Tag Archives: Indian Burial Ground

Busting out all over

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It was the first really nice day of Spring yesterday, and ybab and I ventured out for a cup of batshit crazy. We passed by a local bank right after it got robbed. I wouldn’t have stopped there anyway because their ATM charges $2. Can you imagine! I go to the one two blocks away. We were just in time for every cop in town converging on the scene and throwing the guy on the ground, as depicted by Norman Rockwell. Ybab tried tripping him first, but he was just too fast.

We watched the prodding for a minute, and then we strolled to the coffee shop, where we ran into one of the cops who helped with the slamming on the ground. His throat was hoarse from running, so he changed up his regular drink and got an iced mocha. Again, can you imagine! He regaled everyone with cop stories, but we had to leave because someone had opinions.

Opinions are a condition shared by the residents of the neighborhood we walked through to get to the playground. They are a giving lot: rolling down their car windows so you can hear their music, fancy free with favorable input on one’s physiognomy. I still test well with certain demographics, it seems. Ybab still tests well with drunks, one of whom chucked her under the chin at a stoplight. She bit him, no doubt feeling like she had something to prove after letting a marginally armed robber get away.

At the playground, we made the acquaintance of a woman with two jailhouse tear drop tattoos under her eye. And cell phone dad was there, blissfully unaware that I pulled his toddler out of the street several times while he was busy chirping people. Father who throws a ball at his own son’s head on purpose was there too. Father had either poor or exceptional aim and also managed to hit Vomits truly in the temple, knocking my sunglasses askew! At this point, I called Officer Mocha, and he settled the whole thing on the ground. You go to the playground with the army you have.

The moral of this story is that we live in a very good town. You should move here too. I have a condo to sell you.

Waiting for dumbo

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A child persists in climbing on the dining table, and she listens to me not. I definitely should have gotten a dog. But then again, I couldn’t teach a dog to shout “Banzai!” when it jumps off the table. Life is a series of agonizing trade-offs. Fast, good, and cheap? Choose two. I am so cheap that I only chose one.

For example, I attended a condo board meeting last night in order to find out about the status of our association being charged 293k for the mistakes of a real estate developer and an insurance company. And while I gained somewhat valuable information (we’re screwed), I had to listen to a woman repeatedly ask “What can the board do to prevent floods?” Everyone’s eye drifted to the window, where the river is clearly visible. Yes, what indeed can we do to prevent floods? “Well, did they KNOW this place would flood when they built it?” You mean 100+ years ago, prior to global weather patterns shifting? “Well, what can we DO?” Finally, I yelled “Move!”

Captain Obvious that I am, we are still dragging our feet on putting our place on the market. Various online estimators show an approximately one zillion dollar drop in value. We don’t even have an idiotic sub-prime loan! And we can pay our bills, so there’s certainly no remedy available. It’s just collateral damage. Not looking forward to paying a ton of money for getting out of my apartment. It’s actually a perfectly good apartment, especially since we hammered out how to prevent the river from flooding. The trick was to get in good with the beavers, and they will tell the river to stay the course. We just have to dump beaver chow over the scenic walkway railing at various requested locations. Beavers want “Just Tomatoes” dried mango from Whole Foods, though, and that crap is like $5 for a little tub.

That poor woman went on for another fifteen minutes. Another woman brought her dog to the meeting, and the dog finally ate the first woman. This was a relief to all. I think I am going to look into getting a service tiger for just these situations. Maybe the tiger will learn to yell “Banzai!” too.

Is this stuff a business expense too?

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The murderer across the hall further surprised us by heavily dragging in an inflatable rubber boat. When we next went into the hallway, we found a crumpled piece of gauze on the floor outside his door. I wanted to poke it with a stick, but Mr. H reminded me that this could accidentally link me to scores of heinous crimes. Wouldn’t that be a pisser? At any rate, I hope he got the full value of his FSA for murderers contributions for 2007. It’s so important to keep good records. Did you know rubber gloves and electrical tape are allowed, but not kitty litter? Use it or lose it. I’d refer him to my accountant, but he’s already dead, unfortunately.

I recently celebrated a triumph by liberating an old retirement account that had been misappropriated by former employers, halfassedly refunded under supervision of the Department of Labor, and then frozen in time and avoidance for the next five years. I had to track down people who don’t enjoy remembering I exist any more than I enjoy the reverse, and it took several months of calls and emails and pleading and wheedling and third party involvement to finally resolve. I got my check in my pasty little paw right before Christmas, and I sent it in to my new evil empire, feeling a sense of great accomplishment and relief. At last, this unpleasant chapter and even more unpleasant paperwork was but a distant memory.

Then I got another check for $1.12. MAYHEM FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE. I should put this in my IRA for zombies.

The murderer next door

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I was out kicking cans around the parking lot the other day when I noticed the serial killer who lives across the hall had a new accessory for his brown serial killer car. I mean, come on, who drives a brown car? No one but a serial killer, right? Dead giveaway, pun intended. So on top of his brown Ford Focus hatchback he had balanced a small personal watercraft. A rowboat. This is a departure from the random pieces of lumber that he usually keeps on his roof rack. He is a perpetual putterer, always working on his makeshift chamber of horrors (MCOH) and no doubt assorted holding shanties in the woods.

Now, it’s December. And cold. Water tends to freeze in the cold. But I guess with great fortitude, one could hack a hole in the ice at the edge of a lake and shove off into deeper water. One is already used to hacking things up! The name of the boat is “Wait a Bit,” which is a perfect analogy for all that time-biding he must do in selecting his next victim. Or maybe it’s a clever nod to dropping weighted bits of a body into the inscrutable deep.

He just finished dragging the boat down the hall to his apartment, which I know because I made Mr. H watch through the peephole. I am afraid to get too close to the murderer, limiting my interactions to passing him in the hall. He’s always carrying power tools or bags of orange soda. He eyes my ybab, saying “Oh…what a cute…little girl…” in a hollow tone. I hear loud sawing noises coming from his apartment, and sometimes a tuneless attempt at the scales being played on a recorder, as if a child were just learning. I can only assume he is carefully immuring school children or prostitutes dressed as school children in a corner of his apartment and then dismembering them post-mortem.

From the outside of the building, I have carefully noted that his windows are blacked out with garbage bags, flouting the “white window coverings only” rule of the condo association. I guess they are too scared of him to enforce it! Why wouldn’t you decorate with garbage bags if you already have a bulk pack sitting around from wrapping bodies for storage in your chest freezer? It makes economical sense, and it adds a nice panache to your MCOH.

I would like to ask my other neighbors, the ones who dress as Klingons, what they think about all these shenanigans, but come to think of it, I haven’t seen them in two months. Not since their “Romulans Suck” dress-up World Series party. You don’t think….

Mr. H and the case of the haunted poor life choice

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I pawned jewelry for the first time today, and that was very exciting. I got to fill out a form for the police department and everything. I feel slightly bad that a nice man named Mahmoud is now the proud owner of our CURSE, but oh well! Then I had extraordinary I’m soaking in it parking, and later I came home and found a check in the mailbox. Parking spots and checks are the first delicate spring robins of changing luck. Also, I met two sets of twins at the playground, and I only have ONE CHILD. Luck is as plain as the nose on my face.

Mr. H had an old engagement ring kicking around from when he almost married a nice substitute teacher who would have probably born him triplets. He could have twelve-year-old triplets had he played his cards right! We found this ring stashed in a box when we recently rearranged the house, and I tried it on and felt pure evil wash over me. I believe he purchased it at an ancient tomb in the mall, and no good can come of this. I am going to be so pissed if a ybab starts sleeping and our house immediately sells now that this is out of my space! We had the power all along. Now I have to sell a vintage camera once owned by a Nazi, and we might get to go on vacation. And then I should probably do something about the possessed painting too. Dammit.

That the night come

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Take that, NO!vember. I am going to get on a plane and go somewhere…five to ten degrees warmer than here. Yes, well played, me. Well played! The only catch is that I am going with a ybab, and I have to decide whether to strap her to my back and carry the carseat while carrying the bag on my head, or strap the carseat to my back while dragging her on a leash attached to a cute animal backpack, or perhaps check her at the curb and pay someone to push me along in a Smarte Carte (“we’re the carts at the airport and a whole lot more…” More! I like that. OMINOUS).

Anyway, since No!vember is the Soup Nazi of months (recently held over in regular runs of “NO SLEEP FOR YOU!”), I am sure something will deviate from plans in an interesting manner. My ybab is currently starring in public as “That Kid,” you know, the one you said you’d never have back when you did not have children. If you never have children, well, you win! Please send me a card from sleeping in and reading an entire newspaper.

In a recent deviation from scheduled living, a local university has announced plans to build a giant dorm in my front yard. I am faxing a note simply reading “THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE” every hour on the hour. If all goes well, I will bankrupt them in toner costs. It is my right as a citizen. Man, the only thing worse than children is grown children.

Unprofessional painting

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If me of now went back in time to warn me of five years ago that future/current me would be covered in flecking blue paint (Martha Stewart Surf 286) and honey-mustard sauce, me would not believe me! But it is all true. Me has no idea how me’s life turned out this way.

A few days ago, I had a few glasses of wine (with dinner, not at 10AM, although heaven knows…) and decided to start painting the bathroom a different shade of blue. I have good ideas all the time! I can’t even tell you how frequently. I have a whole folder on my desktop called “GOOD IDEAS!!!!!” My bathroom is 50% old blue and 50% new blue now, and I may work on it one hour per night for the rest of my life. Because either I get some paint in my hair, or someone wakes up and starts screaming, or a cat wants to come in because the door is closed, or maybe the fumes just become too much and I wake up on the floor the next morning even dumber.

After the bathroom is painted, I will have to tear the “shelving system” out of the linen closet. That means I will have to put better shelves in. I can’t just leave things in a heap in the bottom of the closet, much as I wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to find shelves. At IKEA, they expect you to cut them to the length you desire, like, with a saw or the power of your mind or something, so all their shelves are eighteen feet long. No. The Container Store has a sale on shelving, and that’s great, but everything is sold in systems, and I, a professional internet user, can’t figure out how to find JUST SHELVES. Single shelves of the correct length. In desperation, I typed in “http://ijustwanttobuysomefuckingshelves.com/” and crossed my fingers, but no luck there. Where do you get shelves, good people of the internet? I am hoping my own Google ads will tell me.

***
Local color report:
Lowell High School is back in session. Before we set out on our nightly trek for takeout, the phone rang: a “PRIVATE CALL” according to the display.

“Bee dee booop,” said the caller, voice breaking with hysterical giggling.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, your penis did not go through!” The caller then died from laughter and somehow managed to slam the phone down in a dying act of valor.

Once downtown, a roving pack of teenagers conspiratorially made the aside “PENIS!” to us as we passed. Then we passed Marty Meehan over by the Masonic Temple. He was going to hassle us about voting when a young voice shrieked “I like penis!” out a screened window from the housing project across the street. We continued on, not stopping to vote in the primary because we had already seen Niki Tsongas having a victory dinner two streets over at the one nice restaurant in town, oblivious to the penis crisis in the streets. If she isn’t in touch with the penis issue, she does not need my support.

“If we were actually insane,” I remarked to Mr. H, “we’d assume people were only saying penis to us!” One never knows.

How I got covered in honey-mustard is another boring story for another time.

They’re American planes; made in America

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There are numerous perks to living next to a minor league baseball park. I can hug the Canalligator any time I want. Sometimes I’ll be relaxing in the afternoon haze when, lo, the melodious Windows start up chime thunders as the sound system boots. Every game night, I can open my windows at 7:22 PM and hear “Sweet Caroline” if I am so inclined. I like to go out and take a deep breath, savoring the scent of pure sugar and roasting sausage. One day, the sound person played an entire David Bowie album while testing and setting up the system. Sometimes he plays Queen. Life should come with surround sound, even if it sometimes plays the “Hamster Dance.” Some people would not want to live next to a baseball park, but crazy crap is kind of my thing.

I also enjoy have people trying to park in our parking lot towed. Simple pleasures, all around. As American as apple pie. I am still not totally sure if I should stand up during the “Star Spangled Banner.”

Last night ybab and Mr. H and I were out walking in the park. We noticed some fighter planes making lazy loops in the general vicinity of our house, and that always makes one nervous. We figured it must be a routine patrol, but we entertained ourselves for a while thinking that maybe a plane was off the radar and about to get shot down in our front yard. Wouldn’t surprise us, given our real estate track record. Underwater or smoking hole? Which holds resale value best?

We were in the courtyard right across the street from the ballpark kind of not paying attention while a ybab ate rocks when we heard something something about Air Force appreciation over the ballpark loudspeaker, and then we realized “OH FUCK.” There was nowhere to quickly run for cover, and next thing we knew, we were looking up at a guy in a cockpit. I should have covered ybab’s ears; sorry kid. However, when one is a few hundred feet directly below two jets, one’s instinct is to drop to the ground and flatten out one’s skull, like a cat trying to squeeze under a bathroom door. To hell with the children. They regrow ear drums anyway, right?

It took ten minutes to calm her down as she pointed up and jabbered “BIRD? BIRD?” No sweetie, that was ten seconds of what it’s like to live in Iraq! Consider yourself a world traveller now. Remind me to add “runway” as a feature to our sales listing.

Now where’s that Klingon woman I’m supposed to fight?

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On Caturday, I taked a baybee outside. In the hall, we ran into our neighbor. She was wearing a Klingon outfit and letting in a guest. A baybee stared up at her. “Oh, she’s getting so big,” my neighbor said. I assume she felt fleeting shame at this moment. “Yes, sure is! Oh well, another dull Saturday,” I opined, and ran for my life. Her guest was not wearing a Klingon outfit, but maybe his was in the car.

Mr. H missed the outfit, but I told him about it with great joy in my heart.

“The forehead thingy?” he asked eagerly.

“Like she worked at Kings Dominion.”

“The hair?”

“Yes.”

“The boots?” he asked in disbelief.

“And a cape.”

Now, we waited around outside an awfully long time with camera phones ready, but no luck. Still, knowing there was a Klingon across the hall left me on pins and needles. Might as well dangle a squirming toddler in front of a pit bull. “I’ll be right there,” I’d say, “I just have to hang up my cape.” Some things are just too good to drop.

I can only hope that next weekend brings more of the same. I wonder what her husband was wearing? Bless the people who think to dress up as Klingons, bless them every one. Perhaps it sounds as if I am making fun, but I enjoyed this deep in my soul.

Who’s Counting: In the can

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Point of clarification: I did not invent a new character. Lambchop is a real person, with a favorite color, day of the week underwear, and a snazzy hair-do. This is more than many of you can say! She has left us for New York, however. Watch the news.

Whoa, busy week. I had to rub rump steak all over the railings in the park by my house to draw the nesting yellow jackets over to meet the skateboarders. That went very well, I must say. Get offa my (public) lawn! I don’t want to be one of those people that lives life as a series of “If I could just… things would be better” moments. If I have to potentially kill annoying teenagers, by gum, I’m going to do it, not just whine about it. I have a plummeting property value to consider. Action, always.

No but seeeeriously. We live in a bee beard. There are wasp nests all over the outside of the house. The little buggers burrowed into one of the window frames, so I can hear them in the wall. A man came with some leftover Agent Orange, and now I don’t hear them. I also can’t breathe or move my left arm. If I could just move my left arm….