Y’all can calm down about the cow dung

I mean, we have (calmed down).

First thing this morning, we drove back to Dung House and smelled the neighborhood. Not a trace of poop. I greeted a young guy who was walking his dog and asked him — Do you like the neighborhood? (Yes.) Does it ever smell like cow poo? (Huh? Whaa?)

Perhaps a freak occurrence, some over-liberal use of fertilizer nearby . . . undaunted, windows down, we drove towards the nearby undeveloped land, which easily could be pasture land. Up the hill we saw a large facility that might have been a slaughterhouse. It was under construction, and since there were no “No Trespassing” signs on the gate, we drove in to get a look at the signs that were posted.

No clues there, but a bored security guard drove up behind us to tell us we were trespassing. He kindly answered all of our questions. No, it’s not a slaughterhouse. It’s a school. That big thing that looks like a slaughterhouse? It’s a gymnasium. (If they play war ball there — same difference.) Does he ever smell cow poop in the area? Nope.

So Dung House rises to the top of our list; I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if our credit checks out.

Meanwhile, we’re back home, and I’m looking at our view with sad, sad eyes. The sky is clear, the breeze is cool, the tide is high. This was probably the only place on the Pacific Coast where we could have afforded oceanfront, so Karen and I were a couple of lucky shits to find this place. Will we ever get back to the ocean? Who knows. Maybe I’ll be fabulously successful in Santa Rosa, and we’ll buy a little cabin in Bodega Bay.

It’s hard to believe we’ll be leaving so soon. Have I mentioned lately how poorly I handle change?

D.

We’ve narrowed it down

. . . to either Dog Pee Place, Water Damage, The Cat House, or The Dung House.

The options are actually more appealing than their nicknames would suggest.

Dog Pee Place is on a quiet street in a nice neighborhood. It’s more expensive, a bit more remote, and the bedrooms are small. So named because the occupant’s Pomeranian was that excited to see us. Landlord’s a cool dude. I liked him a lot.

Water Damage is one among over a hundred condos, all of which were built in a substandard fashion. Most but not all of the problems with this particular condo have been fixed, but there’s still a crack in the floor of the master bath, and apparently the whole place has to be raised four inches. Advantages: it’s month by month (cuz if they decide to fix it, they want to be able to give thirty days notice), it has the nicest master bedroom of all of the properties, and the bedrooms are on a sub-level, so they’re cool, cool, cool. On a hot day, the bedrooms were easily in the high sixties, even without the AC on. Disadvantages: they could toss us out with thirty days notice.

The Cat House would probably be the nicest of the bunch were it not for The Bonnie Situation*. I called this guy yesterday. Does the place have AC? Yes. Do you allow cats? Um. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll have to ask my wife, she’s terribly allergic. I called back later. Do you allow cats? I don’t know, I’ll have to ask my wife, she’s terribly allergic. Today, we’re looking at the place, really liking it. So how’s the cat situation? I’ll have to ask my wife. But only if you’re really serious about this place.

We figure he’s scared to death of his wife.

I ask him: so, what’s up? It’s not like she’s going to be living here, right? (Although part of me is thinking: maybe she’ll be living here. Hey, man, your wife, is she hawt?) He says, We’ll be moving back in a couple of years. What if we give you an additional security deposit so that you can clean the carpets after we’re gone? I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my wife. But only if you’re really serious.

If I called him right now, I’m willing to give 10:1 odds he hasn’t asked his wife.

We call it The Cat House because a black cat strolled through the back yard and Jake befriended her. Nice cat, took an immediate shine to Jake and even let me pet her. But the moniker works well for other reasons, too.

The Dung House may be the perfect place for us. The price is right — fully five hundred dollars per month cheaper than Dog Pee Place or The Cat House. Big place, lots of hardwood floors, good-sized master bedroom. But the neighborhood smells like cow shit. Or maybe pig shit. How should I know — I’m not a country boy. It smelled like a County Fair.

We think maybe someone in the neighborhood is fertilizing; we’ll check back tomorrow morning to see if we’re unfairly maligning the place.

All of them are two story homes. I tried to find a rambler, I really did, but no one would call back!

Home tomorrow . . . and one week from today, we’ll be back in Santa Rosa.

For good.

D.

*I think I like Pulp Fiction even better in Italian.

Santa Rosa bound

Yes, yes, I know you know that. Just wanted to say we’ll be driving down tomorrow evening in order to have two full days in Santa Rosa. We need to do some stuff at the office, meet with a counselor at one of the public schools, and Job Number One find a home to rent.

This last bit has been the most stressful. Half the listings on Craigslist are rented by the time we call. I wonder if all Craigslist postings are like that? For example, someone (not ME, of course) might call this young lady,

What can I say? I am divorced and single and I really miss having a man around. And not just to open jars and reach things on the top shelf. I miss making out like teenagers and teasing each other and especially I miss a big, hard [hey! This blog is strictly R-rated. Enough of that]

only to hear, “Oh, sorry, sorry! Is that old ad still up? Well, gee, guess what, I’m married again! How embarrassing. But — and this question is strictly professional — how’s it hangin’, guy? Able to reach that top shelf without hands, if you know what I mean? Because, just between you and me, this new man in my life can’t crack my jam jar . . . ”

Anyway. I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to write tomorrow. Probably not.

Wish me luck on the house hunt?

D.

Wherein I act like a little bitch

All I want to do is schedule a visit to a home we might want to rent.

Minimum Wage Doofus: [Name Redacted] Property Management.

Me: Hi. I’m calling about the house on [Address Redacted]. We’ll be in town on the 8th, and we’d like to —

MWD: You’ll need to download our application and return it to us with the twenty dollar application fee. If your credit report checks out, one of our agents will show you the property.

Me: I see. I need to cough up twenty dollars and THEN you’ll show me the house?

(more…)

I almost killed myself today

Every ten years or so, I have to open my mouth and say something so incredibly stupid that my entitlement to a Darwin Award seems inevitable.

At the post office today, I waited behind some pregnant woman with dreadlocks. Nearby, lurking about and talking to himself, stood a man with wild, dark hair, and tattoos galore. He was a fidgety dude, small, wiry, with unblinking eyes.

I stepped up to the counter to buy stamps and send off a couple PaperbackSwap books. Dreadlock gal was to my right. Scary dude had wandered off to another part of the post office, well out of ear shot.

I almost said to the post office clerk, “So. What’s with Charlie Manson?” but I was in a non-snarky mood, I guess, and kept my mouth shut for a change.

On the way out of the post office, who do I see driving off together? That’s right: Charlie Manson and his pregnant gal. The same pregnant gal who was standing three feet away from me when I would have made my lousy joke, the same gal who would have repeated it back to her wild-eyed boyfriend, the boyfriend who would have tracked me down and killed me, my wife, AND my son, thus allowing me to meet all of the requirements for a Darwin Award (no progeny, dontcha know).

There’s a Jewish teaching that you should only speak if you have something necessary to say. One should be deliberate in one’s speech, that’s the idea.

I’m starting to see the wisdom of this.

***

New patient, a guy in his fifties. He’s sitting in my waiting room, filling out paperwork while I work through my afternoon’s patients. One of my patients gives me a big hug. Nice old gal, she’s sorry to see me go, what will we ever do without you, etc. Another old gal comes in, gets her ears cleaned out, insists on a hug. We’re going to miss you, we’re so sorry to see you leave, oh come on give me another hug.

Finally, I called my new patient back into the room.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You won’t have to hug me.”

D.

The crazy quilt

. . . which I referred to in this morning’s post.

Better photos below the fold.

(more…)

Reading contracts tonight

. . . so, pity us.

Or not. Check out Wikipedia’s big list of unusual articles . . . stuff you really won’t find in a print encyclopedia.

Really.

Example,

Taylor Mead’s Ass (1965) is a film by Andy Warhol featuring Taylor Mead, consisting entirely of a shot of Mead’s buttocks, and filmed at The Factory. Warhol came up with the idea for the film after reading a review in The Village Voice which said of his previous film Tarzan and Jane Regained… Sort of, that “… people don’t want to see an hour and a half of Taylor Mead’s ass”.

Of course, you knew I had to google her ass. And, damn it, Taylor Mead’s a guy.

D.

P.S.: and when you’re done with Wikipedia’s list of unusual articles, check out LOLCat Bible Translation Project.

20 An Ceiling Cat sayed, waterz bring me phishes, An burds, so kittehs can eat dem. But Ceiling Cat no eated dem.21 An Ceiling Cat maed big fishies An see monstrs, which wuz like big cows, except they no mood, An other stuffs dat mooves, An Ceiling Cat sawed iz good.22 An Ceiling Cat sed O hai, make bebehs kthx. An dont worry i wont watch u secksy, i not that kynd uf kitteh.23 An so teh…fith day. Ceiling Cat taek a wile 2 cawnt.

My life among the nickle-and-dimers

The good: we made $480 at today’s garage sale. That’s not counting the $230 I made selling our various doors.

The bad: the big stuff didn’t sell. And by “big,” I mean “heavy,” not necessarily “expensive.” In particular, I wanted to unload our junky furniture the sight of which is a pox upon my eyes. As an example, we have an old desk whose current role seems to be cat bed, and that thing weighs a ton. And we have a lot of dirty old aquaria that I’ve been dying to sell.

Okay, here’s the experiment. I’m going to put out one aquarium with a “FREE” sign on it, and we’ll see how fast it disappears. If that works, maybe I’ll do it with a few more.

The ugly: a family came by with all their little kids in tow. Cute kids. We were nice to them, sold them stuff for next to nothing, and I gave away a few things, too. The dad kept trying to bargain us down on little stuff. You know how it goes —

Him: How much do you want for this?
Me: Five dollars.
Him: I’ll give you two.
Me: Make it three.
Him: Two-fifty.
Me: How about THREE.

Second or third time at this, his wife (who appreciates what we’ve given away to her kids) says to him, “Hey, these are nice people! No need to get all Jewish with them.”

Um, as a Jew, I can generally sniff out fellow Jews. These folks weren’t.

It’s sort of like the N word. Black people get to use it, the rest of us don’t. I’m allowed to kid a fellow Jew about being a cheapskate or a hard haggler — though I never would, because it’s an inaccurate and not very funny stereotype — but the rest of y’all back off.

When she left, she thanked us again and gave us a parting “God bless!”

“Blessed be!” I should have said. “May the Goddess shine upon thee!”

I never think of these things until it’s too late.

Live blogging later, maybe eight? I’ll stick around for a while and see who shows up. Hope y’all are having a great weekend. I’m tired and sunburned, but otherwise life is peachy.

D.