Divine Intervention

As you may recall, J and I were able to purchase a modest townhouse in the nether regions of lovely Portland nearly two years ago. What you may or may not know is that my malignant mother was our real estate agent. Yes, 4 realz. We really didn't have a choice - mom sells real estate and if we'd gone with another agent (which we considered), we would have put the Hatfields and the McCoys to shame.

True, mom was willing to forgo her commission (THIS time, she told us...which, I guess, means that next time - when we are more able to afford a more glamorous abode - she'll make some money off of us), although that is not the only reason we went with her. The horrid horrid aftermath of going through someone else (even someone we would have had to have paid THIS time) was far too foreboding. And so it was that mother dearest became our de facto real estate agent.

And, while mother's knowledge of Portland and its environs can barely rival that of a fifth grader (despite that she has lived in the Portland Metro area HER ENTIRE LIFE, although the last 30 or so years have been in the suburbs), we did receive excellent and attentive service from her. I presume, however, that she is like that with all of her clients, being a workaholic and all, and that we were not receiving preferential treatment (well, THIS time, anyway). She even handled it pretty well whenever she showed us a place that she seemed pretty jazzed about and wanted us to get all googly-eyed and proclaim it the one and, instead, we'd shrug our shoulders and say "meh" in unison. She didn't know what 'meh' meant, but she could tell that it meant we wouldn't be signing any papers any time soon.

Flash forward two months and over a hundred houses later (oh, the stories I could tell about some of those houses!), we stumble upon the townhouse where we now live. For our dollar (and that was pretty much what we had to spend, a dollar), this place was the shit. So we placed an offer. And it was declined. We countered. It was accepted. Yay! We were nearly homo homeowners!

But, ah, the details. We had to, of course, sign the papers. Oh sure, sounds harmless. So we sit with Mom at the title company, along with maybe three other people whose functions have escaped me, around a HUGE conference table - seriously, this thing was so huge that it could probably kick Chuck Norris' ass. So blahblahblah the peoples' mouths are moving and I nod as if I'm following (yeah, I know this is a tad irresponsible, so shoot me)...blahblahblah sign this...blahblahblah sign that. Eleventy gazillion signatures later, that snoozefest is finally taking its final bow.

And not a moment too soon. I was freakin' starving. A smiling lady hands us a glossy folder with an entire tree shoved inside. This folder remains unopened and sitting in our file cabinet. Mom confers with J and I and mentions her state of hunger. She is inviting us to dinner?

"Let's celebrate!" Mom says. Woo hoo! we are thinking, despite the fact that celebrating with Mom can be sorta hit and miss. What the hell, we decide, if Mom wants to treat us to a celebratory feast, why not let her? Mom asks if there is anything around the area that is not too expensive.

"It's not like I'm rich, you know," she reminds us, as she depresses the magic button that disables the alarm on her brand new BMW.

Mom is, of course, completely unaware of anything in the immediate vicinity, despite the fact that the school where she attended her freshman year (with classmate Sally Struthers!), was fewer than ten blocks from where we stood. No matter, we suggested a reasonably priced trattoria twenty blocks away. We tell her that it's on Broadway and on the south side of the street and to meet us there. Mom acts all confused and says that she'll follow us.

We pull aside at the stop sign while we wait for Mom to do whatever it is she does with her vanity mirror, some lipstick and an extensive evaluation period before she places her luxury vehicle into drive and proceeds. A couple of turns later, we have reached Broadway and J, who is driving, has her right turn signal on so that Mom will know that we will be heading west on Broadway. J halts at the stop sign, but is unable to see the oncoming traffic on her left, due to a large truck parked on the corner. She inches slowly out and then *$#!!BAM!!#$*. We lurch forward slightly as we come to the realization that my mother just rear-ended us. J and I look at each other, neither of us quite sure what to make of the situation.

Noticing that there are other cars behind Mom who didn't gun it when J inched out, J arm-motions Mom to pull into the parking lot of Broadway Auto Body to our immediate right. J's car shows no sign of trauma, but Mom's BMW is dented on its hood. It's the shape of an inverted crescent moon - a perfect arc. The spare tire on the the back end of J's Honda CRV is the convex match to the dent on Mom's car - a perfect yin and yang separated at birth...but not.

Mom looks astonished as she notices the damage to her precious vehicle.

"Oh there's no way that little tap did that much damage to my car," Mom's denial kicked in full speed. "I mean, you could barely feel it, right?"

Mom was in rare form.

"I mean, someone must've hit my car while we were in our meeting at the title company. That had to have been it; I mean, there's just no way."

J and I let Mom continue trying to convince herself that someone done wronged her.

"See, look at your car," Mom said to J, "there's no damage at all. If I'd hit you hard enough to cause this much damage to my car, your car would at least have a dent, right? I mean, I'm not saying it was God, really, but something, something in the universe, must've made me tap you like that so that I'd get out of my car and see the damage that was done...Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it for awhile."

OMFG, you've got to be kidding me. It was so so so very hard for J and I not to burst into laughter. God???? Really? I've heard of blaming car accidents on other people before, but God? Like I said, Mom was in rare form.

Well, no need to exchange infos here, although Mom did inform us that she would call her insurance company first thing in the morning. I couldn't help but wonder if she would be explaining the part about rear-ending her daughter-in-law because God wanted her to notice that someone had hit her car while she was in a meeting.

J and I got into the restaurant before Mom found a parking place - she wanted to drive around and get a spot where nobody would hit her. Why bother? I say. With God on her side, nobody will ever be able to pull a hit-and-run over her eyes.

J and I asked our server to bring a glass of Pinot Gris right away so that Mom could begin sedating immediately. Dinner was awkward as Mom continued to practice her story about the anonymous hoodlum who hit her parked car (must've been the neighborhood) and didn't even see fit to leave a note. J and I sedated and nodded, sedated and nodded.

I didn't even know my mom believed in God.

I wonder what else she blames on God?

what I did for love

My lovely wife, J, went with our friends, Kirsten and Jules, to see a folk singer some months back. I had to work, so I sat that one out. No worries - I think the folk music is sometimes enjoyable, but I'm not about to take the most lucrative night off from work to indulge in such a thing.

J returned home from that concert all swoony and fangirly proclaiming "a little crush" on E*l*l*i*s (***why you do t*h*a*t, Bad Kitty?) and kindly requesting that she put E*l*l*i*s on her freebie list.

"Sure," I responded, "why the hell not? But you gotta take someone else off if you want to add her."

She never told me who she removed, but I trust that she took care of this.

So when J called me a week or so ago from her morning commute at 7am (I am so NOT a morning person) to ask me if E*l*l*i*s could play a house concert in our living room, I sleepily sorta somewhat agreed to this. Later when I woke up, I was pretty sure that I hadn't dreamt the exchange.

Here's what J said:

"Hi honey! Would it be okay for E*l*l*i*s to play a concert in our living room?"

Here's what I heard:

"Hi. Would it be okay if someone I have a huge crush on, in addition to a lot of strangers, fill up our house and spill stuff on our floor?"

I somehow agreed to this.

But now I have no regrets and think that our home should serve as an acoustic concert venue on a regular basis (Yo! David Bowie! This means you.). Truly.

Of course, the night before the concert, J calls me at work (at a time that ended up being the worst possible time she could have called) and says, "Will you cook dinner for E*l*l*i*s before the show?"

"What????" What next? Can she stay in our guest room? Will I cook her breakfast as well? Can I lend her some money?

"I don't know. And actually, this is a really bad time. Can I call you back later when I'm less pissed off?"

"Okay, but Jules already said that we'd make her dinner. Call me when you're on your way home from work."

By the time I found myself driving home from work, I'd had a chance to think about this. I figured I needed to look like a rock star in order to compete with the folk star - I wanted J to remember how fabulous I am, even with E*l*l*i*s in the house. I called her up.

"Alright, I'll do it. What am I making?" Fortunately I really do enjoy cooking, so I wasn't pissed off at Jules for volunteering me for the job. Hee hee, now she owes me! Now, if David Bowie comes to my house to play a show, I'm so making Jules cook for him.

"Mushroom risotto," J tells me. Phew. That's something I could make with my hands tied behind my back and drunk to boot.

E*l*l*i*s ended up enjoying my risotto and ventured to try a fig for the first time. (I'm a huge fan of figs and, in fact, have a tattoo of a much-larger-than-actual-size cut-open fig in between my shoulder blades.) We enjoyed her company while we enjoyed small talk on our patio. She turned out to be very genuine and kind and rather charming - very easy to be around and not even a hint of diva at all.

Then the onslaught of strangers began to fill my home. They turned out to not be so bad, either. In fact, several of them were quite appreciative of our hosting of this event and of the snacks and complementary cheap wine that was provided. Nobody threw stuff on the floor (and, if they did, someone was smart enough to pick it up before I spied it). And several folks offered to help clean up. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not neurotic. Okay, well just a little. I just value my space and am something of a private person. I also have trust issues and I know that there are unsavory folks out there (especially rabid fans) and you can't tell by looking at them who is batshit crazy and who isn't.

The entire space was lit only with candles - eleventy zillion of them. It looked pretty great, actually. And peeps were very respectful of the space and of the music being provided. E*l*l*i*s sounded awesome (studio quality even! I have no idea how she pulled that off) and the entire evening was a magical success. I told E*l*l*i*s that she is welcome in our home any time and I meant it.

My lovely wife was only a little bit fangirly and goofy and did not end up hooking up with E*l*l*i*s.

I think I like folk music a little more now.



***Re: above (On account of my attempts to be picking and choosing what the Googlers might be Googling and which Googles land on my blog and which ones don't. And on account of my attempts to be remaining somewhat anonymous-ish).

suddenly, we're good enough?

My good 'ole neighbor, Arnie, is moonlighting. Apparently his volunteer stint at the post office was taking up an insufficient amount of his time.

As you may recall, Arnie is none too keen on the gay folk - especially when they want to obtain "special rights," such as marriage. He wears his opinion proudly on the bumper of his car, lest his lezzie neighbors forget where he stands. No matter - we don't bother him and he doesn't bother us...in theory anyway.

Our current neighborhood is a hard one to read (well, except for Arnie). Most folks don't seem to socialize with one another at all - there is the occasional nod or hello in passing, but very little conversation happening. Martha, across the street, seems to be the friendliest one and the one who cares the least about the dykes across the street. Norman, who used to live four townhouses down, seemed to like us as well. But he passed away this last winter, so now there is only Martha.

When we first moved into the area, we attended a neighborhood meeting. Most folks wanted to set a bunch of rules, mostly pertaining to noise and dog excrement (none of the local dog-owners or loud people attended this meeting). But Arnie had a different agenda - he wanted to organize a Bible study.

A what?!?!? I thought, but not aloud. He's got to be fucking kidding. He's not serious, is he?

He was very serious. For realz. He even asked for a show of hands of all of those interested. Holy shit, is he really putting people on the spot like this? I instantly felt a rush of empathy for all of the Jewish folk in the room. For this Buddhist-leaning Atheist, Arnie's pompous assumption that the entire room was Christiain AND wanting to study the Bible AND with him, was downright appalling.

I didn't attend any more neighborhood meetings.

And I haven't even crossed paths with Arnie until recently.

J and I were heading in the direction of sleeping on a recent Sunday night when we heard the rattling of glass outside. Having a little bit of a Mrs. Kravitz streak, I jumped out of bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash. Peeked through the minblinds - there was no sash. When what to my wandering eyes should appear, but my neighbor Arnie and eight of my bottles that once held beer. He sifted and sorted through finished crossword puzzles and canned cat food ick, but only the refundables he opted to pick. He saw empty wine bottles, empty gin bottles and more, surely he thought me an alcoholic - right down to my core.

I have mixed feelings about Arnie dumpster diving in my recycling bins. On the one hand, he must need the money or he wouldn't likely collect cans and bottles from his neighbors. On the other hand, I gather that he's somewhat ashamed of weekly ritual or he wouldn't be tiptoeing down the street at midnight thirty or so. And on the other hand (yep, I've got three hands going here), I don't want him seeing my empty bottles and cans or my discarded Good Vibrations catalogs. Hell, I don't even want him knowing what kind of shampoo I used or whether or not I could finish the Saturday Sudoku puzzle. We have collapsed boxes from ovulation predictor kits and the occasional telltale signs of online CD shopping binges.

This totally feels like an invasion of my privacy.

So what do I do about it? Do I facilitate his hunting and gathering by creating a separate bag, containing the refundables, and put his name on it? Should I just bring them to his doorstep (Arnie's no spring chicken, to be sure) and save him the trouble of toting them down the street? Or do I leave him a note asking him to kindly refrain from sifting through what we've discarded. And put at the curb. Out in the world. Where anyone could whisk it away?

Would I feel the same way if the person ransacking my rejects were anyone but Arnie? Do I feel a sense of resentment that J and I are not good enough for him...but our trash is?????