grrgoyl

The Search for John Gissing: Arrived. It came via DHL which, you'll remember, isn't my first choice in a delivery agent but it wasn't up to me. After yesterday they're even less of a choice. I toodled on over to the tracking site to check its progress, and you can imagine my astonishment when I saw it was marked "Delivered" and "Signed for" already. WhatWhatWhat???!!?! I immediately headed to the mailbox only to discover it sitting on my doorstep. Which means someone climbed 3 flights of stairs and put it there (or tossed it over the railing from below) but couldn't be bothered to ring the doorbell and deliver it properly. What is wrong with them? This isn't brain surgery. "Abandoned" is not a synonym for "delivered." Thank god it wasn't something truly valuable like, say, a passport.

Passport: Arrived! Just when I was ready to lie and claim I was traveling sooner than I was. I can't help but think it's no coincidence that my earliest date of travel on the application was July 23, which if it were would be cutting it very close indeed. I had hoped its delivery would coincide serendipitously with a sudden drop in fares, but no dice. Amusingly, the passport was packaged with a pamphlet cheerfully proclaiming, "With a U.S. Passport, the world is yours!" because you're an AMERICAN and therefore foreigners must defer to YOU. Or so I preferred to interpret it in my current bitterly anti-American state of mind.

Creepy old neighbor Louis: Is still spending every day out on his balcony. Which I don't care about except every time I pass the window, he's looking straight up into our house. When it gets this hot, I don't much care to wear clothing, and I don't want to don a shirt just to walk around my living room. So he gets a little peepshow every now and then, which I guess is incentive enough to keep him staring hopefully. Ewww. But when it gets this hot, my comfort takes first priority, even if it's giving an old man his jollies.

Speaking of crazy neighbors, I got cornered into a conversation with The Alcoholic, who can't believe Tery and I don't use our air conditioning every single day (we don't break down until it tops 100 degrees). She uses hers at the first hint of mugginess, she told me proudly. A bigger sweatphobe I've never seen. I explained that we're New Englanders and used to 100 degrees plus 95% humidity, so it really doesn't bother us that much. I gave the excuse that we're nervous about running out of freon and needing it serviced. 5 minutes after we returned to our respective homes, she called me excitedly, telling me to check the user manual for our AC unit. Hers doesn't specifically mention freon servicing, so she reckons it doesn't use freon. Yes. She believes she has the world's first totally environmentally friendly air conditioner, that she bought 10 years ago. I didn't waste time trying to correct her, as it's not likely to change her usage anyway. But this didn't do much to raise her intelligence in my estimation.

Harry Potter: Finished "Half-Blood Prince" (again) and am more excited than ever for "Deathly Hallows." Meanwhile Tery is more stubbornly in denial than ever. We were talking about something and she made the comment, "Whatever, it's just Harry Potter." She HATES that Harry is so popular because she is, as my tag so aptly describes her, a joy-sucking robot. Which is perhaps for the best, so we aren't fighting over the book when it arrives. I'm holing up all day Sunday and Monday, NO INTERNET/NO SPOILERS whatsoever, then Monday night plan to see Order of the Phoenix in IMAX with my friend Rebecca. I also expect to gloat my face off to her silly sister-in-law, who refuses to believe that Snape is anything other than pure, unadulterated evil -- no complex motives, no hidden layers, just straight up exactly what Jo has made him seem to be. That will be fun.

Gideon: Has an adrenal tumor (common among ferrets). Unfortunately the gland in question is wrapped by the vena cava so it's a very complicated surgery. Tery brought him to the premier vet specialist in Colorado, Dr. Fitzgerald:



Some people might recognize him from an Animal Planet show called "Emergency Vets." He didn't want to do the operation at first, until he met Giddy and had to admit he was a great little guy and worth trying to save. He's still strong and healthy enough that he shouldn't have any complications. We'll see. Fortunately too Dr. Fitzgerald's hospital recently joined the VCA family so Tery can use her 70% employee discount.

That's all. Internet radio silence begins Friday evening just to make double sure to avoid spoilers. Will resume communication Tuesday morning. Over and out.

T-Mobile is dead to me.

Can't say that I'm surprised, but they're screwing me out of a $50 rebate for Tery's Razr.

Maybe with exact dates and documentation I could fight it, but as it is I only have a vague timeline. I sent in the first form right after Christmas. Sometime in the middle of March I got sick of waiting and called to check the status -- only to be told it had been denied because I put the wrong phone number down. Naturally no one saw fit to notify me. The guy I spoke to said I could resubmit it, but had to be quick about it because the rebate deadline was coming up fast. I got it out that very same day, confident that the problem was solved.

Yesterday I got a letter from them, stating I was denied because it was postmarked after the deadline. I immediately called, outraged but not expecting much success. At first the guy sounded accommodating, so I explained the previous snafu. I asked how the second submission could have been late when I got it out minutes after completing the first phone call. He told me the deadline was actually January 31st. Furthermore, the computer had no record of my first submission. Naturally.

Again I fall victim to my failure to take names and record phone conversations. Faced with alleged computer evidence that I'm unable to disprove, what can I do? And it's not as if I can take my business elsewhere in a huff when I'm stuck in a 2-year contract, and they know it. Fucking T-Mobile.

~*~

And fucking Alcoholic. Now that the snow's gone, she's back to waffling between the handicapped space and regular spaces. It's hard not to let it get to me when I get home at 6 a.m. and have to park clear on the opposite end of the lot while her car sits infuriatingly in a regular spot right up against the building, the handicapped spot infuriatingly unoccupied.

Then she called looking for a favor -- she needed a letter from the HOA to get cable installed, and rather than turn on her own computer she wanted me to print it out and walk it over to her. Yes, that's SO much easier. I'm telling you, the woman is insane.

The decision to email her and find out once and for all why she switched back and forth was made easier when I remembered how she snoops and quibbles and nitpicks every little thing about the rest of our neighbors. I thought it might do her good to realize she wasn't entirely above reproach herself. "Go ahead," Tery sighed. "But don't hold your breath waiting for a rational response."

Tery was right. It was all kinds of clap-trap about the handicapped spot being "bird-doo land" and that the mailbox (which is 2 feet to the side) is too far when her ankle hurts. But, because she considers me her friend, she would park in the handicapped spot from now on and treat the other spot as 'mine.' No, I'm not trying to secure a space as 'mine.' My point was that the rest of us stood a better chance of parking reasonably closer if she wasn't using our spaces. I didn't bother with a rebuttal to correct her though. It's just too exhausting and she's just too crazy.

~*~

Unrelated, my LJ esteem is plummeting again. Where oh where have my LJ friends gone? I know my stuff isn't always so thrilling, but I'm not the only one not writing the Great American Novel every time I post. Talk to me, people.

Weekend One P.B. (post break-in), and I'm slowly picking up the pieces. I returned to work at the hospital this weekend with a fair amount of confidence, not because I wasn't nervous (although I do refuse to live in fear), but because Tery feels badly enough about me having to replace my window that she's agreed to let me quit if it happens again. Because I hate to admit it, but now that the novelty has worn off of this job, 75% of my motivation for staying is just to make Tery's life easier. Guilt is a powerful tool, and it works both ways. So now I think of it as being one break-in away from leaving this job. If that isn't seeing the cup as half full, I don't know what is.

My new driver's license has arrived just in time for my trip (and I don't look drugged in this one, thankyou), and I've found a new bag that doesn't begin to approach the coolness of the messenger bag I lost, but it will have to do. Everything's coming together nicely *steepling fingers and tapping them thoughtfully*

~*~

It's December 6th and I'm almost done with my Christmas shopping. This is an unprecedented event in my history of Christmas shopping, and it feels pretty damn good. My older sister seems to have been beset with a terminal case of Johnny Depp lust, and I've obliged her with 3 of his movies off her Amazon wishlist. I know I've said it before, but this year I mean it: If she reciprocates with $13 worth of crap off the streets of Mexico™ again, I WILL cut her off this time.

I say "almost done" because I am still in pursuit of the most elusive, but what will be the best ever, gift for Tery. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....the iKaraoke. A microphone that plugs into your iPod, transmitting any song to your stereo sans vocals, turning anything into a karaoke number. Think me a wee bit presumptuous, giving the gift of an iPod accessory without actually owning an iPod? Don't. If I don't get one as a gift, I'm buying myself another one. Make no mistake -- one way or the other, I WILL have my iPod wrongs redressed and possess once more that which was taken from me (I've got my eye on this aluminum beauty, in case anyone feels really, really sorry for me. No? I HAVE to find more fabulously wealthy friends, dammit).

But the iKaraoke is proving to be, as I've said, elusive. Amazon has it but mysteriously won't ship it until after Christmas (update: today suddenly it's "unavailable"). Apple.com has a similar delay. BestBuy.com says "Coming soon!" and CircuitCity.com tries to tempt me with crappy old school karaoke machines instead. Phone calls to not one but two Apple stores had similar results. I suppose it's too much to ask a store devoted entirely to Apple products to actually carry, you know, Apple products. Am I the only one who thinks they're really missing the boat on the highest selling volume time of the year? Perhaps they think they're so hot that Christmas or no Christmas won't make a difference in their sales. I wish I could be the one to teach them differently, but Tery simply has to have this.

~*~

I'm so full of the Christmas spirit this year it's almost painful. Last year we were too poor to buy each other gifts, so didn't even bother decorating. Immensely depressing. This year we're making up for it. We're even in a balcony light war with Tracey FCW and I couldn't be more pleased. I even said hi to her the other day in passing, in the interest of forging new neighbor relations (probably to kavieshana's disappointment, sorry). Active meth users don't bother decorating so elaborately for the holidays, do they? I hope it isn't just a cover.

Conversely, the Alcoholic has new neighbors below her, renters judging from their lack of consideration. They pump up the jams so loudly you can hear them through the closed windows. I'll bet Tracey's screen door hanging wide (albeit quietly) open is looking pret-ty good to her right about now. Karma certainly can be an evil bitch, my friends.

~*~

Lastly, after ms_hecubus' hair-tearing announcement that the Harry Potter DVDs might be re-released with new extras, I Googled "Harry Potter commentary" immediately to see for myself. One of the results didn't promise to answer my questions, but I clicked nevertheless, on a commentary on the Harry Potter mania. It turned out to be an open letter from one of these God freaks denouncing Harry Potter and all the Evil JK Rowling has wrought on the World with her bastard Creation. I'm sure these things are a dime a dozen on the internet, but I've never bothered to read one.

And I regret starting with this One. The Author rants and raves about how the Lord wants Him to spread this Message and how it behooves each one of Us to help Him do so. As far as I can tell, the Message is simply, "Harry Potter is Bad." He doesn't produce one Shred of Evidence to support His rant, not a single quote or example, and in fact left me highly Doubtful that He'd even read the Books at all. He had the nerve to say something to the effect of, "If the Columbine High School killers grew up without Harry Potter, how much worse will the Future be with children that have been Raised on it?" And to compare the supposed literacy benefit to Children reading Hustler magazine. "All sins are Equal in the Eyes of God, so I don't think this is too much of an Exaggeration" he writes. This is perhaps a fair statement to make about the Harry Potter stories that I read, but 10-year-olds? Sir, get a grip.

To this I have the same four words I've always had: Lord. Of. The. Rings. An entire generation grew up reading those books and it didn't bring about the birth of the Antichrist. I also refuse to be told what I can and can't read by someone who uses such random and nonsensical Capitalization in their own writing (demonstrated in the above paragraph. Hella distracting and obnoxious). As for Harry Potter fans' serial killer potential, frankly I worry more about children raised by religious fanatics who don't feel the need to provide valid, logical reasons to hate and fear things indiscriminately.

Now, I'm not saying that Tracey Crankwhore and I are BFF all of a sudden, so don't jump in my shit. After two nights of pre-dawn moving activities, I left a very polite note on her door requesting that she try to be quieter if there was really no other time of day she could do it. In a perfect world I shouldn't have to ask, but we thought maybe because she never hears any of us considerate neighbors that she assumed the doors were thick enough to cover her. Well, we haven't heard a peep since. Lovely, and completely unexpected. This doesn't mean that she's ponied up the money to test our attic, but that isn't keeping us awake nights. Baby steps.

By contrast, I decided I've had enough of the Alcoholic using her handicapped space or not based on the position of the planets and I bloody well left a somewhat less polite note on her door telling her what I thought about it (anonymously, not out of cowardice but out of unwillingness to start a pointless neighborhood flame war). The next day she went out and came back again, and again parked in a regular space. So YOU tell ME who the worse neighbor is. I'm getting very sick and tired of people being such selfish, thoughtless asshats, which I guess is bad news for me since it isn't likely to change soon.

Is it any wonder I dreamt about buying a house out in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors for miles around?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I never finished talking about the kennels last weekend. One of the reasons I was soooo happy to have an excuse to leave was because I was rejoined by my arch-nemesis, Honus, the Asshole Beagle of Death. He was slightly better behaved, in that I didn't even notice him until I was filling out my rounds sheet and I came face to face with him in kennel #7 at the end. "Helloooooooooo, Newman Honus" I hissed in recognition. He looked up at me utterly guilelessly. It didn't take long, however, for him to remember the way of things and return to his annoying, whining, yelping, ceaseless barking.

This time he was prescribed a tranquilizer. It was scheduled for 2 a.m., but by 11 p.m. I had had all that I was going to take. I gave it to him and he still wouldn't shut up, so I called Tery. She suggested I take him upstairs with me, maybe he just wanted some company. Yeah, I'm sure the poor thing is just misunderstood. He seemed happier upstairs, probably because it gave him the opportunity to make twice as much work for me. He spent more than an hour after taking the tranq spilling every trash can in the place, and even climbing onto a few doctors' desks and knocking all their papers on the floor. Fucking ASSHOLE. He never stopped moving once, so I figured the little field trip wasn't doing any good and brought him back downstairs. Where he proceeded to bark the rest of the night. My hatred for this dog knows no bounds.

So I happily left him barking his fool head off to go to the Halloween party on Saturday night. The problem with this was when I returned and slid my key into the front door of the hospital, I felt like I was returning to a jail cell, with Honus as my jailer. I tiptoed through the dark as long as possible to delay the inevitable, but at the first creaking floorboard the basement erupted into a cacophony of barks and howls with Honus leading the pack (this is why I've taken to removing my shoes and going about in stocking feet all night). A comfortingly yelled "It's okay, babies, it's just me!" shut everyone up except for you-know-who. He KNEW it was me, that's why he was barking, the fucker.

The good of the weekend was probably these two dogs:



This is Nishika the malamute and Kava the Great Pyrenees. Sisters, and fortunately both very sweet and docile, because if one of them decided they didn't want to return to their kennel, I'm not sure what I could have done to make them. Still, I found it very hard to wrap my mind around the logistical nightmare that daily life with 200-odd pounds of dog would entail.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm getting a new phone. Our Lady of the Contemptuous Scorn of All Things Cellular is now on her first upgrade. It's Tery's fault, sort of. She asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and the first words out of my mouth before I'd given it any sort of thought were "Motorola Razr." Here I'd been so proud of myself for resisting its allure when it first came out, and unbeknownst to me deep in my heart of hearts I had continued to covet it all this time. Of course, now that the desire was out there, there was no question of waiting for Christmas (not to mention Tery knows nothing about the workings of cellphone plans/upgrades, etc., so I knew it was all up to me). The guilt of indulgence was softened considerably when I idly browsed T-Mobile's site and saw a deal on this one for only $30 after rebate. T-Mobile's very reasonable asking price was merely that I sign over my soul to them for the next 2 years. Well, they can have it -- it's black and brittle and used up anyway (oh, angst!) Sure, it's a V3 which is probably considered ghetto compared to the many new versions that have since been released, but my cellphone needs are still pretty basic and I'm sure that any shortcomings in features will be more than compensated for every time I fondle the Razr's sleek, streamlined body. Yep, this phone will be bringin' sexy back (into my life, at least).

It hasn't even arrived yet and I've started tricking it out (or "pimpin' my talk" as Tery puts it). I spent far more time than necessary last night on Tery's office computer looking at accessories on eBay. She's got dial-up, so you KNOW that's some shopping dedication when every web page change requires at least a 5-minute commitment. Ugh. Dial-up suuhuuhuuhuuhuhuuhcks, in case anyone didn't know that by now. Still, I managed to find a pretty sweet case that hopefully will arrive about the same time as the phone. I'm damn excited about it, for someone who still practically never talks on the phone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And.....speaking of killer eBay finds, I don't think anyone in their right mind who knows anything about me could possibly expect me to resist this when I discovered it during a casual search for overpriced Frank the Bunny Halloween costumes (don't worry. I didn't pay anywhere close to the price in the link). Oh. My. God. The head interchanges with Frank's human head and it says 7 phrases from the movie. It's almost as if someone IS listening to my fantasies.....

Oh, what a weekend, what a weekend. So much has happened, all in one weekend. But only one thing of importance.

On Saturday I received an unmarked business-like letter which turned out to be from a collections agency representing, of all people, AOL. AOL, that my long-faithful readers will remember I cancelled over a year ago. My initial reaction was to burst out laughing. Oh, AOL, my psychostalker ex-ISP service who simply will not be ignored. But seriously, the clingy thing? Not so cute any more. My laughter was cut short, however, when my mind made the equation: collections agency = possible negative credit rating, and I can't have that. So I switched to my second default reaction, anger. Goddamn AOL. I'm starting to think it might be easier to quit the fucking Mob.

I am Jack's sense of justified outrage.

Today, I'm dealing with it. I had hoped (but seriously doubted) that I saved the original mail, the letter I tried to send to AOL that got returned to me. I've just been through my files. Every scrap of paper from the MST3k convention 12 years ago, silly doodles I did at work to amuse my friend Karen, and every Christmas card I've ever received, yes. Important documents to support my case to collections agencies, not so much. But why would I save it? I foolishly believed at the time that cancelling by phone was the end of the matter. God knows it would have been for every other company on the planet not run by crazy people. Which is exactly what I'm telling the collections agency (minus the crazy people part). At least I have my trusty journal entry so I can look up dates AND names (for all the good that will do me. I'll bet there are 43 people named John working at AOL. Why couldn't it have been something unique, like Rainn or Nicodemus or Osama?)

The lesson here is if you use AOL, get out. Get out now while you can, because they are truly SATAN'S SPAWN. Or, on second thought, content yourself with paying top dollar for substandard dial-up service for the rest of your life, because the problems only really begin if you try to leave.

As long as I'm in angry mode (well, when am I not?) a short rant about The Alcoholic. Despite having handicapped plates (though the nature of her disability is unclear. My other neighbor Pat says it's the 6-pack of beer she brings up to her unit every night) she has been parking in a regular spot all summer, leaving the handicapped space that was put in at her insistence empty. I see this as her stealing a spot from us non-disabled drivers. Pat said she asked her once why she does it, and she said to keep the birds from pooping on her car. Yes, because the birds consider the slot two spaces over to be out of bounds. She's out of her mind, I tell you. Suddenly this week she started using the handicapped space, and this enraged me even more. I see this as her exercising her rights as a disabled person purely on a whim. Today she's handicapped; tomorrow she won't be. To me this is every bit as bad as healthy people parking in a handicapped space. The cripples would sure squawk about that, wouldn't they? Well why shouldn't it work both ways?

I asked Tery if she thought I would be so angry all the time if I took Valium. She said unhesitatingly, no. However she has an employee on the drug, and when she doesn't take it so much as breaking a nail reduces her to tears. She can't cope with anything without it. No thank you. I prefer to stay just as God made me.

I already had some stuff to update about, and then this went and happened last night. The Saga of the Crankwhore will have to wait a bit, but I'd like to think my faithful readership (I know you're out there. Just admit it) sees more in me than the vicarious thrill of living next door to a drug dealer that I provide. I have so much stuff to update, as a matter of fact, that I'm extending a rare courtesy and cutting for length. Enjoy it while it lasts.

( ::The night I thought my sister was killed:: )

( ::Adventures in Cell Phones and Stupidity:: )

( ::What you've been waiting for...Crankwhore goodness:: )

( ::Finally...more about my favorite obsessions:: )


Whew. Quite the exciting week. Something I need to mention in passing is that I put that goddamned Coleman grill on eBay on the advice of ms_hecubus and metatronis and would you believe it sold for $100????? Making it only a $20 mistake and much easier to live with. It went to a local woman who met me to pick it up. I refused to take her money before making sure she could use it, but she shrugged me off. "If I can fix airplanes, I think I can work with this." O-KAY. Have at it then and I won't give it another thought. Thanks for the valuable words of wisdom, Michelle and Roxie.

Shutting up now. Now let's see how many tags fit this monstrosity.

All of a sudden, quite against my will, I find myself embroiled in yet another saga. So, too, do I drag my handful of faithful readers into it with me. There will be a quiz at the end, so pay attention.

See, about a year ago the city of Aurora banned the use of gas grills with propane tanks of a certain size on balconies. At first I cursed the inconvenience of no longer being able to use our Patio Caddy­­™, but on second thought living next to a meth lab for 2 years has certainly taught us a thing or two about blindly trusting that our neighbors share our safety standards. I wanted to get Tery a new smaller grill for her birthday, but since that isn't until July that would be half the summer gone with no grill, and that's simply unacceptable. Long story short(er), we got our hearts set on the Coleman Road Trip™, designed for tailgating at sports events but really ideal for our situation.

I found plenty for sale on eBay and Amazon, but pigheaded old me had to save a buck or two. I found one for sale on Craigslist for roughly the price of a new one ("gently used," the ad said. Hmmmph) except the guy was also offering the optional griddle and burner plates, which are around an extra $20 apiece. I thought this sounded like a mighty fine deal, and so did Tery. I contacted him, arranged a meeting place, and gave him cold, hard cash for it in a McDonald's parking lot (in a neighborhood where it could just as easily have been a drug deal and no one would have batted an eye). He started to show me quickly how to attach the propane regulator to the back but I waved him off, thinking it looked fairly self-explanatory. Besides, I'm ultra-intelligent, remember? How hard could it be?

Well. You can see where this is going. I got it home and discovered that it was nowhere close to self-explanatory. It had a metal sleeve you pulled back to open a pair of locking teeth, and presumably these clamped around the apparatus we could dimly see set back inside a hole on the back of the grill. It sort of clamped on, but one or two twists of it and it would fall off again, kind of making the presence of the elaborate sliding cuff rather mystifying. We devoted way too much time to trying to solve this puzzle on Sunday. I found the manual online (which only stated, "Push regulator in until you hear a click," most unhelpful) and e-mailed the seller, Derrick, and even left him a voicemail. We finally gave up, too weak from hunger to spend another second on it, and instead Tery made pan fried burgers (ugh. Can't tell you how disappointing this is after spending all day anticipating grilled meat).

I dragged Tery to a few hardware stores hoping for a solution, an adapter, a new part, anything. The closest we came was a hunting/camping store that sold the grill, but the newer version with the improved threaded, screw-on regulator that made infinitely more sense and which Tery spitefully unscrewed and screwed back on while counting to five, to illustrate just how much easier it was. Grrrr. I feel justified in that there is no mention of this design flaw anywhere online on any customer forums, so I don't see how I could possibly have anticipated this obstacle. I wanted to buy the newer version right there on the spot; yes, it was undoubtedly worth it to me to pay twice as much just to be free of this headache, but she insisted we wait and see if Coleman could sell us a part or something to make the old one work properly.

Monday morning I was awoken by Derrick returning my call, which helped convince me that he wasn't a scam artist. He admitted that it was a "royal pain in the ass" to get on, but we should definitely be able to tell when we had done it correctly. He even offered to maybe come over and do it for us, but I doubt he'd want to do this every year, or every time the thing happened to fall out again. Cue another half hour wasted on it before we decided to bring it with us to our friend's who invited us to dinner -- again, the logic being that he was a man and men are genetically predisposed towards having certain skills, like with grills and cars. He looked at it and we worked together to try to push it in, but again it would fall out far too easily for anyone's peace of mind. I waited for this morning, Tues, to call Coleman directly for advice. (As I patiently sat on hold for about 20 minutes, I whispered to Tery, "It's been a long weekend, fraught with grill difficulties.") All they could tell me was "Yeah, you have to push REALLY, REALLY hard to get it in" and no, they didn't sell an adapter, which seems incredibly stupid to me. They make their products to last practically forever, but if they become outdated they make you buy a whole new one. Highway robbery.

What pissed me off the most was that the issue was with such an important part. If it were, say, a faulty utensil rack or a problem with the accompanying stand we could work around it, but no, it had to be a crucial and potentially life-threatening element that we just couldn't mess around with or jury-rig (a common sight in both our Polish households growing up). GODDAMMIT.

Leaving us with these equally unpleasant options: 1) Keep fighting with the thing, stupidly hoping for the best, and still living on pan-cooked meals all summer (blech). I was also skeptical of this option because I didn't see how we could push any harder than we did with my and our friend's combined weight, for nothing. 2) Buy the shiny new one (yeah!), which then would leave us with these equally unpleasant options: a) throw away the old one (and, essentially, the money I spent on it) and just chalk it up to another hard- and expensively-learned lesson, or b) try to sell the old one on eBay.

Tery, our friends and my sister all unanimously and unhesitatingly proclaimed their support for the 2b option, sell it on eBay and sucker someone else in much the way that I had been. Personally this idea leaves a very bad taste in my mouth. How can I in good conscience sell this to someone else, knowing it has this (not inconsiderable) problem? I'm already haunted by nightmares of regret for things I've done that don't come close to being classified as this patently wrong. Sure, I could be fairly honest in the auction listing with a caveat emptor, but obviously if I were TOO honest that would seriously limit the chances that anyone would want it, making the attempt an utter waste of time. What to do? What to do?

You tell me.

[Poll #739085]

I make no promises that I will necessarily do what is most popular, because at the end of the day I'm the one who has to live with my actions. I just want to see if my LJ friends are every bit as amoral as my RL friends seem to be. Truthfully, I've already done #4 passive-aggressively. I e-mailed Derrick and explained that we just couldn't get the regulator attached, and that I had to buy a whole new grill and try to sell his on eBay, but thanking him for trying to help. Nothing hateful or threatening, just the artful application of a bit of guilt. No, Derrick, you don't get away scot-free here. You can ignore me, but can you ignore your conscience? Here's hoping the answer is no and he does the right thing all on his own.

ADDENDUM: Last night Tery grilled us some steaks on the new baby. It worked like a dream and they were goooooood. Mmmmmmmmmeat. BUT, she had to talk to the Alcoholic, admiring the pretty from her own balcony. Tery explained that we bought it so as to be legal. The Alcoholic responded, "Yeah, I'm thinking of getting a 10-pound tank for mine." I could be snarky, but I think the stupidity (or just plain cluelessness) speaks for itself here. And it goes without saying that she didn't even know such a thing as an exclusive hunting/camping store even existed (since she limits her shopping mostly to the neighborhood liquor stores).



Finally, so this isn't all gloom and negativity, photographic evidence of just HOW gay Xandir really is:



See? He HATES being on his back normally. But for Giddy, he'll lie down quicker than a $10 whore. For us? He's made it clear that, apart from our ability to fill bowls with food and water, he really could take or leave us.

It's August so it must be time for Denver's Parade of Homes again.

This year's Parade was held at a development called "Pradera." Its tagline, according to the official program, is "Live where you belong." Which sounds pretty unapologetically classist to me. Might as well call it "Pradera: Priced to keep out the undesirables."

Just like last year, we thought we'd be clever and start with the last house working backward. This also made more sense because the last house was at the very top of the hill, and who wouldn't rather work down rather than up a big hill? Unfortunately it seemed that a lot more people had the same idea this time, but what can you do? Apparently no one works on Monday mornings anymore.

The first one we saw was "Dolce Vita," a house that was the most remarkable because an accidental fire had burnt it to the ground just as it neared completion. The builders worked 24 hours a day for 79 days to rebuild it, finally finishing it a second time 15 minutes before the official judging began (or so the informational pamphlet claimed). For this reason we could forgive the fact that the basement wasn't finished and most of the doorknobs were a little loose. Being the result of such hard work and dedication it was indeed an architectural marvel, but didn't really make much of an impression on me. It swept most of the awards, but only in second place.

First place went to "Synthesis," a house devoted almost entirely to an Asian decor. My sister Nancy would have bought it the minute she stepped in the front door. It had lots of nice touches, like shoji screens on the windows and fountains and waterfalls almost everywhere you looked, not to mention a beautiful tear-shaped copper sink in one of the bathrooms. But the lines were a little too clean and the color themes a little too stark for MyFriendDeb's tastes. She put it best when she described it as "aggressively Asian." The only reason we could see that it was called "Synthesis" was because of a couple of art pieces in a bedroom that were aggressively African just to shake things up a bit, and glaringly out of place. The problem with the house, we decided, was that the decor was so uniformly and overwhelmingly Oriental that decorating or furnishing it with anything slightly more Occidental would be hopelessly at odds with the rest of the room. And our hodge-podge stuff, barely a step removed from a dorm room, simply wouldn't do at all.

Third place went to what I consider to be my dream house, "The Outlook." I'm kicking myself for forgetting my camera, but I LOVED this house. It was done in the Arts & Crafts style, which I adore. Mission furniture, oak, stained glass, that's what I'm talking about. It was one of the smaller homes at a paltry 6200 square feet, but that's what I liked about it. The rooms were cozy, warm and inviting, and didn't echo like the vast spaces of the fancier homes. They also felt like rooms you could live in, not just keep in suspended animation to show off for guests. The color theme was autumn leaves, all burnt reds, golds and browns, but brought to life with the generous use of primary-colored glass accents everywhere, like in the tile, or the risers of the staircase made of concrete embedded with glass blobs, or the artwork, or the stained glass windows. I really can't do it justice with words, WHY didn't I bring my camera?? The only pics I can find online are these: The wall outside the master bedroom and A sink, which doesn't give you much of an idea what the rest of the house looks like. Trust me, it was simply perfect. Tery liked it too, but in a sad commentary on how she views living spaces, her only remark was, "This is a house I feel like I can clean myself." At $1.8 million, we'll be making an offer on it about 4 lifetimes from now.

Not all the houses were impressive though, despite all having million-dollar-plus pricetags. The "Villa Della Viste" was decorated with horribly uncomfortable-looking French furniture and had an exceedingly silly name. The "La Chiripada," the only house that was sold when we looked at it, seemed nice enough but the floor plan was awkward and made very little sense. For instance, it boasted a detached building in the front yard that was set up as a free-standing office. Nice, except it had a clear view of the master bath and the lady of the house's spa tub, which itself also overlooked the driveway and front entrance of the house. Huh? There was a little girl's room directly off the kitchen, Tery explained for the stepchild that had to get up every morning and stoke the fire. The workout room was huge and consequently mostly empty, with a putting green and driving net stashed in the corner almost as an afterthought. Bleah. Behind the wet bar in the basement was a small room with an elaborate, wrought iron door with twisting vines around the bars. Can you guess what the room was? You don't have to, because it quite unnecessarily had a huge stylized sign above it declaring that this was the "Wine Cellar." It was downright insulting, I tell you. I joked about an improvised wheelchair ramp leading from the great room to the patio outside, a piece of plywood painted safety orange and thrown down, how it really didn't fit in at all with the granite in the kitchen. Hee! I went from room to room declaring my intense dislike of the house, and a passing old man agreed with me, "It's too dark!" he added. $2.2 mil for this, you must be mad! I would have viciously crossed it off my list even if it hadn't already (inexplicably) been sold.

But by far the absolute worst was unfortunately the last one, and therefore the one I remember the best (besides my darling "Outlook," that is). "The Aldwyn." You can tell from the name already that it's a real winner (I'm joking, you probably can't). The first thing you see when you enter this house is the formal dining room, a room which I consider practically useless in any house and hardly the first thing I want to come home to. But it gets worse. From there you entered the kitchen, a hideous work of design with 50's-esque tiles in a repeating retro (but not cool retro) ornament-shaped pattern, and "pre-distressed" farmhouse style cabinets. Ugh. Off to one side was the library with artwork depicting -- I kid you not -- the apostles exploring Christ's wounds. THAT has wide appeal. And nooks in the shelving with big, heavy devotional books propped open and illuminated with museum lamps. Creepy. Off the library was a bathroom with an embroidered poem, something about bad little boys and girls being attacked by "ghoulies" and ghosts and pray for Jesus to save you, children. Nice. Throughout the house were these huge, obtrusive wooden beams obviously designed to resemble a gothic cathedral. Fuuuuuuugly. Over the stairway was a normal-sized window that was set 10 feet up the wall. I wouldn't have a problem with this except for the shroud-of-Turin-colored drapes flanking it that cascaded all the way down and pooled onto the floor. I'm sure when they were drawn closed it created the illusion of a massive window behind them, but opened as they were they just looked retarded. And I tripped on them. The house also had a 4-foot high room accessed by a 4-foot high hallway, clearly meant to be a kid playroom, as well as another room with a kiddie stage and a treehouse built in. If you ask me, this is two rooms too many to devote to only children. I also didn't care for the little girl's room that featured a small writing desk turned diagonally, CEO-style. The only other thing I clearly remember about the house was the master bath. It had a large, centrally placed tub like all the others, except this one looked like a person-sized vegetable sink, perfectly rectangular except for a 5-degree slope on one side for luxurious reclining, because everyone knows that bathtubs with rounded, curvacious edges are nothing but an invitation to sin.

Gah. If I'm going to shell out $1.6 mil for a home, I'd like one that isn't so aggressively preachy. The whole house seemed to scream "FAMILY VALUES!" and "FAG, GO HOME!" (okay, that might have been a bit of paranoia on my part). I was gratified that the judges seemed to agree, as the house deservedly did not win a single award. Burn it to the ground, I say, and salt the earth. I hated it that much.

Some overall observations: I don't much care for the new trend of making all the bathrooms but the master these dark little rooms. And I don't understand the tendency to stick the commode into its own little hallway off the main room. Most of them feel like prisons, and like Tery said not even any room for a magazine rack or some reading material (don't laugh, if it weren't for this multitasking I wouldn't get any reading done at all these days).

Tery doesn't see any wisdom in putting what is obviously meant to be a teenager's room in the basement with its own door out to the back patio, for ease of sneaking in (or out) late at night. I agree.

Finally, while sitting on one of the four patios at the "Synthesis," I told Deb how hard it was for me to wrap my mind around the idea of people being able to afford these homes without having to work 24 hours a day. This is because I myself work two jobs just to be able to afford our measly $800-a-month mortgage. I just can't imagine buying a million dollar house and not worrying night and day about paying for it, no matter what my job was. You can take the girl out of the working class, but you can't take the working class out of the girl. Luckily, I don't foresee this being a problem in my lifetime.



My Crackwhore update really isn't terribly exciting. We STILL haven't heard the dogs since last Thurs night. It's as if they've evaporated into thin air. We don't know what she's doing to keep them quiet, or if they are even in the unit, but the silence is breathtaking. It makes me really, really, REALLY glad I didn't follow the Alcoholic down her path of vindictiveness. She did take the screen a step farther and cover the sides as well, taking the pressure off me of staying on top of the poop (so to speak). This also is an indescribable relief. Not to the Alcoholic of course, but she can at least drown her pain.

Finally, Kay. She couldn't wait to tell Tery a "really funny story" at work the other day. She's planning a trip to Africa to help build a hospital for the locals. During the final week they get to take a safari. Before you start admiring her selflessness, she told Tery about her father's pricelessly amusing reaction to the news, which was "Africa....isn't that country full of Negroes?" Oh, what a knee-slapper. Yes, Kay, racism is hi-LA-rious. Again, Tery didn't know what to say. If nothing else, I think it sheds some light on why Kay is as tactless as she is. Like father, like daughter. Like hell.

Last night when the Crackwhore got home it was obvious she got her warning from the city, because her first course of action was to put up a lower hideous bamboo screen in addition to the larger hideous bamboo screen that completely covers the front of her balcony. Yeah, THAT will raise property values. She obviously thinks if she squeezes her eyes closed reeeeeeeeeeeeeaally tight then we'll all just disappear. Perhaps if the screens were soundproof we might, but they aren't, and they sure don't stop the dogs from barking. If anything it makes them crazier because now they only have a small place to peek out on the side. But now she can amass as much fecal material as she wants and none of us will know, except for me because I'm the only one who can still see onto her balcony. It is truly astounding the efforts she will make to keep doing what she's been doing, rather than just do what she should be doing, namely walking those poor dogs once in awhile.

But now the Alcoholic is on a new crusade against the screen...she doesn't want to see horrible, horrible poo, but that screen is an unforgivable eyesore (for the minute it takes her to walk to her unit). For her part, she's taping the dogs with a big, clunky recorder like the one I had growing up. Which is fine except she is also interjecting snarky comments about the barking, instead of just presenting objective evidence that should speak for itself. I'm tired. So very tired. Why can't people just stop being asshats?

But in the midst of it all, as always, Tery made me laugh. I spent so much of the day focusing on the poo that she didn't realize when I switched gears. Namely, I followed this link from anne_jumps to a post that made my blood run cold (and anyone who is a friend of mine should have a similar reaction) and I immediately leaped into action to mail my elected official. I called Tery to ask if the correct form of address was "Representative Salazar" or "Congressman Salazar" (without telling her why I needed to know). She asked if I was taking the poo battle all the way to Capitol Hill. On the spot she devised some rousing slogans for my march:

"Hey hey! Ho ho! The Crackwhore has got to go!"

"We're here! We hear! Get used to it!"

"It smells! Like hell! It smells! Like hell!"

She so funny. (I didn't bother emailing my Republican Congressman. I did that once before regarding gay marriage and got back a very pleasant letter that basically said, "Thanks for your concern on this issue, but I'm going to do whatever the hell I want anyway.")


In other news, my eye has finally cleared up without leaving any permanent interesting bits of color as I'd hoped. Now it just looks like everyone else's. Damn my exemplary vascular system to hell.

Finally, one for the "Evidence That Brains Are No Longer Mandatory" file: The other day as I was walking out to my car to go to work, an SUV was pulling in. The driver saw me get into my car, yet inexplicably pulled up directly behind me. She was apparently dropping her friend off, but they had to sit and chat first. I stared at them in my rearview mirror, then started my engine. No signs of moving, so I put it in reverse so the lights would go on. Still nothing, so I had to open my door and tell them that yes, I was trying to leave and yes, your big ugly vehicle is completely blocking me (okay, so that second part was only in my head). At last my message got through.

I'm not saying it requires extraordinary intelligence to be able to drive (oh, if only it did!) however, a working knowledge of back-up lights and their significance certainly comes in handy at times. Remember what I said about SUV drivers not being the brightest crayon in the box? We can call this Exhibit QQ.


Addendum: So far every single co-worker I've told about taking gingko biloba for my memory has had the exact same response - "How do you remember to take it?" Guffaw. Really, people, do you all share the same brain?

Here it is, the long-awaited crackwhore/other neighbor story I mentioned a few posts ago (for both of you still on the edge of your seats).

I was ambushed the other day by the neighbor across the way from us, affectionately known as The Alcoholic. When I say "across the way" I mean in the neighboring building with a balcony facing ours. And when I say "The Alcoholic," well, I would think that shouldn't require too much explanation. Before you think me too harsh, this is a woman who managed to not once but TWICE somehow lock herself out on her balcony while under the influence (and when I say "somehow" I mean that unless she's done some fancy updating, the units come with standard sliding glass doors that lock only from the inside, and then only with considerable manual effort). Rumor has it she made a statement to the effect that she honestly believes her "tax dollars" put emergency personnel at her disposal to rescue her from such sticky situations caused by inebriation-induced stupidity. Maybe, maybe not, but I would lose sleep at night thinking someone's house might have burned down while firefighters were saving me from my own idiocy. And after the second time I would high-tail it to the first AA meeting I could find. Wouldn't you?

She pulled me aside on my way to my car just to bitch about the Crackwhore.

"WHEN are they going to finish all that construction?" she whispered exasperatedly.

"I don't know, but I can't wait, because then they will be gone."

"What do you mean?" she asked, searching my face with her half-crazy eyes.

"Well, they're fixing it up to sell it," I explained, surprised she hadn't already heard about it.

She theatrically clutched at my arm, "Don't tease me like that. Really?"

"Yes, really," I said, trying to back away slowly.

"Oh, thank god," she said, now clutching at her throat theatrically, "That's the best news I've heard all year!"

Keep in mind please that I mentioned she lives in the NEIGHBORING building, i.e. not connected to us in any way. When has she had to listen to the dogs galloping up the stairs at 2 a.m.? When has she had what sounds like steel-toed workboots tossed at her adjacent walls? When has she had to endure months and months of daily, repeated door slamming, hard enough to shake her furniture? When has she had her door knocked on at midnight by people so desperate for a fix they couldn't get the unit number right? When has she listened to the endless drone of drilling into the wall for hours on end? When has she listened to the sound of appliances being dragged up and down the stairs at 10:00 at night? Or been awakened at 7 a.m. by them levelling the door frame for TWO SOLID DAYS?

The answer to every last one of these questions is of course "Never." So don't tell ME it's the best news you've heard all year. I think I know more about it than you do.

Tery and I are hoping she'll have an Open House when she's finished. Based on the amount of work going on, I picture the "before" unit resembling in many ways Mother Superior's heroin den in Trainspotting.

I know I previously promised the possibility of full frontal nudity, but believe me, if you've ever seen The Alcoholic you'd thank me for leaving it out.