What is UP with THAT??

OK, two weeks ago, I was treated to a Chick Encounter.  A week ago, we have a grisly and lurid murder // “almost” suicide event in the building directly across mine.  You’d think things would start to level off, get back to good, calm down, ease up.

My complex is normally very quiet and pleasant.  Everyone is respectful of everyone else – if you are walking your dog and see another person strolling ahead with their pet, you cross over to another side walk so there’s no fussy sniffing, no potential dog fights.  People nod, occasionally initiate a friendly greeting, “How ya doin’?  Nice weather.  Mornin’!”, some form of casual acknowledgement that you are part of the family of man.

Sunday morning, 11:30 am.  I am on the couch watching something with my daughter when we are treated to loud hip hop music.  Loud enough to rattle the windows; so I know it’s right outside my door.  I waited a few minutes, thinking possibly that some young buck was picking up his current amore for a frolicking day of love…and…loud music.

I waited more than an appropriate amount of time.  Five minutes passed.  I decided to stick my head out the door to see what I could see.

  I saw a four door coupe parked, as I suspected, right outside my door.  All four doors were fully extended, the trunk flung agape, almost as if surprised at it’s exhibition of wanton abandon - - in an effort to fully maximize each decibel of sound.  On the grass next to my porch was a young man, lounging prone on a lawn chair, with a smoker puffing away, working presumably to provide he and his friends with smoked meats.  A little table was set up with what appeared to be ketchup and a few implements.  He nodded his head politely at me, I nodded back.  I quietly closed the door.

I don’t confront much directly – in fact, in my apartment complex, I like to keep way under the radar.  Occasionally I must hurl back after being verbally accosted (Chick), but mostly I keep to myself. I don’t complain to anyone and I try not to do anything that would make others complain about me. 

The goal is to not be discovered three weeks later bloated, wrapped in plastic under my bed.

Smokey turned down the music to a polite level after we acknowledged each other, but continued to provide delicious smoked nourishment to friends and family for most of the afternoon.  I am left with a burn mark in the yard and a few charcoal briquettes as a powdery black memory.

Who does that?  Three years I’ve been there quietly adhering to HOA rules and regs, and suddenly, I have someone screaming “I don’t want your dog sh*tting on my lawn”, then there is a dead lady across the parking lot, and the cherry on the April parfait is Smokey on my terrace. 

I’m hoping things quiet down now.

Oh My

I, like many of my contemporaries, have a fascination with forensics.  The media does not disappoint - - television offers us plenty of opportunity to sate our macabre interest with shows like Law and Order, Forensic Files, CSI, Cold Case Files, Americas Most Wanted, etc.  When we can watch it from the security of our locked homes, in the cool analytical light of the television, we call it entertainment. 

The closest I had personally gotten to grisly and shocking was in upstate New York when I lived in the same village as a fella who dismembered the remains of his mother (who died of natural causes) and placed them in the freezer so he could continue to collect her pension checks.  Dreadful all on its own.  There was little extra side kick in the neighbor, fully aware of all the goings-on, who was extorting money from the son to keep quiet.  Word was he helped put her in the freezer. 

Caused quite the stir in our quiet little village.  The police tape remained undisturbed for years.

Fast forward my life nine years.  Loudoun County, where the grass is green, the spring comes early and the rich roam free.  My continuing- to-expand suburb is lovely and affluent (except me…I’m sure my salary brings the gross national product for the county way down).  My little development is quiet and well manicured.  You just don’t expect stuff to happen.

10:00 am Wednesday, April 15, building across from mine.  Resident male contacts 911, indicating that he attempted to harm himself.  Upon responding and being taken to the hospital, the man indicates to the police officers that there was something else in the apartment, “…but you probably already knew that.”  “Yeah, we do.”

Apparently, Resident Male had strangled his girlfriend several weeks ago, wrapped her in plastic, kept her under the bed, and used her email account so that friends and family thought she was still alive. 

My cousin Starbuck had texted me that there was an incident in my complex, and of course my thoughts flew to Chick and the suspected bunker of doom.  Fortunately no.  But by the time I got home at 5:30 pm, there were 15 sheriff cars, 2 CSI vans and one videographer capturing the scene.  A uniform stood outside the entrance to ensure the crime scene remain unpolluted. 

Upon reflection, I realized who the perp was – I’d pass by his apartment when I walked Buddy.  He’d be outside early in the morning smoking a cigarette, we’d say hello, remark on the weather.  He had a big white dog who would watch us walk past from the living room picture window.  My daughter had heard the couple argue in the past.  Couple of broken windows in their apartment that never got fixed over the few months they lived there. 

Creepy.  Glad it wasn’t Chick. 

Read a little more here.

Punctuation Chick

I haven’t had a real Chick sighting since my appendix was removed. 

There have been, you know, moments when I walk by his condo and see the blinds move slightly, and a moment a few months ago when he was unlocking his door and I waved as he stared.  Oh, and when I came back from the hospital after having my appendix removed, I noted a stickey on my door that said I had flowers, but since I wasn’t home, that they were delivered to my neighbor.  I knocked on Chick’s door, but there was no response.  I went back home and just as I drove the deadbolt through, there was a knock at my door.  Strange, no one showed through the peep hole.  I opened the door, and there were my flowers, but no Chick.  He must have scurried away.

So there has really been no significant contact since the last Chick incident. 

Until yesterday.

6:20 am.  I was out walking Buddy the Immortal, as I always do.  You know I’m a bit paranoid (from reading too many Zodiac serial killer John Douglas Forensic Files books) and I occasionally change up my routine so it’s not so routine.  I like to thwart serial killers stalking my route, so they can’t kill and dismember me leaving only the DNA from my teeth to identify my charred remains. 

My imagination is colorful.  The color is blood red, but still, it’s colorful. 

So I varied my walking route this week.  I think it’s good for Buddy too – then he doesn’t get tired of all the same old smells.  And smell he does - Buddy likes to sniff!  It’s really all he has left after 17 good years - he can’t see so well, he can’t hear much, and he’s got stiff old bones.  He spends a lot of time sniffing around, seeing what’s what ~ it’s his final joy and I don’t like to rush him. 

Buddy decided to spend a little time sniffing Chick’s “lawn”.  The 10’x10’ slice of heaven that ever he’s tending.  As I waited for Buddy to reach his conclusions about the scented patch he was working on, I heard Chick’s door open.

“Mind getting your dog off my lawn?”

Understand, that there was a time in my life that any confrontation made me feel like a bad girl and I would noiselessly comply.  That time is over.

“Why?  He’s just sniffing.”

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT YOUR DOG SHITTING ALL OVER MY LAWN!”

“HE’S. NOT. SHITTING. HE’S. SNIFFING.”

We stared each other down for a beat of three seconds.  I could hear the music of a thousand western high noon stand offs in my head.

I didn’t back down.  I was the bigger person.  I still think that creep has a bunker hewn out of concrete in his condo and I don’t want my daughter or I to become a tenant in it.  Discretion, better part of valor, all that. 

“But yeah,” I said, “I’ll get him off your lawn.”  Buddy and I moved away.

As I prayed some of my regular prayers later on, I realized I’m supposed to try to see Christ in Chick.  OhhhhKayyyyyy.  Some times it’s harder than others. 

Kim Il-Stalker

Guest-Blogger-Who-Never-Blogs-Anymore, Starbuck, and I went to a charity event last week at a local tavern – Casino Night. $20 bought chips and play on several gaming tables. GBWNBA is the family craps-maven and we took our places next to her at the table.

It can get macabre, really, when GBWNBA and I go out. Our frustrated inner profilers lunge to the surface and we begin to identify certain “types”.

“Dahmer, two-o-clock,” I spy. GBWNBA was on the fence with the make, but entertained a gentleman five players down at the craps table.

“There’s your Gacy,” says GBWNBA. “Looks friendly enough. Probably has a clown suit in the trunk.”

I contend that being aware of one’s surroundings lessens the potential one will become a victim. My daughter claims I have created in her a helpless paranoiac destined for agoraphobia.

All in good fun.

Meet up Group Familiars along with Local Tavern Regulars were in attendance at the annual casino event. Jack Daniels, our miscreant from the Great Bonfire Event of two months ago was in attendance. His antics had reached a level of infamy and GBWNBA thought it might be amusing to take off her wedding ring to see if he would attempt to pour his smooth and sultry brand of intoxication into her shot glass, in a manner of speaking. She was wanting to teach him a lesson.

She got attention all right. But not from Jack Daniels.

Enter Kim Il-Stalker, Asian-American, good looking, with a blackberry surgically attached to his palm. His radar pinged on GBWNBA like a tween iming her best friend about vampire heartthrob Edward Cullen.

Il-Stalker slid in next to GBWNBA, asked how to initiate play, thinking he could drop a $20 bill on the craps table. I imagine that he also goes into a grocery store and thumps melons that aren’t ripe. She explained that he’d need to get chips, outlined the rules very succinctly and then focused on Starbuck and I since we were newbies to the table.

It was plain that Kim Il-Stalker was smitten. He sort of puppy dogged her around the bar, blackberry still attached, sat behind her as she played black jack, expressed dismay when she said she wasn’t going to be at the Meet Up Christmas shindig Saturday night. He went so far as to try to talk her into it.

GBWNBA tired early, said her goodbyes to Starbuck and I and started to make her way to her car.

“Can I have your phone number or email or something?”

Taken unawares, GBWNBA spun around. Thinking it would be easier to placate than reject, she naively gave him her email address. I say naively because her email address has the full spelling of her last name and her place of employment. Some pointed googling would further expose her.

He emailed her the next day, extending an invitation to get to know her better. She emailed him back, politely declining the invitation.

Saturday evening; Christmas party. Helpful advice was given to Starbuck on Kim Il Stalker’s status as something of a libertine. Apparently, KIS is a player, pursues women relentlessly, uses his blackberry to collect pictures of his targets.

Starbuck sees Kim Il Stalker come in.

“Hey, is your friend coming?” he casually asks.

“Sister. I’m her sister and nd forget it, she’s married.”

“Married?! She didn’t tell me she was married. She emailed me.”

“She responded to your email. She was being nice. She’s not interested.”

KIS’s disappointment lasted as long as it took him to find another chick willing to engage in some heavy petting in the basement. Both resurfaced an hour later, sloe eyed and hickeyed up.

KIS wasn’t done. As I sat across from him, he engaged a drunken festivity participant in his diatribe of betrayal, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“See? This is the girl I met Thursday night,” sporting a picture of my cousin on his cell phone, “She didn’t tell me she was married.”

I understood that this was directed at me, but I wasn’t sure what point he was trying to make. What, she betray you, Romeo? She aware that you were capturing her digital image on your cell phone, Pig? She give permission for that?

“That’s f****** up man.” Slurry boy slurred, “s’fuuuuuuu******* up.”

GBWNBA called me the next day, some concern in her voice. “I’m two steps away from coming home and finding a rabbit boiling over on my stove reading a note, I’M NOT GONNA BE IGNORED!”

We joked a little, analyzed the thing, considered options. The best option was to ignore him and figure he’d go away to chase a less-married, more needy skirt.

Except he found her on Facebook and sent her a message. “Your sister told me you were married. She told me to forget it. SHE SAID FORGET IT!”

If he writes on her wall to “…bring over the dog, I’m a great cook,” she might be another step closer to the bunny.

Vacuum Man Part Deux

I forgot to tell you! I had another Vacuum Man Experience this week!

You may remember my first nightmarish Vacuum Man incident. Happened a year ago in June as a matter of fact. I remember because I was on vacation for my son's wedding, came back and wanted to get my vacuum cleaner cleaned. Not only did the brute try to sell me an overpriced model that he fixed up, and became churlish and rude when I wasn't interested, he then tried to overcharge me for a cleaning. I walked out of there, threw my vacuum cleaner in the trash and bought one at Walmart for less than what the pig was going to charge me to clean it. Jerk.

I've been on my own a while and feel really independent when I do man-tasks around the house. Like changing a lightbulb, tightening a loose screw, using WD-40 on a squeaky hinge, or building a book shelf. (I tried changing my oil...it's too hard) However, though I know the difference between a phillips-head screwdriver and a regular screwdriver - if I can't find either in the house? I'm feminine enough to use a knife; butter or steak depending on the job, and use a shoe to hammer something. Flexibility and ingenuity ~ thy name is woman.

Several weeks ago, I went on a cleaning jag. I was a demon. Feels good to do spring cleaning, I thank God that spring comes but once a year, because dang, I was tired at the end of it. Before my enthusiasm ran out I had wanted to shampoo my rugs. They were in dire need and I own my own rug cleaner. Worked like a dream when my dog was sick last year.

Anyway, as I began washing the rugs, the telltale odor of bad belt wafted up, nor would the machine suck up water. Crap. No extra belts in the house, so I went on line and ordered belts. Two of them...I like to be prepared. I've replaced vacuum belts before (a manly task I've become rather good at)...how hard could it be?

Hard. Pain in the neck hard. But I did it! Another guy-type task mastered, thought I. HUZZAH! Eagerly, I put hot water in the well, added the nice smelling cleaner, turned the machine on...and...the telltale odor of bad belt wafted up. nor would it suck up water. Crap. I guess there are some jobs that need mannin'.

Now, you can bet money that I wasn't going to shame myself and bring my rug cleaner to that pig of a human in Leesburg. There is a vacuum repair shop in my town. I was prescient enough to call them before going in.

"I have a Bissell Rug cleaner that requires a new pump belt. How much does that cost?"

"$39.95"

"I already have a new belt; what will you charge me if I provide the part?"

"$39.95"

"What will you charge me if I don't bring the belt in?"

"$39.95"

Daaaaaang Baby. Can't bea that! So I brought in my cleaner. I had to maneuver around the vacuum cleaners standing guard, little soldiers barring my way into the shop. My little friend came out from the back room where he was on line, possibly taking a class in rug cleaning repair. Vacuum-ie A Deux began.

"This needs a new pump belt. May I drop it off?"

"How do you like that brand?"

No, no no no no. This was not happening. "I like it fine. It's not that old. It's just that the pump belt broke and I tried to fix it and it broke again." A Deux didn't have to say a thing; his body language simply oooozed, poor female purchasing crap product. We must sell her a superior machine!

"Ah, well, I was just saying, because I have a model here," as he came out from behind the counter, maneuvering around his electric sentinels, "that you can easily clean afterward, it has, bwah bwah bwah bwah bwah..." My ears started to burn. No! No! No! Nononononono. I realized that it was the mode of their kind, the way of their folk.

Maybe it's one of the courses they take at vacuum cleanery school, "Upsell 101; How to Spot a Mark".

"What's it cost?" I'm a jerk enough to want to offer him hope in the form of a stupid woman, just so I could rip it back again quickly. Of course, if it was for $20, I'd buy it. I might look stupid and I might not be able to do math so well, but I'm no dummy.

"Only $379.00 and it's brand new as you can see..."

"No!" I tried not to shriek it, "No, no. I only bought mine a year and a half ago and it works really well. And I don't want to spend $400. Let's just fix the belt on mine," and because I felt a little badly I added, "but I'll keep that in mind in case I need another one someday."

He was clearly disappointed. Stage 2 started. This must be from the "Screw The Bitch" class.

"How much will this cost?"

"$59.95"

My head snapped up, "What? I called you and you said $39.95"

"Oh, well," he was nervous, he had not the antagonistic integrity of my friend from last year, "parts, labor..." he trailed off.

"But I called you and you said $39.95. I told you I had the belt and you told me it would still be $39.95. I asked how much without the belt and you said $39.95."

Sweat beads formed on his upper lip. "You can bring the belt in and I'll only charge you $39.95"

"I would have brought it in had you told me that on the phone. Never mind. I need to get it fixed."

Thus concluded our transaction. I picked the cleaner up today. I haven't tried it out yet. If you don't hear from me again, you'll know it had a bomb in it and my sweatlippy little friend did it. You'll know where to send the cops.

Before you have him arrested though? Pretend you want to buy the $400 rug cleaner. Make him demo it and everything, will you? Take it up to the counter. Make like you are taking out your credit card; then have Johnny Law take him away. For me?

The Smoting of Chick

This was too good not to post:

My Uncle responded to my Chick Chick blog:

Thus speaks thy uncle: “I have heard thy lamentations arising through the Ethernet by way of thy blog and I am not without compassion for thy safety and well being. Call upon me and I shall smite thy oppressor by sending one of my servants in the Marine Corps and one or two slightly annoyed Rottweilers. Woe unto him who oppresses my clan. It would be better for him not to have been born or at least not to be abiding in the midst of thy family and loved ones.”

And I responded:

"And lo, he spaketh, and sent forth his wrath. Thus sayeth a second time the Uncle, "Woe unto him who oppreseth my clan". And woe fell to the Apartment numbered 102. Neither did woe fall to the apartment numbered 101, nor to 104, but only to 102. The Marines, being not fed, cast a hungry eye upon the wicked and the Rottweilers being still as beasts of the land set forth upon their prey. And the evil was vanquished in his sight and they all rejoiced."

Chick Chick

It gives one pause. I have modified my workout schedule because of the aforementioned Chick. It simply isn’t prudent to put myself in an awkward situation; especially at 5am. Not enough people awake to hear the dull thump of my body hit the floor after I’ve been chloroformed. No one around to see me slumped lifeless over a shoulder as it is carried into the bunker hewn from concrete, hermetically sealed in a soundproofed room.

Yes, it gives one pause.

So, I have adjusted my schedule, going in the evening when I come home from work. Let me say right now that I am not an evening person. In most cases, in fact, I HATE being social or at all active after 7pm. I’m too tired, I’m too crabby and I’m just toooooo not in the mood. I would far rather come home, have a glass of wine (thus nullifying most of the benefits of any workout), make dinner, talk with my daughter about her day and watch my tivo’d episodes of Frasier. I then climb into bed at 9pm, read three paragraphs of whatever Agatha Christie novel I’m re-reading, and nod off to sleep. THAT is my perfect evening.

But now…NOW…I have to go work out at 7pm. And I’m not a little bitter. My only consolation is that somewhere in the world a Law and Order repeat is on the television which I can access. And if there is no one else in the facility I can drool over Sam Waterston to my heart’s content. Mmmmmmmmsammwaterstonnnnnnnnn.

I have tried to keep my dog’s schedule consistent, however. Buddy is too old to have his kidneys adjust to the rigors of ChickStalk. At the same time every morning, I walk my dog. I take him on the same route; the benefits are two-fold; providing Buddy consistency and more importantly, the route gets me back in the house to begin my daily ablutions for work. If you live in Northern VA, you will appreciate the need to hit the lower-traffic pockets on the commute. A loss of 30 seconds can prove disastrous.

This morning was glorious, warm enough to not need a jacket, cool enough to brace my lungs. Buddy capers in the cooler weather; birds trill, the sun rises, very few other dog-walkers on their canine constitutional.

Unfortunately, my path paces in front of Chick’s porch door and windows. As I walk by, whoops! Out he comes. “Do you see what they do to my yard?”

I was unprepared; “I’m sorry?” as I discreetly move out of arms reach.

“Do you see what they do to my yard?” As he gestures toward his 5’x5’ patch of grass, I note two orange peels, and a slip of paper. I also note the red, white and blue sheet Chick has used to cover his window on one side and the orange cloth of indeterminate origin that covers the other side. It’s a colorful combination.

“Ah, I see. I hope you are going to complain about it.”

“Oh, I’ve already written a letter.”

“Well, good luck! Have a great day!” I continue on with Buddy. It is not lost on me that he has made contact again. I don’t want to have to adjust my schedule or Buddy’s, but I will have to. There is a voice that tells me I am not being charitable; there is a louder voice that recalls every serial killer profiling book I’ve ever read and counsels me not to take chances. I’m listening to that voice.

Chick

Did I tell you about weird guy? No, I'm sure I didn't. Hold on; needs a little set up. I’ve started going to the gym in the morning – 5am-ish. I’m just too tired to go at night. I find it much easier getting up at 4:45 am. I like it mostly because there is no one else there at that hour; I have the little place to myself.

Enter weird guy. Weird guy lives down hall. (I've decided to call him Chick) When I first moved in, I thought Chick was hearing impaired because when I walk by his door, the television was very very loud. Of course, it might be situated right by his door too. You never know.

So Monday, Chick comes in 20 minutes into my workout, as I watch Happy Days, grabs the remote from me and sets the sleep alarm to 45 minutes. OK. So maybe he’s a little socially inept. That’s cool.

I just as soon not communicate a whole lot in the gym. But Chick’s a talker. He begins his small talk by informing me that the shower water in the gym isn't hot enough. (Being as visual as I am, this conjured up an image I didn't want conjured up.) Chick lodged a complaint with the management, but they refused to accede to his request. Further complaints brought no relief and he knew what was going on; they were trying to save money to pour it into the landscaping. He wanted to protest by not paying his home owners association fees, but, “They get you by putting a lien on your property, so you can’t do that!”

Penny pinching condo people are the bain of his existence. I made some noises about them needing to take better care of us blah blah blah.

This wasn't enough for him; he had an axe to grind. Chick continues to tell me how he had, on more than one occasion mind you, vigorously exercised his first amendment rights by complaining about the thermostat not working in the gym. Complained and complained, to no avail. Chick explained to that the woman who runs the facility kept telling him it wasn't broken. So you know what he did? He pulled himself up to his full 5’4”, pointed at it and said “I BROKE IT!”

I didn't ask how; I was a little afraid it was through blunt force trauma or that he used some form of bladed instrument.

Whooops, my time was up! Bye Chick! I got back to my apartment, opened up my prayer booklet and the words that started my day were "Judge not, lest ye be judged." This reminded me that I'm a hateful human being.

But last night, as I picked up my mail, I noticed that Chick has a strip of clear packing tape down by the corner of his door. My dramatic mind developed a scenario painting Chick paranoid with newspapers piled up in his apartment and a copy of "Catcher in the Rye" at his bedside. If anyone attempted to break into his apartment whilst he was out, he would be able to immediately tell because of the severed tape. Test #2, and less obvious to the casual observer, would be one of his own freshly plucked hairs spanning the topmost portion of his doorway. This too would be decimated when the enemy attempted to slip in and gain the secret knowledge to which only Chick had access.

Today 5am, as I pass his apartment to go to the gym, his door opens. Decked in his workout garb, I can tell that he's on his way too. Oh, crap. A little voice told me it was so he could see what my schedule was. I tried to soothe that voice. I could take him on if I had to.

Meanwhile, at the gym, I get on the treadmill, and like the day before, he grabs the remote, sets the sleep timer for 45 minutes. A man of habit, is our Chick. Asks me if there is something I wanted to watch, handed me back the remote. I found Leave it to Beaver - a mild, non-threatening, I thought an almost soothing sitcom. Chick begins lamenting that sitcoms are crap; “Did you ever watch Seinfeld? Seinfeld was the worst show ever!” I tempted fate and tried to disagree, "Oh? See, I liked Seinfeld.” My discourse was brushed aside. Chick then he gets on his machine and is focused for ten minutes.

Once off, he begins his lifting regimen. He attempts to impress by telling me that he got one treadmill up to 25 mph and that he can bench press 250 lbs.

This elicited an uninterested "Ahhh" from me; I didn't want to encourage him at all. One could never be sure that there WASN'T a lovingly dug bunker in his condo hewn out of cement to store and have relations with his gym partners, keeping them there as his brides. I continued to focus on Jerry Mathers.

Lots of grunting coming from my little companion as he lifted whatever he lifts. While he took a breather, he thought to impress me with his knowledge of "Leave it to Beaver" trivia. Had this been a Lifetime television movie, Michael Meyers Friday the 13th music would have been playing in the background, slowly swelling, I think.

In still another attempt at polite gym conversation, he shared with me that legendary porn star Johnny Holmes originally played Eddy Haskell on "Leave it to Beaver".

Whoops my time was up; BYE CHICK.