Warm in winter, and I don’t mind.

While I have a serious history on this very blog of bitching about warm winters, this year, I am glad for it.  This is for several reasons, all stupid (?):

1) Our charming and old apartment is as drafty as a mother-of-26′s baby canal.  (How dirty!  I have a sinus headache and Charlotte broke my neti pot.  It happens.)

2) Our neighbor is so disgustingly stinky that we need to prop the outside door open.  Warmer weather means that the building gets less cold (not that it’s warm anyway) and that other folks are less likely to close it.

3) I am feeling my age and am achy from lack of good nutrition, lack of exercise and lack of not being a fatass.

Across the lane, she smokes and stares.

Across the alley, though in Roland Park, they call them lanes, there is a girl/woman who smokes out of her open window all night, often on the phone.  There’s nothing weird about that except that she’s 20 feet from my window all the time.

I think it’s funny.

I’ve thought of mooning her, taking her picture and then mailing it to her, asking her for Grey Poupon, etc.  But that’s more out-going than I really am.

For now, I just laugh about the feeling of being spied on by someone who probably doesn’t even know that any of the three of us exists.

Leaf blowers in Roland Park.

Let’s bracket the fact that we are making moves to move (sounds like a po-mo film) out of Roland Park.

But I doubt that people here do their own yardwork.  I really do.  I’m “around” a lot during weekdays; that’s when I see lawncrews working.  I never see home-owners doing hard labor like mowing, cutting and cleaning up snow or leaves.  On the contrary, few of these rich bastards ever clear the walks they are required to (by city law) of snow and/or leaves.

I mean, shit, I fell the other day, carrying Charlotte.  I slipped on leaves, twisted the hell out of my ankle and went down — very slowly.  When you’re as practiced as I am at being a klutz, you learn how to fall well.  I twisted around, landed on my knees, slid on more leaves, arched my back to keep my balance and let the friction of my jeans and the leaf-bedded sidewalk stop me, whereupon I placed Charlotte into a soft pile of leaves and turned to make sure that Mrs. P was not also falling.  Of course, this all took two seconds.  And, of course, it could have been prevented, is said owner of said $1 million-plus house had their fucking leaves raked up like some of their neighbors have.  I meant to walk by, get their address and report them to the home-owners association and, well, ahem, send them a piece of my mind and maybe even a verbal middle finger.

But: leaf blowers.  I think I have established that the people in Roland Park who bother to do anything about what falls on their sidewalks don’t do it themselves.  Maybe one guy does, but I’ve never seen him, not living here for over five years now.

So why the fuck do we have to listen to leaf blowers on the weekend?

I mean, the real question is: Why the fuck do we have to listen to these at all?  The managers of my building had two guys out in the beginning of the fall with leaf blowers.  It took two of them, spewing exhaust and noise,to do what I could have done with a decent rake in the same time.  And, brother, I suck at raking.

But weekends?  Come on.  It’s not like Rich Jerry Van Guy is only home on weekends to do his yardwork.  He doesn’t do it!  He pays someone else, which is well and good.  So pay them to do it during the fucking week!

I was complaining to my Dad about this.  I share his mix of mellowness and near-constant bitching (we are a veritable mystery to science) as a personality.  So I was surprised when he said that maybe these folks couldn’t get anyone to come and do their yards/walks during the week.

To that I say: then pony up more fucking money for the people who do your yardwork.  I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the rich-but-cheap Roland Parkers with which I am familiar probably don’t pay said folks enough money anyway.  I mean, I would tell you what happened during a food drive in the 90s here and how some lady in a mansion (no shit) told us not be so greedy.  You don’t wanna know.  You’d lose your faith in this fucking city and, especially, in this rich-assed neighborhood.

Of course, leaf blowers are dirty and loud and stupid to begin with.  That’s another issue.

But, dear fellow Roland Park residents: mow your get your lawn cut and leaves gathered on weekdays.  If you enjoy hearing all that noise so much when you’re home on weekends, then do it yourself.

Ima kick you in the throat.

That’s it.  I’ve had it.  I am no longer speaking to anyone who actually writes/types, “Ima,” for, “I am going to,” — as in, “I am going to do nothing but sit on my fucking ass and hang out on Facebook all weekend after doing it all week.”

It’s my birthday in two days.  If you love me, stop with the Ima, or Ima poop in your car on a hot day.

Or some other empty threat I won’t carry through with.

In other news: I Am a Stranger Here Myself — great book!

And there’s a large tree that was uprooted in front of my apartment building — facing the other way.  It’s blocking half of our street, and assholes in luxury SUVs think they can cross the median and speed down the street the wrong way.  It is wrong that I hoped the Lexus I saw this morning would have plowed into a tree and gotten totalled, all the while leaving the driver unhurt?

Measurements and shopping lists.

We went to our new place yesterday, to take/make measurements. Charlotte blessed the new pad by stomping all over (literally, stomping) and taking a nice big poop in the new living room. It’s considerably larger than our current place, with a sunroom and a fireplace to boot. After the last two weeks, that central air is going to be nice.

We’re off to Ikea today. Charlotte always seems to enjoy herself there. Last time we took her, in December, she was still really into formula and barely touched the baby food we bought her. This time, she’ll probably eat some fries, veggies and maybe some mac-and-cheese. She’s into water and food these days. It’s getting increasingly difficult to get her to take her milk. Luckily, she loves cheese and yogurt. Boy howdy.

I think we’re moving.

Sheesh, it’s all we talk about lately. We paid a security deposit, are meeting to get keys/sign a lease next week, and we’re moving in around June 15th.

Of course, I get sad at the prospect of leaving our apartment (Charlotte’s first home, in a room I painted for her) and our immediate neighborhood. Then I think of the two broken windows and how Charlotte’s room needs moderate-to-major plaster work and repainting and has other crap wrong.

And then I strategize about packing our small library of books and other mounds of stuff.

And I’m compiling a list in my head of all the places with whom we’ll have to change our address.

Nothing looks like this, not lately.

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This week: grey, rain, rain, rain, grey. With recently broken bones and my still-smashed right hand, I’m tempted to sound like one of those people who acts like crappy weather was invented just for suffering and just for their suffering at that.  It doesn’t feel good.

However, in search of better times and making the best of what’s left of autumn, Mrs. P. and I will venture to our very favorite bookstore and perhaps have dinner somewhere in Charles Village, Hampden or Roland Park.  I will have a waterproof messenger bag, so treasures will make it home unscathed.  At least it’s going to be in the upper 50s/lower 60s.  I hate when it rains just shy of the freezing point.  Unless I’m cycling.  I do get a kick out of that.

Curiously, Normal’s is on 31st Street, where I blew a spoke last Sunday and had to miss the ride I’d spent so much time helping to plan.  Much better tidings today, I think.

My bike is out of commission currently.  Yes, breaking a rear spoke on the drive side can make your wheel no longer turn without hitting the frame.  No, this does not, as has been suggested, make me a wimp or perfectionist.  It’s a matter of my understanding bike wheels, at least a little bit.  Plus, there’s the empirical smack-your-ass part where my wheel literally does not turn.  The shop will take care of it; it’s under warranty.  It’s a good excuse to visit my favorite bike shop.

I need to get some new books and spend quality time with the Mrs. and our little belly/Baby.  As if it’s not obvious, I’m growing increasingly less patient with people’s bullshit.  A nice walk usually helps a lot.

Lots of new windows.

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My new apartment has a lot of big windows.  Nine.  Most I’ve ever had in an apartment.  Even with the ACs in, there are lots of windows left for catching a breeze.  One in the kitchen and two in the living room face my street, with a nice view of cyclists and traffic.  The other two in the living room, the one in the spare bedroom, the one in the bathroom and the two in the bedroom all face the pretty roof of the building next-door and lots of enormous trees.  When you look over the roof, you can see the lights of the big apartment buildings further down University Parkway, near JHU.  It’s like a quiet little spot in the city.
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Yes, they all stick like crazy because the building is old and because they are wooden.  But I’m at peace with it.  It’s worth it.  The rents here are pretty reasonable, and it’s close to everything without needing a car.  Indeed, to talk to my neighbors, parking here is, to be sure, a real bitch.  I don’t care at all.

I live somewhere else now.

First take-out tonight at new apartment.  First shower.  Soon, first sleep.  We moved nextdoor.  But, you know.  Moving is tiring, and my limbs are still not fully functional.  We’ve only hung curtains in the potty so far.  Only put together one thing from Ikea.  Got a new couch that is the color of poo.  Poo.  It’s very heavy, too, and our elevator was out all weekend.

You can move the apartment number literally up one integer in your address book if you have it.

Foot/toe update.

So. Saw Mr. Foot doctor today. Rather, first another doctor (not PA or RN, a Doctor) came in and mistook me for someone else who had just had leg surgery. Then he told me about my toe after he looked at my “film”. Fragmented bone. Too small to screw in like they would normally do. Should heal Okay. But if not, they’d cut out the bone fragment. That if that didn’t work, they’d “fuse” my joint. Forever. Best they could do. What?

Then I went to X-ray and had time to think about what he said. I have to admit that I was freaking out a little over the prospect of a permanent procedure on my foot, when I get around the world almost entirely with my feet — and double angry that it’s all because of one single person.

Then my real foot doctor came in, looked at the new X-rays. Turns out that I don’t have one broken bone, but two. And there are, apparently, several fragments of bone from them. He examined my foot, too, and he said I could get off the crutches now. Don’t really have to go back unless I have problems. That it’s too small to do anything, and we just have to let it heal the best it can. Okay.

That would feel like good news, I guess, after the scary shit the other guy was talking about. I was told I should expect my foot to be swollen for a year. Could be worse, right? But still. I’m probably going to get arthritis in this toe. And I already have a trick toe. My baby toe on my other foot has a split bone in it (funny story), and it hurts fairly often. On a rainy night like tonight or in the cold, I can literally feel that shit in my bones. The best I can hope for with my big toe now is chronic pain and/or surgery because some lady couldn’t watch where she was driving her fucking car? And she paid so little attention that she was on my foot for a while?

On top of it, her insurance company won’t return our calls. So we’re hiring a lawyer, something I really hoped to avoid. This is turning into a very unpleasant situation.

But tonight we got to see our new apartment, and it’s lovely. And baby-trying time is coming fast. My heart is light after spending my entire day being furious, frustrated and forlorn over my inability to deal with things I can’t control (like that, despite the shitty way it happened, my toe’s already smashed). It has a cute little bathroom that you enter from either bedroom, and a little kitchen window like downstairs used to have.