating Chinese take-out off of my adorable plates, wondering who was coming for dinner.  I’d admire the quaint little rooftops and palm trees, imagining what a place like that would be like.  I pictured myself walking hand-in-hand with someone in this neighborhood—exploring storefronts and kissing at the crosswalks. (I know.  Stay with me.  I’m getting to my point!)

Then Man came into my life and I wound up here in New Orleans.

As we were putting the new set away tonight I told him about the Law of Attraction thing and why my mom bought me two place settings. 

Then I got online to send her a picture of something.

I found this photo I took of the French Quarter from atop the Sheraton downtown….

 

I was thinking something a little more tropical at the time, but… We’re only one climate up from rainforest, and we do have palm trees, so I’m callin’ it a win.

Okay, enough of the mush.  Regularly scheduled snappy blogging resumes tomorrow!

It Is, As Some Admiral Once Said, A Trap.

Tsk tsk…

And here I thought the internet was chock full of nerds, gamers and sci-fi geeks such as myself.  Things have changed since the 90’s.  I remember a time when the interwebs were the province of the socially challenged Star Wars/Trek fanatic.  Now anyone with a wi-fi connection and an iphone can access our little corner of the universe.

Nowhere’s safe for us nerds, dorks, dillweeds, and geek-burgers anymore.

Sigh…

That was a photo of Admiral Ackbar, by the way.  He’s the guy in Star Wars who declares “It’s a trap!” .0005 seconds before Imperial Forces blew everything to Hell and back.  Thanks a bunch, Admiral Obvious.

  Now that you’re in the know, you should find this amusing…

 

Or maybe I really am just that big of a nerd…

Next “Wordless Wednesday” I’ll try to be less obscure.

Or maybe I’ll be even more so…. ;)

Wordless Wednesday (Ironic Edition)

*nudgewink*

 

I Don’t Have Children. I Have Shoes. My Shoes Are My Babies.

There’s a species of fly in Southern Louisiana called The Crane Fly.  It looks like a giant mosquito, but it doesn’t bite.  Nor does it do much of anything aside from buzz around your head, your windows, get into your house and annoy you-- either directly by landing on your ear, or indirectly by sending your cats into a frenzy.  Other than that, the Crane Fly has no purpose.

As a matter of fact, I read somewhere that the Crane Fly exists only to mate and then die.

Off the top of my head I could name 20 people in my town alone who seem to be taking their lifestyle cues from this largely unnecessary species of insect.  Out of the 20, I encounter at least 10 on a daily basis.

All ten of them have at least once given me shit about my certain life choices.

You see, around here I’m a freak.  Something ungodly, close to evil. 

I’m 33, I’ve never been married and…

Drumroll please…

I don’t have kids.

By choice.

*cue old horror movie music*

Listen, I’m not about to go on a rant bashing motherhood.  Nor am I an active member of the SSCCATAGAPP.  (Well, not always.)  Parenting is a noble and respectable thing.  Kids are great, what with them being the future and all.  They just aren’t for me.

To my ovaries I’ve said “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Up north I could declare this little fact about my childless status to a round of nods and sounds of “Mmm-Hmmm” from other childless 30-somethings, and even a few mothers.  Having your first baby after 35 isn’t uncommon, and I know a few who waited until 40.  The decision to make sure your life is just so before you introduce new human beings into the mix is totally understood, if not welcomed.  I mean, we’re all packed on top of eachother up there, anyway.  No need to add more people to the crowd.

In the South?  Well, that’s a whole other story.  I can’t answer the “Do you have kids?” question without a round of gasps, pitiful looks and an interrogation about the functionality of my reproductive organs.  I think it’s funny that it’s the only explanation anyone can wrap their heads around.  I must be malfunctioning in some way.  It can’t be possible that I just don’t want to.

Sadly, the same reaction isn’t given to the never married thing.  That doesn’t bother anyone.  But how dare I not fulfill my womanly obligations by not procreating by the time I had my third period!

I even had one girl declare “Pffft!  Well you too old to have chirren now!”

Pardon?  WTF is a chirren?

Or the girl who told me she was done having her children at 27.  Apparently menopause sets in decades ahead of time down in Deliverance country.

I thanked her on behalf of the rest of the country for not subjecting us or our taxes to any more versions of herself.

Then there was the woman whose two children live with her sister on the other side of Lake Ponchatrain who wanted to tell me what a gift motherhood is (while she breathed bourbon all over me).

I’m not even touching that one.

I’ve finally started answering the “Do you have kids?” question with a series of snarky retorts:

1. Kids?  Oh, I can’t.  I’m allergic.  Whenever I go near a kid I break out into hives. (Almost sort-of true.)
2. Nope.  I have stuff.  And all that stuff is going to be exactly where I left it this morning… Without a peanut butter and jelly sandwich crammed into it somewhere. (To which the parent entertains me with stories of expensive things that have housed rogue sandwiches… As though that’s somehow going to sell me on motherhood.)
3. I don’t have children.  I have shoes.  My shoes are my babies. (A quote I heard on Desperate Housewives one afternoon just before I took a nap.)

Answers 2 & 4 once got me a raised eyebrow and an angry “So you’re saying material things are more important?”

Um… Yes.  That’s exactly what I said.

I mean, it’s not like—In the immortal words of Apu Nahasapeemapetilon-- “this country is dangerously under populated.”

So get off my back.

Coming To Terms With The Monster I Created.

Was it utterly naive of me to think it impossible to become a widow at the age of thirty-three? 

I’m too young for all that black shawl, damp hankie stuff, right?  Thirty is the new puberty or so they say.   I should be in the prime of my life-- laughing it up somewhere with other pubescent thirty-somethings about how we managed to stave off adulthood for one more decade.

But no.

Here I am.

In silence.

It’s been going on since Christmas, but I’m only just now coming to terms with the terrible events of those nights.  I introduced him to “The Game” in the first place, and the culpability for what happened next has weighed heavily on me ever since. 

Now I go to bed alone, hearing the echoes of what went down in that alley—what goes down in alleys just like it every night all over the world—reverberating through the dark corridors of my conscience.  I sigh heavily into the lonely night, and clutch his pillow before drifting to sleep, waiting for footsteps in the hallway that I never hear coming.

I dream about the garbage strewn streets, the sound of the car as he navigated uptown, downtown, mid-town, in search of the next mission…  In search of an escape.  I’d sigh heavily in his ear, but he didn’t notice.  He was too busy becoming a master of things that didn’t fit our little suburban world.  Of outsmarting the police.  Of slipping in unnoticed, getting the job done and slipping out like a wraith in the night.

And that’s what he has become to me. 

The people around us tried to warn me.  They explained to me that once you introduce a man to things such as this game, he would be lost to it forever.  But he seemed to eager to learn the ins and outs of how things worked.  I thought it would be fun for a while.  An escape from our usual pick-up-the-mail, dinner for two, clean the closet on Sundays lifestyle.  He was getting bored, I could tell.  He’d stopped hanging out with his friend Mario weeks before.  I thought this might add a bit of excitement to our lives.

Then, the inevitable happened.  The image has burned itself into the forefront  of my memory.

Shot down in the middle of the day.  Executed on the street like some worthless animal, and for what?  Was the life of this otherwise decent and wonderful man worth this?  I say no.

The official story is he was in possession of a small sack of diamonds belonging to the Russian Mafia, but I know the story runs much deeper than that.  Someone was sending a message.  His screw-up cousin Roman owed money to powerful and merciless people.  Was it a case of mistaken identity?  Perhaps.

Personally, I believe it was payback.  I think this was an act of retaliation for the time the men he worked for sent him into Fu’s Chinese Restaurant to assassinate the powerful and malignant Mr Fu himself.  You don’t just get away with things like that, you know?

All I have left of the man I love is this photo I took just before it happened….

That’s right, Ladies and Gentlemen.  I am a Playstation Widow.

Don’t cry for me, I brought this on myself. 

After all, I did buy him the damned thing for Christmas.

 

… What?!?

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner. Someone Really Should.

Let me show you something…

That’s a picture of my “desk.”  A folding table pulled up to the edge of our bed.  So when I point to the bed and tell company “This is where the magic happens.” what I mean is my intellectual magic.  Unless, of course, Netflix has sent us a movie.  Then my computer ends up on the bed and my “desk” becomes an eating-in-front-of-the-tv table.  My computer becomes “that warm thing” the cats curl up around on the bed.

Speaking of the cats, that reminds me…

This is a mostly empty corner of the livingroom allotted for the sole purpose of an old cat bed. 

This is where the cats choose to sleep:

 

Two prefers the ottoman.  Two has also gotten a little pudgy over the winter and doesn’t fit in the corner-cat-bed. Any bigger, and I’m gonna start calling him “Three.”

 

Sidney, when she’s not sleeping on the table under the lamp, snoozes on a kitchen chair.

 

Fanny prefers keeping an eye on the knives.

There’s a fourth cat, Puffy, who enjoys spending his time napping in the driveway.

In other words… No cats in the cat bed.  Ever.

This?

This is a mission oak style corner desk I found at Target.com this afternoon.  Not only does match the rest of the furniture in the livingroom, but it fits snugly in that empty corner by the window. I wouldn’t have to keep my coffee on the floor beside the bed, running the risk of forgetting it’s there and knocking it over every time I get up.  There’s a cute little drawer where I could neatly keep all the little scraps of paper I write blog ideas on throughout the day, and I can just picture my file box on one of those shelves underneath.

Not to mention, I wouldn’t spend hours a night sequestered in the bedroom like some Phantom-Of-The-Suburbs style shut-in.

I mean, I’m just sayin…

Cinderella’s Diamond Encrusted Pooper-Scooper

 

You’ve heard it a million, zillion times in your life.

So why are you still searching for your fairytale ending?

Stop wasting your time. Stop searching for Prince Charming in every man you come across. He isn’t there. He isn’t coming. There are no frogs to kiss. There is no magic apple. There is no Fairy Godmother waiting in the wings to turn you into the perfect princess, no mice in the walls with exceptional gown-tailoring skills. A pumpkin is just a pumpkin, be it after midnight or ten-thirty-six in the morning.

No. Fairytale. Endings.

Period.

Look at it this way: Should Prince Valiant ride up to you on his big white horse to sweep you off your feet and take you to his castle on the hill, you know what you have tomorrow? A big load of horseshit to clean up.

Once we graduated from crayons to pencils, we became too old to get wrapped up in this Disney-fed happily ever after crap. Yet, here we are– some of us well into our thirties and forties– still finding ourselves repeatedly disappointed when it turns out our new-found prince farts in his sleep or would rather watch the game than turn an eye in our direction. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m here to tell you: There isn’t a man walking this planet who doesn’t fart in his sleep. And frankly, so do you.

“Happily Ever After” only happened if Cinderella and Prince Charming dropped dead by the end of that week.

Relationships, if they’re going to work, require work, but for some reason we don’t want to do it. We want to find that “soulmate,” and we think that once he’s found there isn’t a stitch of work to be done beyond the utterance of those three magic words. If you’re still clutching with both fists that belief, stop. You’re on the express train to disappointment-ville and it’s going to crash soon.

The problem is we tend to mistake that new car smell of a budding relationship for true love. Those first few months seem like the absolute embodiment of everything we’ve ever wanted in love and before you know it, we’re hooked. We’re addicted, quite literally, to the rush of new love. (Studies have been done about the chemical reactions that happen in the brain when we fall in love, but that’s another blog for another time.) At first it’s perfect! It’s the fairytale I’ve been looking for! This guy is everything I’ve ever wanted! My new boyfriend! True Love Always! Horray!

A year later you’re sitting on the couch watching him crack a beer and scratch his butt wondering what ever happened to your perfect mate. What happened was: He’s just another flesh and bone mortal. Just like you.  There was nothing mystical about the creation of this human being.  He’s just a man, and chances are he loves you as much as a mortal man can, but…  Cinderella didn’t mention this part, did she?

So you break it off and start the search anew. You start the cycle again with a new man and a year later, you’re sitting on the couch seething because…..

See the pattern? Sometimes the ugly truth is: It really isn’t him. It’s you. You’ve been duped into relationship laziness by Hollywood depictions of relationships that probably wouldn’t have worked in real life either. Isn’t this cipher making you dizzy? Stop for a moment, take a deep breath and ask yourself:

When he rode up on that big white horse, didn’t you realize it was going to poop eventually?

 

I’m posting this from my other blog for two reasons:  1.  I’ve been working like a dog all week covering the ass of someone who clearly has no clue about life, love or how to be a productive human being on the planet.  So I didn’t have the time or access to humor to prepare anything for today.  2.  I’m deleting that blog today.  I don’t really like Wordpress.  I haven’t decided if I want to move it to Blogger, or just delete it all together.

Wordless Wednesday… Sort Of (Philadelphia Edition)

I moved to Philly when I was 23, and stayed there until I was 31.  Lately I’ve been feeling terribly homesick for the city, so I dug up a few photos from my last trip home.

 

This is the doorway to my old apartment on South Street.  I used to think it was so cool to have this as an entrance.

 

I would have starved to death three times over in my 20’s if I didn’t have this hot dog cart on the corner to go to with my scrounged change.

 

I really did like riding the subway.  That blue line?  That’s the El.  It was my route for a year.

 

I used to spend hours at this coffee shop.  Some of my best blogging happened there.

Which reminds me:  Anybody reading this blog thinking of attending Bloggy Boot Camp in Philly?  I’ve been considering going.  Any excuse to spend a couple days eating cheesesteaks and good bagels.

My Chilly Milk and Ice Beverage Brings All The Gentlemen of Superior Intellect to the Acre.

I’ve been at this job longer than I care to admit.  In that time I’ve developed a schedule of “regulars” who come in and ask only for me to serve them.  Perhaps it’s my sunny personality *scoff* or maybe it’s the way the pancake syrup stain on my uniform brings out the desperation in my eyes, but they seem to like me. 

On Wednesdays and Thursdays I have Thomas the Tax Guy.  He meets with his clients at our place.  He has a thing for bacon that’s been burned black, and—speaking of burned—should someone ever set his house ablaze, he’d probably die in the fire trying to decide whether to save his wife or his Playstation 3.  It’s a tough call once you’ve logged all those hours of Grand Theft Auto.

On Thursday mornings I have “The Samurai.”  They’re into some new-agey Deepak Chopra, Abraham-Hicks type stuff. (Think “The Secret” only more hard core.)

On random weekdays I get this guy who works next door.  I’m not quite sure what his “deal” is, but he wears shirts like “Darth Vader was Framed” tucked into his elastic-waist jeans (pulled practically up to his chin).  He isn’t morbidly obese, so I’m not sure what the pants are about.  He has a little friend who has the kind of snarky superiority complex only a mom’s basement nerd can cultivate.  He’s one of those “Worst Everything Ever” types.  They’ve gone from complaining about everything and only tipping a dollar to complaining about most things and leaving three.  I think I’m winning them over.

Saturday and Sunday mornings Jeff and Mark come in.  I can only assume these two have been friends since college if not high school by the way they bicker at each other.  It’s a total bromance.  They sit and talk about bedroom furniture, some RPG and make up weird breakfast creations like oysters and hollandaise sauce over hashbrowns.  One of their concoctions made it onto our new menu, though I don’t know who’s brave enough to order it.

Recently I’ve acquired another pair of friends on Sundays.  An affable couple of slightly rotund gentlemen who will sit at one of my tables for hours (I mean like five straight hours) drinking coffee and mapping out some kind of total immersion role-playing game.   I used to think they were scientists or something with all the papers containing unpronounceable words spread around the table, but no.  Hard core gamers.

Come to think of it…

All of my best customers are total, unadulterated nerds.

I guess it isn’t my personality or the pancake syrup stains at all.  They can smell the Star Wars on me.  They come in and they can sense that underneath all that makeup and Burberry perfume that I’ve seen every episode of Red Dwarf ever aired in the US.  They know that I can Mario Kart them all into the ground, and that I currently hold tickets to the Video Game Symphony.  Despite all my efforts to seem cool and fashionable and trendy, they can sense that I’m a fellow geek and they gravitate to me.

What I’m trying to say is:

My milkshake brings all the nerds to the yard.

 

Dear Nerdy Regulars (Should any of you happen upon this blog):

I love all of you dearly, and it’s your total nerd-ness that I find so endearing.  So please take this with the sense of humor it was intended to have…  In other words, don’t stop tipping.  My Red Dwarf DVD collection is nearly complete.

Nanoo-Nanoo,

Em

I Was Told There’s ALWAYS A Barf Bag!

This is a copy of a blog I wrote on March 18th of last year.  This past Monday was the one year anniversary of my very first flight, and I have to admit…  My next trip to New Orleans was by train.  This past November I flew back to Jersey to see my mom, and I burst into tears as soon as we became airborne. I’m never going to get the hang of flying.

  Anyway, I dug this out of the dusty ruins of my old Myspace blog…

 

Last week, Monday morning to be exact, I was having a total meltdown panic attack.

What could possibly be wrong, you ask?  I was off work for the next five days, I was on my way to the beautiful city of New Orleans to spend time with my wonderful Man...  Money wasn't an issue, my hair looked great, and-- best of all-- I was wearing jeans that made my tushie look spectacular.  Life should be good, right? 

So why the hyperventilating?

See, I was standing on a plane.  I'd never been on a plane before.
Well, there was that time when I was 4 and mom took us to Florida, but I don't count that.  I was too small to understand exactly what was happening.

Lift-off.

Leaving the Earth. 

Nothing between me and the ground below but a heavy, solid, impossibly large chunk of steel and jet fuel.

My first thought boarding the plane was as follows:  "OMG! I'm on a plane!"  My second thought was "OMG! I’m on a plane! I can't do this!"  I turned around quickly with every intention of punking out and rushing a cab to the train station, but the crush of passengers behind me was totally merciless and unmoving.  To escape would mean to climb over the seats and scale the craft sheep-herder style, which would surely land me in handcuffs before I could say "Panic Attack!"   So I pulled in a deep breath and turned back around. 

With the contents of my last three meals threatening to show themselves in my lap, I found my seat and buckled in.  The futility of the seat belt should something happen at 30,000 feet occurred to me and my insides did a somersault.

Where's the barf bag?  I was told there's always a barf bag!

So there I am, squished between a brooding emo kid and a business man who doesn't seem to understand the sanctity of the arm-rest property line, trying to control my breathing and not become that girl freaking out on an airplane.  Everyone else seemed so calm.  They're reading magazines and checking their phones like they've done this a million times before.  Like we're not about to do what the birdies do.

I remembered the words of a pilot I'd met recently: "The most dangerous part of your trip is the drive to the airport." he assured me, as though he'd also been in a car with my mother before.  Then I thought of Man, and the comforting words he'd purred in my ear before I left.  Words of science and velocity.  Loving explanations of gravity and air-pressure.  I wrapped it all around me like a security blanket and waited for the inevitable.

When that plane took off down the runway at a speed I didn't expect, I had nothing to think about but the fact that we were about to leave the Earth.  I'll never forget the thoughts that ran through the corridors of my mind at that moment as I sat there with the in-flight magazine covering my face (except for that one eye fixed on the scene outside the window) like a terrified little child...

We'reontheground, we'reontheground, we'reontheground

WE'RENOTONTHEGROUNDWE'RENOTONTHEGROUNDWE'RENOTONTHEGROUND!

And then...  Silence.

Call it "fell asleep" call it "passed out" or call it "out of body experience."  All I know is I felt my head roll backwards, and when I woke up and it was an hour later.

I found the barf bag and kept it as a souvenir.

Diet Pills, Bad Tattoos, Poop-Story Wednesday (?), and A Blind Item

A Collection Of Random Stuff From This Week That Didn’t Merit An Entire Blog Each…

• Appetite Suppressants, Day One:  Took half of what I was supposed to and still ran around the house like a speed freak.  I think: Perhaps I’ll ease myself into the two-a-time thing as directed  by the bottle.  After the pill wore off, I discovered that Kraft Mac-And-Cheese is even more delicious when you add bacon.

          Diet Pills Day One:  Fail!

Hey, have you ever noticed that it seems to be the people with the most god-awful tattoos that are also the most willing to show them (and every other god-awful bit of ink on their body) to anyone who will look?  Then they’ll go into great detail about all the other horrible tattoos they plan to get before giving you the (home) phone number of their (clearly working from his kitchen table) tattoo artist? I met a guy the other day who should have been wearing a shirt that read: I went to prison and all I got were these lousy tattoos!

… and hepatitis.

What was the deal with Wednesday?  When I came home and settled into my usual post-work blog reading, I found three separate and unrelated stories about poop.

First I laughed my ass off at Steam Me Up Kid with her post: Why Jeff Bridges is not helpful during an anal leakage crisis. 

Then Chicken confirmed for me that I really don’t ever want to get pregnant, with her harrowing tale of a friend’s, um, tail-end with: Not My Poop Story, But Better.

After that I was treated to the knowledge that Walmart’s Great Value Fruity Puffs will turn your poop green, by Cynical Bastard in the middle of his post: A Little Q & A. (I found CB by trolling the “Next Blog” option Tuesday evening.  Ya know, out of every 20 blogs out there I’m gonna say maybe seven of them are actually readable. This was one of them.)

Seriously, guys, next time there’s a theme day like that, let me know.  I’ll tell you all the story of the time I found myself in a Burger King bathroom stall begging the old homeless woman who was bathing (and muttering to) herself in the sink to pass me a bit of toilet paper.  Or a hand towel.  Or the front page of that day’s newspaper. Or one of the small furry creatures that I’m pretty sure she was keeping in her cart. 

I would have given her every dollar and cent in my wallet, as well as my ATM pin code that day.

Ah, I miss life in the big city…

• Appetite Suppressants, Day Two:  I bet the pills will work better if I don’t forget them on the table next to my bed.

Blind Item (Something that ran through my mind this week that I couldn’t say out loud for the sake of not getting smacked):  Golly, if you didn’t bleach the shit out of your hair every four weeks faithfully, you wouldn’t have a bail of hay atop your head…

• Appetite Suppressants, Day Three:  Do NOT!  Take!  With Coffee!!!

And, finally, have I mentioned how much I L.O.V.E. Windows Live Writer?  See how you’re reading this blog on Friday afternoon while I should conceivably be at work?  Well that’s ‘cuz I wrote it Wednesday night and set the program to post it for me!  Oh yeah, I’ve been doing it all week (except when something didn’t post properly on Thursday).  I’m like three blogs ahead of myself now, so no more forced un-funny posts that I scribbled off in 20 minutes.  Now I can take my time, edit, rework and polish.

Also, I’m taking the weekends off from posting.  I’ve noticed that traffic goes way, way down on Saturdays and Sundays, so I’m going to use those days to work on the next week’s blogs.

I’ve got them all set to post at noon on weekdays.  I figure, if you’re eating a sandwich or a cup-o-noodles at your desk, you’ll want something to read.  Perhaps you could be a dear and pass the link to your other cup-o-noodles office mates?  I’m a total attention-whore, I know.

I'll Bet Chuck Mangione Does Not Use a Kindle.

Hey, have you noticed that…

*text notification sound*

Hang on, I have a text message.

From Man To Me:  I just saw the most incredible thing.

From Me To Man: Whazzat?

From Man To Me:  Someone TALKING on an iphone!

From Me To Man: Ew!  How uncool.  They should be playing games and updating Twitter, not TALKING!  How three years ago!

Because, seriously?  Who actually talks on the phone anymore? I don’t even know why we bother calling them “phones” when clearly they’re pocket-sized-futuristic-communicator-device-thingies.  Honestly, I haven’t heard my phone ring since that time one of my co-workers got tanked and they called me to cover her shift.

Touch of the flu my ass.  The Tequila-Flu maybe!

The phone thing reminded me of an article I saw on The Onion.  The headline read 90% Of Waking Hours Spent Staring At Glowing Rectangles. 

“A new report published this week by researchers at Stanford University suggests that Americans spend the vast majority of each day staring at, interacting with, and deriving satisfaction from glowing rectangles.

"From the moment they wake up in the morning, to the moment they lose consciousness at night, Americans are in near-constant visual contact with bright, pulsating rectangles," said Dr. Richard Menken, lead author of the report, looking up briefly from the gleaming quadrangle that sits on his desk. "In fact, it's hard to find a single minute during which the American public is not completely captivated by these shining…these dazzling…."

"I'm sorry," Menken continued. "What were we discussing again?"

Ah, you chuckle, but how much of your day do you spend with your face stuck in your computer, television, ipod, and pocket-sized-futuristic-communicator-devices?  That says nothing about the fact that I’m pretty sure if the internet were to shut down—even for a day—I might actually cease to be.

And now?  Now we have The Kindle.  Or, as I call it, the ipod for book nerds.

On first sight, I wanted one.  Mostly because I have an unhealthy love-affair with all things gadget.  I’m a marketing executive’s wet dream when it comes to things like this.  Especially when I discovered I could own one of these fun things in the same shiny purple as my laptop and ipod.

Then I saw the price and nearly choked on my Caramel Macchiato! (Also known as a “Varamel”  at The French Press my friend Rachel and I discovered last Sunday night.)  ((Yes, I have actual organic friends… Well, two actual organic friends.))

I don’t know that I’ve spent $500 on books all year, let alone shelling out the cost of my laptop for yet another glowing rectangle that will—in all honesty—become just another thing weighing down my already overstuffed purse.  Then I’ve got to pay for the books, too?

Thanks, but no.

Frankly, I like my books.  I like the pretty art on the covers, and I enjoy the way they look on the shelf.  A person’s book shelf says a lot about who they are.  Examining someone’s bookshelf while they’re making coffee in the next room isn’t nearly as creepy as picking up and digging through their Kindle in the hopes that they don’t emerge from the next room and thus create one of those awkward “Um… What are you doing?” moments.

However, I don’t want to become the paperback equivalent of vinyl collectors.  You know who I mean.  You walk into their apartment and are treated to the sight (and smell) of shelf upon shelf of dusty old record albums.  Then they give you a speech about the superiority of vinyl over the nine thousand better ways modern technology has invented for us to listen to music.  Then, if you haven’t poked your ears out with the splintered pair of take-out chopsticks these people always have rotting in their sink (no doubt from a vegan take-out place), they’ll shuffle through every album and force you to listen to scratchy, staticy old jazz that nobody ever heard of but that guy and his two friends.

Ugh.  How many times did I find myself trapped at some after-hours party in someone’s grubby Philadelphia apartment thinking: The free drugs just weren’t worth this?

I mean, Chuck Mangione?  Seriously?  I’m going home.

I’m a Misunderstood Comic Genius.

On the short list of things I never thought I’d find myself doing in my life, sitting outside of a Best Buy in the middle of the night with 200 of the same closest friends I celebrated the big win with, as well as a man in an oversized dog suit (Apparently his name is “Gumbo.”) was nowhere to be found. 

Next time I’m about to nag Man that we don’t go out together enough anymore, I’ll be sure to remember this night.

So why, you ask, am I parked on my tushie on the cold pavement walkway outside this electronics superstore?  Well, as it turns out, the New Orleans Saints have released something of a “greatest hits” DVD of this past season, and if Man doesn’t get a signed Blu-Ray copy of said disk he might cease to exist.  (Frankly, I thought he’d already seen all these “highlights” having watched Every. Single. Game. But what do I know?)  Hence: me and hundreds of other women’s Mans sitting outside, exposed to the elements and subject to various remixes of “Stand Up Get Crunk” for the next two hours.

No offense, Who Dat Nation, but I think we should start seeing other people.

Especially since none of you seemed to find my incredibly clever quip about Scott Fujita funny.

Man to The Random Fan to His Left:  Nobody seems too broken up about the loss of Fujita around here.

Me Cutting In Before Random Fan Could Answer:  I don’t see what the big deal is.  You can pick up a sack of Fujitas for 3.99 at Taco Bell.

*crickets*

Screw you, it was funny!

There Wasn’t Even Room For J-E-L-L-O!

I’m currently having 75 kinds of conniption fits and one panic attack.

I’m trapped in a dressing room, stuck in a dress, and I’m pretty sure someone’s going to have to call for the Jaws Of Life to get me out.

I’m not kidding you, I’m trapped in a dress.

This is so embarrassing.

Let me back up a little, since it seems I have nothing but time, standing here struggling against the world’s most stubborn zipper, my arms hopelessly pinned at my sides from trying to wrestle the whole set-up over my head…

Have I mentioned?  This is So.  Embarrassing.

Man and I recently made plans to go to the Video Game Symphony (What?  It’s culture!  Sort of.) with our two friends in April.  No sooner had we acquired the tickets than I decided I needed a new dress. I think.  What does one wear to a Video Game symphony, anyway?  My thoughts turned to this adorable black-with-white polka-dot vintage number with the most delicate spaghetti straps and layered flowy skirt.  Not too formal, not too casual, would look perfect with my leopard shoes and a little cardigan.  Perfect.  I want it.

After dinner, Man and I came to the store, where he agreed that it’s a perfect dress for the occasion and I should try it on.  I know I’ve, um, grown a bit, since moving here but I’m pretty sure that I can diet and get into my old size by April.  Right?  Perhaps I should try it on just to see how much growth I’m working with.

So I found myself a discreet little dressing room in the back (In case there was grunting and heavy breathing involved, which it turns out there is.  A lot.) Against all my better judgment, I zipped the zipper and wrestled the whole thing over my head, struggling harder than I thought I would with the breast area (Seriously, designers?  Women have boobs. Design accordingly.),  and that brings us to my current situation:

Trapped.  In a dress.

Have you ever seen a cat get itself stuck in something like a bag or a blanket?  You know how it goes into a total panic, then sits quietly for a moment before going back into a total writhing, scratching panic?  That’s me right now-- torn between relenting to the situation and determined to get out of it without having to wobble out of this dressing room with this thing stuck around my mid-section and admit defeat.  I got the stupid thing on, there’s got to be a way to get it off!

Perhaps if I get it turned around and position this hopelessly frozen-in-place zipper in front I can reach under the skirt and free myself.  I’ve been in here a long time, Man’s going to come looking for me soon.  What if he brings the dressing room attendant with him?  They’re going to come knocking on this door any second now and see the ridiculous situation I’ve gotten myself into!  The attendant and my boyfriend are going to have to work together as a team (Team Fat Girlfriend!) to get me out of this garment, and I’m going to have to move back to Jersey, then crawl into a little hole and die.  I’m just going to die!

Speaking of die, I suddenly can’t breathe so well.  Oh!  My!  Gawd!  I’m about to suffocate and drop unconscious on the floor of this dressing room.  Now he’s really going to come looking for me.  They’re going to find me stuck in this dress, the bodice halfway between front and back, turning three shades of red and un-effing-conscious on the floor! 

I think I’ve hit my panic button again, because—like the cat in a blanket—I’m struggling as if my life depends on it…  Which it feels like it does.

*pop*

What was that?

That’s nice.  I’ve just snapped one of those delicate spaghetti straps clean off.

*pop*

There goes the other one.

Pardon, but are you fucking kidding me?

It seems that the broken straps have given me the space I need to reach under, undo the zipper and take the first reasonable breath in what seems like 20 minutes.  This is what it must feel like to be freed from a hungry, squeezy snake.  I sit on the little bench and catch my breath.  Now I feel like crying.

Instead, I find myself starting to chuckle.  If this isn’t blog-worthy, I don’t know what is.

I do my best to put this dress on the hanger and emerge from the dressing room (Victorious?).  I can feel my face burning as I hand it back to the attendant, then grab Man by the hand and lead him out of the store like the place is on fire.

“Didn’t you like it?”  He asks.

“No.  Let’s just go.”

“You wanna try on another one?”

“No.”

“Where are we going?”

GNC.  I left that store and went straight to the other side of the mall to GNC where I spent my dress money on appetite suppressants.

I know.  Don’t look at me like that. 

No, seriously. Somebody Get Me a Shovel and a Plastic Bag.

I believe in intelligent design.  That is until I take a good look at the other malformed inhabitants of our third rock.  Then I start to wonder if perhaps our great creator wasn’t dropped on His or Her omnipotent head (multiple times) as a Godly baby. Sometimes I find myself lying awake at night wondering if the atheists are right, and life on this planet is a totally random biological accident with no greater purpose involved.  Perhaps we are just a collection of bullshit cells and atoms that happened to mold together into the just-so configuration to create something resembling consciousness.

I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation for the existence of the Kardashians.

As a writer, I’m observant by nature.  This is not the gift one would think it would be.  I spend my days mired in a tangle of hard questions, like: Why does hate still exist?  Why do we still kill and torture each other and the animals?  Why did that woman think it was a good idea to color her hair the same gaudy red-gold color as the circa 1987 jacket she’s wearing today, and why did nobody mention to her that you can spot her and her hideous jacket from outer space?

(Perhaps it was a bad idea trying to write in a public coffee shop.  I’m finding the people around me quite distracting.  But I digress…)

When it comes to the collective “D’uh!” uttered by the society we’ve created for ourselves, one only needs to turn on the evening news to hear its resonating echo.  Not only can you witness international simpletons in action, but—if you’re very lucky—you catch a glimpse of some numb-nuts in the next county who did something epic such as thinking it was a good idea to trade two children for a pair of exotic pet birds.

Stories such as this are proof-positive in my opinion that we have finally reached “Old Mother Hubbard Status” when it comes to children.  There are people out there who have so many, they don’t know what to do.  Also, we’ve clearly saturated the market.  I remember a time when a healthy American child would fetch the price of a shiny new car.  Now all you get are birds.

If I’ve got my conversion-rates right, our cat Fanny has already dropped off the feathered equivalent of a kindergarten class at the back door.

(Forward all objections and hate mail about what I just said to Em_Static@gmail.com)

Hey, if you liked this, you should really stop by In Through The Out Door and read more about Bitch and Moan Mondays. I almost forgot about it, but since I'm always complaining anyway....

With a Little Help From My Friends… (That Means YOU!)

I’m not blogging tonight (this doesn’t count, swear!).  I know I promised a blog a day for Lent, but what’s happening is:  I’m coming home from work and rattling off something between dinner and bedtime.  Though it was an incredibly useful exercise in getting me back in the habit of writing, I’m starting to feel my posts are forced and insincere.  Certainly not what I know I can do given the time to concentrate, write and edit.  Some of my favorite blogs have happened on my days off— when I’m settled in front of my computer with a cup of coffee and something to complain about. (And we all know I always have something to complain about.)

What I’d rather do tonight is read. 

That’s where you come in.  I can sit here all night and find three out of 10 blogs I want to follow, or I can cheat and ask the people I’m already following to link me up to who they like to follow.

I know we’re supposed to do the follow thing on Fridays, but I’ve always been a late bloomer.

So tell me… Who are your favorites?

Aside from me, of course.  ;p

Bad Relationship Rehab: For Anyone Who Needs To Take 12 Or So Steps Away From The Drama

FINALLY! Success!!!

About a month (and four days) ago I returned to my Blogger blog fuming at Wordpress. See, I have a blog over there and I'd forgotten the password. After half a dozen attempts at retrieving said password I gave up and came here... And forgot all about that Wordpress blog.

One month later I realized I was having them send the reset to the wrong e-mail. Hence my inability to gain access to my own blog.

Er... My bad.

So now I have two blogs! This one, and my relationship advice blog. I'm gonna have to get organized here...

Anyway, I haven't touched it since January, and there's only three posts, but if you're interested here's the link:


Click Here!

I'd also like to mention that one month (and four days) ago Heart & Hairspray had a grand total of like five readers. Now I'm up to forty-four!

Housewife Ho-Down

I've recently become a bit addicted to the "Real Housewives" shows on Bravo. I'd always avoided the OC gals like the collagen-injected plague, but it turned out this week that there was always an episode on when I got home from work. I left it on as background noise while wandering the interwebs, and before I knew it I was hooked. Perhaps it was the natural magnetism of all that silicone that drew me in, but it was more my routing for Vicki. I sat through three torturous episodes, waiting for someone to realize she's the only person on that show with any sense of reality... Sort of.

Nobody ever did. I think the words "job" and "work" caused a short in their circuits. It's really the only explanation for Lynne's hair.


It's called finishing balm, sweetie. Give it a shot.

The Jersey housewives were a given. I watched them religiously every Tuesday night when it was on.



... then the reunion special, the deleted scenes special and the deleted scenes special part two. I think I missed the third. Was there a third? That's the thing about women from the Garden State. We don't shut up.

Ever.

Atlanta Housewives? I was Team Nene from episode one!



Perhaps Kim could sell Lynne one of her wigs to hide all that terrible frizz.

I was always indifferent to the NYC Wives. They lost me at Countess. Like, is she serious? It's like the Maestro episode of Seinfeld. Then again, I refuse to answer to anything but "Her Majesty" around the house.

(I wish.)

Anyway, I'm giving them a second chance, because I've picked up an interest in Bethenny through promos and commercials. I'm 20 minutes into my second episode and I already want to be her when I grow up.



"Hold up there, Countess. I'm gonna need a minute of silence." She's my effin' hero!

I Wonder If The Monkey Waiters Need a Third

Well there you have it.

A monkey could do my job.

Literally.

Please, no one tell my boss about this. Apparently the monkeys work for soy beans. Unless I get paid in magic soy beans, the gal at the Steve Madden store only takes actual currency.

Wordless Wednesday (Juju Edition)

In a French Quarter gift shop.

So Awesome!

I forgot to mention this, but apparently Windows 7 is set up for obsessive bloggers such as yours truly.  You can write, edit, insert pics, reformat and post right from your desktop.  I mean, as far as I know.  This is my test run with the new program.

By the way, did I mention it’s soooo pretty!!!

Seems I Got A Little Loosey-Goosy With The Subscribe Feature.

Blogging is serius bizness. Not only is it the writing, rewriting, editing, photo-finding/editing, posting, re-reading, re-editing and then re-posting. It's also seeking out fellow bloggers, leaving comments and finding other ways to shamelessly promote yourself without alienating anyone else. It's a full time job on top of a full time job, and sometimes the little things in life slip through the cracks.

Such as not noticing that it looks like Hurricane Laundry (Category 4) rolled through your bedroom.


EEP!

Perhaps it's time to take a couple steps away from the keyboard and set some stuff straight.


That's better.

Hey, did you happen to notice the testimony to my gnat-like attention span in the room? I mean, aside from all of it?

It's the stack of four unread magazines sitting on the shelf.



Four doesn't seem like such a big deal, unless you take into account the fact that I've acquired all four of them in the same two week span.

Through the mail.

Then the bills for the subscriptions came.

Ooooh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!

Seems magazine subscriptions via the internet should be a little harder to get. Perhaps Conde Naste Publications should include an "Are you sure you have the kind of time to read all these magazines?" button. You know, like G-Mail's drunken e-mail filter. I was high on the idea of being privy to all that fashion news. Now all my fashion news is making an awesome $30 per year coaster.

Perhaps this calls for a new feature here at Heart & Hairspray. "This Month's Mail." It'll be a monthly blog where I gather up and then review all the random magazines and offers I'd signed up for via the internet that month. Apparently when you subscribe to stuff online you find yourself also subscribed to things like the ugly cookbook catalog I received today.

I didn't know people existed in the world who still think the country goose motif is a good idea.

Look For Me On The Evening News.

This is my first installment of something I discovered last night called "Bitch and Moan Mondays." Not that I'm a ray of sunshine any other day of the week, but it's nice to have an excuse to complain.

Last week I declared that I hate hipsters with the white hot intensity of a million more hateful versions of me. Nothing inspires more ire in my soul than a pair of skinny jeans and an ironic tee-shirt (Put a can of that swill PBR in the guy's hand, and I feel a hate crime comin' on!). Nothing, that is, until I met the lady next door. Or, more specifically, her dogs.

As the last willowy strands of winter in the South twist and break away, we're treated to the occasional glimpse of spring. I've never experienced such lovely weather in February before. Saturday night, as my mother back in Jersey was digging out from under three feet of snow, we had a barbecue with our two (and only two) friends. It's still chilly at night, so we ate at the kitchen table, but still... It was a nice evening.

Sitting outside watching Man do what men throughout history have been hardwired to do: throw dead animals on a fire, turn twice, dish out, I began entertaining notions of new lawn furniture. I pictured a table and chairs under a pretty gazebo. I imagined sitting outside on a warm April morning with New Lappy (coming tomorrow!) and a cup of coffee by my side. I saw Sunday brunch picnics and evening cook-outs with strings of white star lights strung about the fence. I began seeing myself as the fabulous Martha Stewart-esque entertainer I was meant to be.

I heard the music and laughter of a successful outdoor dinner party in my head.

I heard the shrill, fevered barking of three untrained wiener dogs on the other side of the fence.

Oh yeah. Now I remember why we hardly ever come out here.

As the story goes, the old woman next door was lonely sitting by herself on her back porch swing, swilling cheap beer until she passed out in the Louisiana sunshine. So, to keep her company, her son got her a mini-Dachshund. Said Dachshund took up the habit of sitting at the fence next to our yard (right under the bedroom window I might add!) and barking like a mad-creature.

All. Day. Long.

In an effort to quell the poor dog's anxiety, the lady next door thought perhaps if her pup had a friend to play with as she swilled cheap beer and passed out on the swing they would keep eachother company, thus keeping eachother quiet. So she gets another mini-Dachshund. Then there were two yappin-ass wiener dogs sitting at the fence barking.

All. Day. Long.

We aren't quite sure what the reasoning was behind the third puppy, but one day there appeared three (THREE!!!) yappin-ass mini wiener dogs at the fence. Now when we so much as think about stepping foot out the back door in the middle of the day (sometimes at night) we're treated to a trio of frenzied yap-yap-yap-yap! as the little ones clamor all over one another and the fence to get our attention. I've tried to wait them out-- hoping they'd eventually tire themselves and move onto sniffing eachother's butts or digging up the lady's flowers.

Ladies and Gentlemen, those dogs barked for twenty straight minutes without so much as losing a notch in the volume department. Nor did they seem to tire of jumping up and down, tripping over eachother or frantically wagging their nubby little tails. From my vantage point in the yard, I could see the old woman's feet dangling off the swing. That's it. I thought, She's finally drank herself to death.

The next day she and her pack of glorified rodents were out there again..

All. Day. Long.

This isn't to say we haven't tried to remedy the situation. We've called the Parish numerous times. It's little relief to know that she's at least stopped leaving them outside at night, but there isn't much that can be done during the day.

Then, hope.

While channel-surfing one sunny afternoon (I say "one" like I don't do it all the time), I saw a promo for a new reality show. It seems Steven Segal has been riding along with the Jefferson Parish police for quite a number of years now, and they've finally gotten around to making a show about it. Though he's a bit overweight and clearly nobody on the force takes him seriously, I remember Mr Segal as a no-nonsense, kick-ass-and-take-names Hollywood superhero.



Surely if I asked nicely the Parish would send him over to reason with the lady, and possibly (hopefully) tai-chi kick those little rascals into the next state (where they would hopefullly land in a junkyard guarded by a pack of hungry German Shepherds... Or lions.).

Sadly, Steven is across the bridge in the not-so-nicer neighborhoods battling drug dealers and drunken gun-wielding car thieves. Over here on the perpetual Sunday afternoon at the bird sanctuary side of the Parish, a threesome of annoying Dachshunds does not constitute a visit from the Marked For Death one.

Well, poo!

Perhaps if I go across the street and sell the neighbor kid some of my Tylenol PM, then swipe their soccer mom mini-van to take a joy ride through the bird sanctuary I can get someone who garners actual results to come into this neighborhood.

Or perhaps if I ever invite you over for a barbeque, you should steer clear of the wiener-schnitzel.



Do you have any annoying neighbor horror stories?