The pickups are always rustier on the other side of the fence

Since we moved in, we have had a great relationship with the neighbors on two sides of our property; the third, however, has always made us a little wary. Let's just say that the owners aren't the usual Takoma Park type. By that, I mean that the house has had several cars in the front lawn since we moved in, the yard has NEVER been kept up well and we once saw a bleach-blonde woman wearing high heels and a towel go out to her car. (Walking in a towel to the car is very Takoma Park, I think. Doing so with high heels is what makes it not so much.) The spring after we first moved in, we saw the owner drive up while Ange and I were out in the front yard. I thought I'd be friendly and meandered over to say hi -- and before I got there, the man got out of the car, pulled out his tween-age son and smacked him across the face, yelling, "Don't EVER touch my shit!" Making a mental note not to ever let them look after our kid if we ever had one, I retreated and kept my distance.

Since then, that side of the house has been a source of amusement between Angela and me. (See above story with the high heels, for one, which we both witnessed, dumbfounded, while having lunch.) We learned the name of the boy from his being yelled at several times. When I grew up, we had a neighbor who I was always warned against and I jokingly parlayed this scenario to Angela when Xan was born, saying, "You know, when Xan grows up, we're going to have to tell him not to buy drugs off XX next door." Given that we never really engaged in much conversation with anyone over there, various events would inspire resigned amusement. "Oh, look, there's another car in the front yard. They're up to six!" "Hmm, I wonder what the cops are doing there knocking on their door." "Gee, I guess they don't realize that fireworks are illegal in Montgomery County. And that it's not the 4th of July; in fact, it's February." Thinking that it was better to resign ourselves to this, we never complained -- mainly because if they were really nuts or something, we didn't want retribution. After all, we have a two-year-old.

At the park yesterday, however, I ran into G, the half of the gay couple that lives on the corner by the park who befriended me a while back when we were waiting for a bus. We shared stories about disappointing problems from our neighbors: he told me about a neighbor who wouldn't cut his grass except for once in the summer when he would scythe it; I told him about Mr. Six-Cars-in-the-Front-Yard. And I mentioned that something must be happening, because we hadn't seen the guy in a while, but the blonde and the boy were dragging nine million bags of everything to the curb at all times during the week, as if they were cleaning out or something. He suggested we talk to someone about this, that there had to be an ordinance, and that he would go with me. I said, sure -- in fact, Xan's daycare is right next door to the area representative for the City of Takoma Park.

I wasn't expecting C, the district rep, to come up and introduce herself to me and Angela as I got home from work.

We should have been careful about what we joked about.

Without going into really gory details (and to be euphemistic), it appears that everything involved with that house is going to hell in a handbasket. That the reason we haven't seen the man indeed is because he's been put away for a while. That the woman we've been seeing has issues of her own. That the house itself is in probate and might be taken away by the city soon. That the house (which C actually went in the other day) is in such a disastrous shape anyway that if and when it would be sold, it would have to be torn down. (And given what's happening over in laloca-land, I'm not sure I'm thrilled by the looming prospect of living next door to construction -- though at least trucks in the driveway would then serve a purpose: as a source of endless amusement for my vehicle-obsessed son, of course. "Beep beep trucks go backwards!") Things will certainly liven up on the other side of our fence.

I'm just stunned at how blissfully ignorant I have been. At least I can live with the comfort that the Department of Justice of the United States is safely in the hands of someone honorable and decent.

Wheeeee!

Our backyard -- or at least the lawn area -- has been an utter disaster since we moved in late 2003. The grass is not just grass but the weedy mixture that is typical for this town. There is a big hole in the middle of the yard where a tree stump used to be. The entire back part used to be covered by ivy vines until we tore them out earlier this year. The worst part, however, is the grade: a slightly hilly slope that makes all the rainwater go to the back of the yard, only to have it stay there, where it sits as murky mud for days after it rains. We've complained about this for a long while and were planning to regrade it with last year's tax refund (that is, until the person who was going to do it had a massive heart attack and then couldn't, for obvious reasons). Plans are still underway to regrade it so that it become flatter and less muddy.

But right now, we've discovered there actually is something useful about the backyard in its current state.

The recent winter storm brought about a few inches of snow, followed by ice. This has caused a nasty, very treacherous mix to walk on... but it's actually lovely sledding material. The grade of our backyard is such that it's a rather pleasant, fun, not-too-fast sled ride down to the back of the yard (as long as someone sticks a foot out so that we don't crash into either the woodpile or the back fence). Our neighbors had the sled (we were just going to toss Xan down the hill in a cardboard box) and the best part about the ice is that it's so hard, none of us have gone through it yet. (Not even fat ol' me!) Granted, the lack of traction that makes it a great sledding hill also makes it next to impossible to get back up to do it again, particularly if one has to carry a somewhat unnerved 23-month-old who can't figure out why he can't walk very well on the ice. (Yesterday, I had the boy in one hand and the sled in the other hand and got halfway up the backyard before I slowly slid all the way to the back again. Yay.) For once, however, our backyard is the perfect place to do this stuff -- and, given that Xan is the son of his mother and therefore gets cold very quickly, it's just a scoot back up the porch steps to warmth again. Provided we don't slip down the steps as well.)

By the way, I do realize that I haven't been posting a lot lately. Chalk it up to a writing frenzy to get this last chapter done, what with parenting, grading papers and three presentations to still write present over the next three weeks. (And, of course, 24.) I'll get back on track at some point. Really, I will. Someday.

Which is more fabulous?

Please choose one of the following:
(a) The fact that Xan is developing an appreciation for yardwork at an early age;
(b) The fact that his rake and mine match colors; or
(c) The fact that I'm doing yardwork wearing my purple Doc Martens, purchased en route to a Machines of Loving Grace/My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult concert in Boston circa 1992?

Where's the kaboom? There was supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom!

Ah, that lovable Marvin the Martian.

I sit here awaiting the plumber. This is because the Washington Gas guy just left, having shut off all of our gas to the house. (Thankfully, it's nearly 60 degrees outside today.) Why did he shut it off? It turns out the gas pipe to our stove was close to the water pipe that goes to our kitchen... and apparently the pipes had some sort of chemical reaction being next to one another and the gas pipe lost: it's been corroded through and gas was leaking. The gas guy said we were lucky I called. (Hence, the kaboom line.)

Here's what irks me: we've been smelling gas off and on for, oh, two or three months now. Right up against the back door, i.e. right over the under-the-kitchen crawl space where we discovered that there was a lot of gas yesterday when Angela went to put her birthday bike away. (Yes, I got her a bike. Yippee!) It's not like we waited all this time, however: we've called three times before this and were assured that there was no problem, that the smell must have come from the neighbors or something. This is, however, the first time that someone has actually checked under the kitchen because, well, we told them to.

Three times.

This is not why I hate DC, but definitely why I hate Washington Gas.

(On the plus side, the plumber just got here. Got to go. Sigh.)

Apparently, my wife's been doing some grass

Last night as she was heading to bed, Angela said to me, "I wish I had a blog to work out the complex affair I have with the lawn." Pause. "I mean, relationship."

"Wait a second, you said 'affair.'"

"I meant 'relationship.' Complex relationship with the lawn."

"You're having an affair with the lawn. I knew it!"

A sigh, a roll of the eyes. These, I am familiar with. *grin*

In the Swedish bargain basement

Xan and I brought my parents to Ikea for the first time today. My mother had been salivating over the catalog for the last couple days and the evil store is a mere 10 minutes from our house. We decided to go for the 99-cent breakfast and get there relatively early. Four hours later, we had traversed the whole store, with my mom getting umpteen ideas about what do with their new place, if only the new Detroit-area Ikea were open sooner than next year. (Indeed, it appears they are building one in Canton, about a half-hour away from Ann Arbor.)

I instructed them as to the usefulness of checking out the "As-Is" department, on the hunt for bargains that have minor scratches for a steal of a price. In particular, we have been looking for some furniture to put Angela's nine gazillion craft/yarn projects in the basement. We had finally narrowed it down to a couple Ikea pieces and something we found at Target. Since I've memorized the names, I knew what to look for "just in case" in Ikea.

And sure enough, we found a birch-colored Expedit shelving unit, the large one. Retailing for $149, it was dropped in As-Is down to $59. And the problem here was merely that the boxes were a little ripped up, while the furniture itself was fine. I called Ange and got permission to buy it.

"Guard this with your life," I told my mother, as I ran off to get the cart.

Even better, while I was distracted with Xan, I failed to realize that the cashier only rang it up for $50.

I think we had a good shopping day, myself.

As August dawns...

An update of recent events...

• The party over the weekend was fabulous. For all of you who came (and hoo boy, there were a bunch), I apologize if I was perhaps too busy grilling beef to chat for too long with anyone. It's the only problem with having nine million people in your house: you want to chat with everyone and can't quite because you have to mill. (Angela apologzies too, since she had to escape to put Xan to bed. Next time, I'll try to use more brian cells and not plan a party right in the middle of the sleep routine. Nonetheless, what a wonderfully motley crew: between the College Writing crew (with significant others) on the upper deck, the kids running through the garden and throwing part of my driveway at the garage, and my parents chatting with the foreits in the living room, it was quite an event. Plus, as previously mentioned, I cooked meat! Of course, I had to remember how to do it, but it was impressive nonetheless. And, oddly enough, we have leftovers, which are in my freezer.
• Invaluable to the party in general was my mom who (with my dad, lest you think I do not have both parents) are in town en route to a new chapter in Ann Arbor. Though they arrived in the middle of a heat wave (missing one of their ten suitcases... yes, ten...), they have adjusted nicely to the very cool basement of our house. Today, we repacked all their belongings to mail them through the postal service since Amtrak has decided to cut all baggage service to the state of Michigan. (On the minus side, this has caused us worry and Congress should be reprimanded for cutting back funding to Amtrak. On the plus side, now my parents' stuff will go straight to their door, meaning they won't have to carry a darn thing.) Alas, the new Ikea in Canton, MI is not yet open for their shopping pleasure. In the meantime, they are having tons of fun doing the grandparent thing, as you can see:
  Oma and Xan, a few minutes after first meeting each other
  

  

• Speaking of which, Xan is, as usual, just a great kid. (Can you see that smile?? That totally makes me day. And he's doing it a lot these days. Gosh, I hope I have a happy kid.) Today was especially wonderful, since he decided to (a) talk up a storm and (b) roll over on his own. First step to locomotion, indeed. He's getting a huge kick out of Oma, who keeps doing insane things in his presence, which cracks him up like you wouldn't believe. (Me too, actually.) My cousins have called my mom la tía loca and I totally understand why.
• We have some grass in the font yard now. (Wheeeee!) This is entirely due to Angela's hard work and the battle against the evil weeds is not quite done, but we're getting there.
• We have finally decided to return to Telluride this year, although we are doing it sans Xan. This kills us in many respects, but we finally realized that the only reason to bring Xan would be to show him off; otherwise, he will be cranky, grumpy, jet-lagged and disruptive, not to mention, he won't remember anything about spitting up on Roger Ebert. Now all we need to do is finally send our forms in, which are now almost a month overdue... sigh, and I was trying to get all this together ahead of time...
• Less than a month until classes begin again. Sob.

OK, that's it for now. Yawn! Off to bed soon.