This never would have happened had you just called Goodwill

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday I believe, our neighbor dragged all of her living room furniture onto the curb: Two couches and one big ass sofa chair. No idea why and no clear sign of replacements.

The first couple of days, we would spy the younger  kids draped across the oversized couches – engaged in deep discussions about their friends and pop culture. Passing by, masking my judgements with a forced smile, I would think – how cute and yet so ghetto.

Two of the pieces were picked up quite fast by Craigslist “FREE” crawlers, but one remained. And it stayed there – lonely and defeated – until the rains came and swiftly washed away its potential of ever having a new home.

When the rains had subsided for 1.5 days, a new flower box was installed where the two couches had been stationed. I thought – how nice – such pretty flowers. Then I noticed that the chair had moved and was now in front of our house. Clever.

I obsessed over this chair. I did. I worried about rats and cats and what not, and I fumed about my neighbor’s audacity and fantasized about how I would put her in her place – NY style. But I told myself to be patient – to not focus on it, for surely it would be disposed of soon.

That was eight days prior to this morning. See I was checking a voicemail and happened to gaze out the window only to spot that Harry the homeless guy had taken up residency in our front lawn. This was no joke. This dude had moved in. His dusty self was draped across the chair’s lumpy frame. To his left was a plate of beans and a camping cooler and just behind him, parked at a 15 degree angle, was his big blue shopping cart. One you’d get at Walmart – substantially large and quite an eyesore for a residential neighborhood.

I was furious. My neighbors’ tacky and waterlogged sofa chair had been  defacing my lawn for weeks, and if that wasn’t bad enough, now I had a homeless person and his ugly cart to deal with. And I should have seen it coming. Furniture to the homeless people is like milk to stray cats – you put it out and they come. And then they stay.

I have no problem with homeless people. I feel for them and want to help them. But having one 20 feet from the safety of your home is not something easy to digest. Because you don’t know if they’re crazy; you don’t know if they are messed up with drugs, off their meds, homicidal maniacs… you know nothing, and so you can’t confront them. You just have to watch them and pray that something inspires them to leave.

I closed the front drapes and wrote a nice note (double-spaced on loose-leaf and cluttered with smiley faces) to the neighbor requesting that she call for a bulk pick-up and have the chair removed. No mention of Homeless Harry – I figured that was assumed.

About an hour after I taped the note to their front door, I heard the neighbor clunk down the front steps and shoo Harry away,”You take that to the corner, that is just disgusting!” she said. She must mean the beans – they did look pretty gross. Hey – why the corner? Is the corner less offensive?

Harry is gone now and the loose-leaf note has moved to my door with the addendum, “it will be gone by tonight – *smiley face.” Poor chair.

Would You Like To Come For Supper?

Yesterday was the second time a colleague of mine invited Jaime and I over to their home for dinner. We haven’t obliged just yet as things are quite busy, but we intend to. There is something about being invited into someone’s home. It’s their safe place – their routine – and they want you to be a part of it. It’s pretty awesome.

We’re very accustomed to meeting new people out at a restaurant or bar, so this will be entirely new. And I just don’t know what to expect.

Is it weird that I imagine a woman of the 50s with a red-checkered apron working in a yellow kitchen? Have I just watched too much TV? It’s also a bit unnerving – like, what if we just don’t jive – or what if they’re really weird – or what if the food is inedible. I suppose I should look at it as a win-win – provided we survive – we would a) walk away with new friends or b) walk away with a killer story.

An Irish Annex

Last night we decided to go out for St. Patti’s. I’m tired as hell as we both had to get up early, but we had to see what was what. We had to.

We ventured to Jakes – the one with the big crab on top as they have had banners advertising their St Patti’s day extravaganza since we got here. Or maybe they never take them down. Anyhow, we arrived to see about 6 white tents wiggling a “NOW that’s a party 2011” dance mix. The cover was $10 and it was cash only.  I mean – who listens to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” on St. Patti’s. NO. That is a FAIL. You are SUPPOSED to pretend to be of Irish descent. You are SUPPOSED to sing Irish songs, dance Irish jigs and in attempts to sound Irish – talk like a pirate.

There were 5 of us and not one was in the mood, so we ventured to McMenamins’ Annex.

You walk into this place and it’s like 60 sq ft. You pass a narrow bar with an eerily grinning bartender, venture down 11 wooden steps and you’re in this little pub area with handmade tables (3′ deep) and music posters all over the walls. I personally was most happy with the table – it was the perfect depth and beautifully crafted. My IPA was delicious as well

We had a couple of drinks and many laughs – then our exhaustion kicked in and like a bunch of old farts, we joined a chorus of yawns and left.

It was a happy St. Patti’s though. I had fun.

Hey, have you seen this. Hi-larious

 

Poop Damn You. I said POOP!

I am supposed to be working, but I am too angry. My shoulders are wet, my hair looks like a toupee that came out of a street drain and my favorite shoes are damp and may never look as sexy again. Why? Oh because of Kojak. See Kojak doesn’t like to poop in the rain.

It took 4 years of begging and mild tourettes fits in Brooklyn just to get him to pee in the rain, but the pooping – well – he will ONLY go if he has some nice grass. And it has to be nice grass – like a lawn – not a patch around a post.

I walked him all around Portland this morning – walked 25 minutes in horrible rain until I finally conceded and took him to the park.

There is NOTHING more demoralizing than standing in the pouring rain and begging your 9lb dog to poop. Begging! Passers by think it’s so cute. I almost gave my dog the finger. The finger! Can you imagine if someone had witnessed that?

Anyhow – now the sun is out and the sky is blue. Mother nature just thinks she’s so funny.

This guy has created a video on teaching your dog to go on command. I watched about :24 of it and kind of wanted to punch him. I bet he doesn’t even have a dog. Kojak doesn’t “spin” in the rain. He cowers and stares at me with disdain.