Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Again with the Chaos.

Michelle shows up one day last week--she doesn't usually just "drop in"--so we knew something was up.

She begins the conversation with, "I was just hit on." there's a long pause, then, "at the soup kitchen!" And she's disgusted that this happened.

Apparently even the indigent & disabled have cellphones and are clamoring for her number. She has steadfastly refused all this guy's (gawd, I'm hoping it's a guy, although, now that I'm thinking about it, she was never actually stated that "he" was) advances. Even when "he's" tried to get her mother to stage a celibacy intervention.

Chaos loves to tell stories backwards--meaning she starts at the end and then works her way to the beginning. And then, it just gets stranger.

It's sloppy joe night at the soup kitchen, and Omi, who spawned this Chaos, donates cash so they can "eat out."

Chaos is a germophobe, so even the idea that she's eating in a church basement soup kitchen is laugh worthy. She also questions the contents of any meal not prepared at the local supermarket deli, and "loose meat" sammiches are always in the questionable content category.

So they find seats, and the soup kitchen helpers--who were all cafeteria ladies in previous lives--send over their sammiches. The lady plunks the plate in front of Chaos, Queen of Germophobes, and pats the sloppy joe. Yes, she manhandles a severe germophobe's sammich.

Later in the meal, the cafeteria lady offers coffee. Chaos accepts, thinking that scalding liquid will kill any lingering germs in her stomach....cafeteria lady pulls the coffee mug close enough to pour...with her finger entirely inside the mug.

Poor Chaos. Her one fancy meal of the month...covered in cafeteria lady cooties and illicit indigents.

Chaos Thy Name is Michelle

So, I've told stories about my neighbor, and I'm not even bothering to give her a nick. Of course, I'll end up referring to her as "Chaos" in the future, but until then...it's all bets are off.

This is the friend who came to my house after having a hysterectomy and after commenting how itchy the healing process had become, asked, "We're good friends, right? You and I are good friends, not just neighbors, right?" I knew where THAT was going and refused to answer any further questions.

Later, when she started to admire my spatulas, I ran.

Mostly, I think she does this for the effect--I'm used to being the totally unpredictable one and here she is, stealing my thunder. Yes, she leaves me speechless at times. Most times, it's speechless from laughing, but still. Speech. Less. Me. Be afraid, I'm buying her a bus ticket to visit you.

A week or so ago, she shows up at my house. I'm sitting on the patio, minding my own bees wax. She's on her cellphone, in the middle of a conversation. She walks over to me and mid-sentence in her conversations with I-don't-even-begin-to-know, leans over and says, "Motorboat me baby!"

As I sit there, totally flummoxed, she stands up, and continues her conversation about her cellphone provider account.

I manage to ask, "You were on hold, right?" She shakes her head "no."

She's weird as hell, but she makes me laugh for all the wrong reasons. And I rejoice that I actually do have friends.

This 'Splains A LOT

Saturday, the Howler went off to Chuck E Cheese with Bonk & his Mom. I worked all dayumed day, and so did My Sweetie, so it was great--free babysitting.

I scurried out of work to be home and save Bonk's Mom from the hell-that-can-be-the-Howler, and she wasn't at her house. She wasn't at my house. She weren't nowheres I could see her. (Bonk & the Howler weren't here, neither.)

So, I called her. She didn't answer her phone, which I was hoping meant that she was driving, on the way home (ol' Chuck's place is about 1.5 hours from here--I'm not sure, because I have never once, in my *cough cough* years, set foot in one of those demon holes.) I called her house, too, just-in-case.

She called back about 20 minutes later. They were just getting in the car at that point. Stopping at Dunkin' Donuts (sure, makes sense: 2 spawn in the car, sugar 'em up for the trip home) and they'd be home as soon as they'd be home.

While awaiting the homecoming, the Gator called. She asked if the Howler enjoyed her day. I said yes. She asked what time the Howler got home, I said "she's not home yet."

"So, how do you know she enjoyed it?"

"cuz she said she did when I talked to Bonk's mom"

"what? how? if they're not home yet?"

"I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone." (mind-blowing concept, that.)

"Oh. Did you talk to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone?"

"Yes. I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone."

"Did she say how soon they'd be home, then?"

"They're on the road as we speak. They'll be home in about an hour or so."

"So, they'll be home in about an hour or so?"

"Yes, they'll be home in about an hour or so."

The rest of the conversation went on like this for several more minutes. I know it wasn't that conversation psych shit that they teach you to be sure the other person knows you're listening...the Gator weren't listening. She was testing me to be sure I was listening to her--and to be sure I wasn't lying to her about anything.

Kill me now.

Road Trip

Okay, not really. 30 minutes away isn't really a road trip, is it?

Today was the field trip for the Howler's school. 30 minutes away, and thank God for smallish miracles, I did not even have to ride the bus. I did, however, get to haul ass with my friend and neighbor, who as of yet has no nick. After this post, though, I'm sure to think up something totally vile to call her. She is Evil with Caffeine.

Actually making it to the point where we load ourselves into the vehicle and leave town was hilarious, mostly because we both spent a lot of time saying, "Dayum, I have to get one more thing." and ending up forgetting several things we thought we'd need for the trip: like our sanity.

She worked last night (over night) and was prepared with a sputtering urn of coffee. Which vomited coffee into the plastic bag she brought for it. She apparently felt she needed 48 gallons of coffee to make it through the day.

While at the park, she tells me, at one point, "You know, you're more attractive when you don't talk." Lovely. I'm your ride home, baby, play nice.

On the way home, she's like some loopy half drunken dingbat, totally mishearing what I'm saying...but in the meantime, she begins playing "Who'dja Rather?" and lists the endearing couple Loser Boy & his Lover. I, of course, throw up in my mouth a little. We then discuss Loser Boy, how disgusting he is, and, exactly, which objects and animals he would "rather."

At this point, after discussing various barnyard animals, she mentions that they have a dachshund, and how lucky it is to be a small dog.

I have a mouthful of water at this point, and I am driving...Thank God, again with the smallish miracles, that we were only going 40mph. I had to roll down the window and spit. I know, so very attractive, but really, we're lucky I didn't end up in a field!

She's such a good friend, she did ask me if any came out my nose.

Trolling the Neighborhood

Apparently, my BFN (best friend neighbor) has decided, again, that she's going to make a play for My Sweetie.

We say that, because yesterday, when I got home from work, the Urchins were up to play with the Howler. And Waif, I guess, had the secret squirrel mission to try and get my Sweetie down to their house. Even after I got home.

We believe that a few years ago, BFN & Loser Boy were the ones to spread the rumors that various neighbors were engaged in illicit adult activities--and that I was the one keeping track of all the children so that the adult hi-jinks could go on. My Sweetie was mentioned sparingly in the rumors, but his name did come up some. I know that these rumors were simply rumors--untrue and very crass (and believe me, I know crass & vulgar.)

This past spring, she made the same attempt, with the same "excuse." She wanted to talk to my Sweetie about her garden. She called and kept him on the phone once for about an hour--yapping on and on about her pretend garden and that she expected My Sweetie to call her when HE went to get his tomatoes, etc, so SHE could go with HIM.

After the crap she was spreading through the neighborhood about my daughter (that the Howler was a vandal and that I was unbalanced) and my 2 hours conversation with her about how Loser Boy doesn't hit her with his fists, and that the 10 year old Waif would know when to call 911 if he ever got "truly out of hand," My Sweetie totally blew her off (not that he had any intention of calling her or going anywhere with her, anyway.)

She didn't call here, nor did she show up. Not even when I was not here.

Yesterday, Waif started telling the Howler to help get her daddy to go down to talk to her Mom about her garden. I'm guessing that this genius in a 40DD bra doesn't understand that it's September, and her pretend garden doesn't need anything now.

The Waif tried to get My Sweetie to go down there herself. The Waif told me that My Sweetie needed to go down to her house to talk to her mom about the garden.

I told the Waif that not only was it our suppertime--we weren't going--but that if her mom needed to talk to US about her garden, she could come up here.

Haven't heard a peep from her, not last night; not today. Go figure.

Jeepers Creepers

I've got a Peeper.

Yesterday, I got to meet the one neighbor, who live the other way--opposite all those mangy kids. He's definitely a little swishy, but that's not all. Oh, no, that's not all!

I met him because I noticed he was mowing the teeny tiny yard of Damien's house. He kept looking at me (sitting on my front porch, smoking, talking on the phone.) Then I noticed he was mowing the welcome mats at the house immediately behind the slumhouse. I decided to go find out just-exactly who he was and just-exactly what he was doing. He pointedly asked me if I was on the phone earlier when he was mowing at the slumhouse.

For no reason whatsoever, he told me his address repeatedly before telling me his name. During the course of the conversation, he pulls out his wallet (think George Costanza) and hands me his drivers license. Apparently, years--no, decades--of attracting freaks has inured me to their freakiness, because all I could think to say was, "Oh. Nice." and hand the thing back. Thinking about it today, he's probably licking the finger sweat/oil from where I touched it.

I finally escape, and am filing my latest and greatest (yesterday's post.) There's the doorbell--and it's Mr Jeepers. Says he came over to just tell me how cute and adorable my house is. Not the outside, the inside. He's really really clear on this point. My response? "What, are you peeping in my windows?" and laugh. His body language says he's horribly intimidated, but he can't bring himself to leave until he's told me this most important secret: (no, he didn't admit to being escaped from the Booby Hatch) zip codes, and city limits; how they interact and impact on the realities of his current address.

In all honesty, I'd be less disturbed if he were wearing a tinfoil business suit carrying an umbrella named June. I'm certain that he's the guy who sometimes walks in front of my house and just stands there, staring at my house.

Um, yeah. I don't think he's a pedophile--he's never out and about (or wandering, mowing, or staring) when the kids are all amok in the world. But now, I wonder if he came over and complimented my house in some weirdass effort to gain entry.

Jeepers Creepers, I gots me a Peeper.

Dope-O-Riffic

So much is happening in our neighborhood! Where, oh where, do I begin?

With the Clog-dancers on the other side of the wall.

First, let's talk about just flat out how WEIRD they are. And what slobs. Seriously. Having to duct tape the crack around the door that connects the basements to contain the smell to their side is a pretty severe stench, don't you think? Considering that we have 3 cats..and they have 3 cats...and no, it's not that we're used to our cats' smelly boxes. Our cat boxes get CLEANED OUT. And we don't pile all our garbage we're too lazy to take to the curb for pick up in the basement, either.

Second, they have a 3 year old. He's never wearing shoes when we see him--even in the dead of winter, he's not wearing shoes. I don't know why.

Third, they never let the kid out. Really, the kid stands in the screened open windows, winter and summer, like he's amazed there is a world out there. Occasionally, he'll pound on the windows in an effort to escape. And yes, there's ALWAYS an open window or six at their house--even in the winter.

Fourth, she has a boyfriend who has been staying over. And no, not when he's at work. While he's there. The guy has been here more than he's not been here lately, and we've suspected that he was living there. Mr Dope has been at home WITH the guy, when Ms Dope goes to work. The guy has spent the night there, with the family.

Yeah. Ewwwww just doesn't cover it.

Neighbors in the Mumple Zone

My immediate next-door neighbors are strange.

They have windows open all year round (we live in western PA, for God's sake!) and they run FANS on-and-off throughout the winter, too.

They clog their kitchen drain with grease. Then can't figure out why it's clogged.

Their smell comes through the connecting-basement door (did I mention it's a duplex?) We have to duct tape the door to keep the stench down. And yes, it's worse than Ass Caverns, the Toad's room.

They're jarred the ballast in the downstairs light fixtures so often, that they've been replaced at least once a year since they've moved in. They don't know how to change lightbulbs.

Their toddler son stands in the windows, during summer, scratching at the screens. We think he's trying to escape.

They keep weird hours. Like all night long hours.

Currently, it sounds like they are clog dancing on the walls.

Most of this wouldn't be too much of an issue (the last tenants had sex in the living room every day for the first 8 months they lived there--I know this, because my basement is partway under their house and we could HEAR them, sometimes, through the walls, too.) except that, well, they are LARGE people. Supersized people.

Okay, there's no way 'round it. They're fat.

And when I hear the clog dancing begin, I get worried...if they are clog dancing on the walls, there's a pretty good chance they're coming through the walls at some point. And the reek with them.

Oh, and if I go over and knock on their door? There's a really good chance someone is answering that door without a shirt on. And it's not necessarily HIM. Bwah.

Oddiments

In the past few months, I've ventured into the time suck world of facebook. I avoided it as long as possible, but eventually had to join to see pics of my Howler from Christmas. So, over all, an honorable reason for caving, or so I tell myself.

But this isn't about my justifying my cavyness, it's about how totally nuts some people are, and my shock at discovering it over and over and over again. (Just when I thought it was safe to acknowledge I knew ye...)

Anyway, I've posted about my crazyassed neighbor before. Anyway, she ended up with my email addy. Which, all things considered, I'd rather be able to delete her email than have to listen to her voice--getting on the phone with her can be worse than being on the phone with my mother. Trust me, email is a waaaaaay better option. So, she started sending me emails to join this thing or that thing...mostly so I can see pictures of her and her Loser boyfriend. Uh, no, thanks. Much as I'd like to see your 48DDD knockers in a bridesmaid dress....PSYCH! I mean, NOT!

Yeah, that.

So I get on Time Suck Central and eventually decide to go whole hog and look her up. And send her a friend request. And invite her to be my neighbor on one of the Time Suck Games.

This is the nutty part: She does NOT accept or ignore my requests. She instead invites me to JOIN FACEBOOK. Then proceeds to send me gifts and the crap that you can do when you play the Time Suck Game.

And then people wonder why I hear circus music when I see them.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Okay. The Dad is going a bit nuts here.

I mentioned to him yesterday (we both ended up at the school making copies of PTA stuff & nonsense) that my neighbor is NOT my buddy. And that, since she believes him to be one of her great-known-him-for-years friends (HAH!) he is going to be who she goes to.

I also learned that everyone else finds it odd that she hangs and hangs and hangs around after the meetings. We're trying to get stuff finished up--who's doing what, etc--and there she is. Now, if we had some things to discuss that would be for the general membership, we'd have brought it up during the meeting, duh. Not that we're trying to be exclusive, but, as you know, with any group, there's behind the scenes planning and deciding that gets done, and unless you're on the board, you should not a) hear about it until & unless it's discussed at a meeting and b) expect to have everyone holding yer hand and begging you to stick around.

As I've said, I'm sure I've done just this sort of thing (without the huge-mongous boobs and pierced tongue) before, but, seriously. I think if she could learn when/if we have executive board meetings, she'd show up for them, too.

I'd like to think that part of it is that she sees me as this mover-and-shaker friendly person, and I have been working on not totally putting off the "I hate people on general principal" vibe, but c'mon! Pay attention and back up!

I told The Dad that HE could discuss her makeup choices with her. And she could glom onto HIM. He said he barely knows her--she worked at the smoke shop over a year ago, and that's where she knows him from.

For the record, I have some customers whom I am on a first name basis with--after NINE years. And I may see them when I'm not at work, but it's a "hi. haven't seen ya in a while" kind of thing--not a friend thing. We don't send Christmas cards, and we don't hang out. I may tell people "I know him/her" but I'm not going to say, "Oh, yeah, I've known him for years and we're friends."

It's just weird--or is it a woman thing that I seem to have missed catching?

Rant On

Yes, there's more about my neighbor-new best friend.

These are timeless questions, I'm asking here.

First, I'm still looking for the answer to "Is there a polite way to tell someone to crawl out of your ass?"

Second, what kind of insanity inspires a woman to talk about her failed make up choices to a woman who so obviously doesn't wear so much as eyeliner?

Yeah. I don't wear make up (okay, maybe 2x a year I do, but every day? I don't have that kind of time or energy) and yet, during the Fall Festival, whenever she was able to attach herself to me, she would talk about Avon's newest, or Cover Girl's something or other.

I kept saying, "I don't wear make up, so I wouldn't know." and that's when she switched from Avon to Cover Girl. Even telling her that the extent of my cosmetic expertise begins and ends with my choices for Revlon hair color and Clairol Nice 'n Easy hair color didn't deter her.

What possesses someone to do that? I mean, if you've tried ONE brand as the topic of conversation, and the ass you're trying to crawl up doesn't respond at all, why would you stick to that topic, but start blathering about a different brand?

It's a form of insanity, isn't it?

Back Up

On Rant:

So, in my neighborhood, as we all know, there are some interesting people. I use the word interesting in the loosest possible way.

The one family--the one with Dolly and Urchin--are baaaa-aack. And I'm her bestest best friend EVER. Whether I want to be or not.

Bleah.

Let me explain. Late last winter, she & Urchin moved back. Yippee. Dolly & Urchin spent Memorial Day weekend raiding my cupboards & fridge. Then they spent June & July rooting through our non-edible stuff. No matter what kind of snit I pitched, the next time they were up, it was like a free-for-all, and no matter what I banned them from before, they were onto bigger and better things later.

I also didn't like the group trips to the bathroom--that's a sure-fire way to have children where children don't belong. Meaning, "In MY Stuff."

Anyway, both the Grocery Gobblers (or G-Squared as my Sweetie has been calling them) are in the Howler's school this year. And, Dolly is in her class. Great. Like I need this stress.

The Incident of August had already prompted us to put an end to the free-for-all time the Howler spent with these girls. (In a nutshell, mine took a dare--a dare that was waaaay inappropriate for this age group to have made; of course, mine had consequences for taking a dare such as this, even though I understand fully that at 7 years old, NOT taking a dare is like NOT breathing.)

The Howler was happy to be in Dolly's class, but I've noticed, whether because of my edict or because the Howler has other fish to fry, they don't hang out much at school. Alleluia!

With school starting, this Mom of the Year has decided to be more involved--in the girls' lives, and their school. Great. I've urged and urged her to concentrate on her own daughter's class (4th grade) and so far, it's not working.

She's up my ass like ugly on an ape. I can't get rid of her at PTA meetings or at parties and things at school.

I'm sorry, but at the meetings, particularly AFTER the meetings, I have other people I want or need to talk to, and in all honesty, some of what may need to be discussed are NOT things for just any-ol'-body to hear. With privacy issues being a hotbed of pissiness, I do not need an extra appendage with size Double D hooters hanging on to me.

And, then, two days later, at the Fall Festival, I got there early as the 2nd in command for our room, and there she was. Up my ass. Again. I couldn't hardly get away from her. I actually took my camera, and handed her the PTA's camera, and told her to take the camera, and take whatever pics she could get of whatever classes she could. (We, the PTA board, are trying to get plenty pics taken throughout the year for the yearbook.) I deliberately ditched her and headed the opposite direction.

As soon as she saw me again, she glommed onto me and wouldn't let go again. If I moved across the room to see what the kids were doing, she was there. Her "own" child was opposite in the room of mine, and yet, there she was, attached to me.

There's no polite way to tell someone to get out of your ass, is there? I've tried to find one. It doesn't exist. I'm afraid I may need to contact the homeroom parent of her actual daughter's class and BEG her to keep this woman busy--and an entire floor away from me.

Either that, or I can only hope that she gets bored well before the end of the year, because somehow, I think that telling her to "back the f&k up, and get out of my ass" isn't going to go over well.

Purple Heart

Right now, I'm pretty angry.

I'm angry that as soon as we get one child in the neighborhood to settle down and behave like a human being, another one (or really, several of the little beasts) begins to drive us over the edge.

It doesn't help that I'm still in pain, and still feeling exhausted most of the time.

Today's insanity was inspired by my being made a butler. I spent about 15 minutes opening a door, for no reason at all.

First, it was "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" because it was locked--as it should be, since we had just gotten home. Then it was because there were bugs out there. Then it was because the Howler left the front and went to the back (a bug free zone.)

I would have just enough time to sit down and get started on what I was doing, to have the bell sound and the pounding start...so I could get up and open the door again.

And let me tell you, when your elbow feels like it's twice the size is actually is and is achy and sore like you've just loaded a dozen 80 pound bags of Quikrete into a truck bed that's taller than you are, you still forget that, and since you're right handed, open the dammed door with your right hand.

Being greeted by little faces asking "Where's the Howler?" doesn't improve your mood. Then when the Howler re enters the house through a different door to whine and complain about God-Alone-Knows-What, the screaming and yelling that commences is probably going to be embarrassing when you next make eye contact with the neighbors.

And knowing the this scene is going to repeat itself several times over the course of the next two days...well, screaming bloody murder now really is just a warm up.

Add to all this the fact that, as annoying as OPK are, your own flesh and blood child is over the top annoying--what with the whining and pouting that you know, beyond a doubt is in your future...

If I shoot myself in the foot, will they send me home from this war?

Butt...

It seems that I am doomed to look at ass crack the rest of my life.

The crackorama at work has finally (knock on wood) ended, but now, in the neighborhood, there's crack.

The Urchins are back (Waif & Loser Lover moved out last fall...then came back in late winter) and the Urchins are officially not allowed in my house. Two weekends ago, they were rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves.

Now, I do not begrudge a child food when they're hungry, but these two have taken to showing up "just in time" to ask "can we eat with you"? In other words, they ain't getting fed at home, and it's now my responsibility to feed them, since last summer's free-for-all has ended.

So, they come to my house, and help themselves. A bag of chips lasts minutes, and short of using the stove, it's anything goes. It doesn't help that they've helped trash my house with toys, then disappeared. And Sunday evening, began systematically emptying the sand box into the parking area for the tenants.

Oh, I so do not think so.

Anyway, Dolly is now wearing pants that don't fit--they're too big. I'm guessing that Loser Boy is too cheap (and too busy at the bar) to buy his daughter clothes that fit. Her butt hangs out of them almost continually. She's not wearing panties with them either, so I have choice A) they're dirty and laundry ain't getting done, or choice B) those don't fit her either, or choice C) both A and B.

It's frustrating. Because it's the Howler who is sharing the 411 on what it's like at the Urchin's home, not them. If it were them, I could reasonably document and deal, but since it's my 7 year old spilling the beans, I can document, but there's not much anyone can, or will, do about it. It's also sad to think that even this kind of neglect is low on the Needs-Investigated scale, since, they attend school, get infrequent meals, and have a roof over their heads and clothes on their bodies.

Some bleeting heart will probably tell me that I'm too harsh, these are children. But you know what? I'm not responsible for opk. That's why they're OPK--they're not mine, and it's not my job to raise them. And, I don't think I should have to put up with the disrespect and mouthiness I'm now getting from said OPK.

If I am feeding you regularly, and you're not actually blood related to me, then the least you can do is not trash the stuff I paid for, follow the rules at my house, and speak to me with a minimum of respect. Don't shoot me dirty looks when I tell you about it, either.

So anyway, now that the majority of my wise cracking (HAH! Get it?) is handled at work, I now get to come home and look at it.

The only difference is, I can tell this one to pull her pants up as often as I want.