If you find yourself walking down the street one day and happen to see a mother pushing a screaming child in a stroller, before turning to your hipster girlfriend to comment about the situation, make sure you do one of two things: use your inside voice so said mother can’t hear you or say something even remotely funny. Because “Wow! Somebody sure is upset!” makes the mother want to hurt your face and pull your stupid haircut.

Furthermore, if then you and your hipster girlfriend crack up like it’s the funniest statement you’ve ever heard like OMG ROTFL! !!!!!!! HA HA! know this: the mother listening wants nothing more than to kick you in your testicles.

But, if you simply must say something, how about, “Honey, let’s only do anal from now on.” because adding a little ass to something automatically makes it funnier—just ask your girlfriend.

Sincerely,

A Professional Mother

It’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote about Empty Cages Collective. Since then quite a bit has changed. Thanks to many of the people who graciously visit this Web site, ECC received a great number of donations. Lisa has had her arms full with kittens, cats and adoption events, but she expressed to me several times how grateful they are.

Thank you so much.

They also got some press! I’m hoping that’s just the beginning. The more people in New York City who hear about what they’re trying to do, the better life will be for all of us, fuzzy or human.

Last but not least, ECC held an adoption event at The Beehive recently and 7 cats were adopted! Seven. That’s outstanding! They still have a lot more and there are many other colonies out there breeding and breeding, but that’s pretty remarkable for a one-day event.

Anyway, ECC is holding another adoption event this Saturday at Muddy Paws here in Greenpoint. Stop by if you are in the area. We’ll be there as well!

I take Em to the playground a lot. He uses the kiddy swings and I let him run around for a while even though it makes me nervous and I usually need an antacid afterward. You see, Em doesn’t always have the physical ability to necessarily do what he wants to do without causing himself harm. He climbs things and sometimes has no idea how to get down. He trips over unleveled ground. Sometimes he gets shoved to the ground accidentally by the older kids. I constantly walk after him, erratically. Trying to figure out the motions of a toddler is like trying to model fluid dynamics.

He enjoys talking to squirrels and pigeons too. But I think one of his favorite pastimes is picking up sticks. Sometimes he picks up big sticks and sometimes they’re small ones. Usually they’re prime eye-poking instruments and so I snatch them from him before he gets too attached and break them down. I end up giving him a smaller piece in return.

Sometimes he picks up a sticks that are really long—long enough that they don’t pose too much a threat of impalement. So I’ll let him hold onto them for a bit until he grows tired of lugging around such a large item. I’ll then take the stick and sometimes I’ll put it on his stroller. I have learned that if I keep a stick around and he fusses later, it will appease him for at least five minutes. This is a perfect item to have around if I have run an errand or he starts screaming on our walk home.

On Monday we were at the park and Em ran over to the fence to grab two long, lovely sticks up from the ground. They were in that gray area. What I mean is, they were short enough that he could fall on them. So I traded with him. I gave him two smaller sticks and took the longer ones away. I sat there holding onto both sticks.

A brown haired boy walked up to us.

“Give me those sticks” He said.

“What?” I asked him a little shocked.

“Give me that stick. I need it. I neeeeeeed that stick.” He whined and pointed.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you one stick but I want to hold onto the other one.” I handed him a stick.

“Give me the other stick. I need it.” He said.

“No. This is for my son.” I answered. I felt like I was doing somebody else’s job.

“I neeeed that stick!” He said.

“No.” I looked away from him.

He gave up and walked away.

That’s when two aryan poster children walked up to me. They must have been related. One was a tow-headed boy, the other a tow-headed girl.

The thing about children that I have always been wary of and it’s also part of the reason why I never really wanted one of my own, is how downright ignorant they are regarding personal space and privacy. These kids walked directly up to my nose, unaware of my body and its real estate. They’re freakishly direct.

“Give me the stick.” The sister said.

“Yes, we need that stick.” Said the boy.

“We need that sick. We need it.” The pale-headed girl demanded.

“This stick is for my son. He picked up the stick and I am going to save it for him.” I said.

“But we need it. We need that stick.” The girl continued.

“No one needs a stick.” I said. “This one is for my son. There are plenty of sticks. Why not go get your own stick?”

“Because we need that one.” The boy said.

I was arguing with children. What’s wrong with me? I thought.

Finally the aryans gave up. They walked away empty handed.

A third child walked up to me.

Now, I know this next part is going to come off as really politically incorrect. But I have no idea how else to tell it. I’m going to just tell it like how I saw it. Forgive me in advance.

The third kid was just weird looking. He looked like someone you might find after generations of inbreeding. He had blond hair as well. He was tall and very lanky. One arm was under his coat tapping something he had shoved up there. The other one dangled lifelessly next to his body. His hair hadn’t been touched by a brush in some time. And his eyes were so far apart, an entire finger could have rested on the bridge of his nose lengthwise without blocking his view. He was a perfect example as to why drinking during pregnancy is a terrible and risky idea.

“GIVE ME THE STICK!” The kid said. “GIVE IT TO MEEEEEEEE!”

He wasn’t particularly mean about it. It was more like I had entered a game he had been playing in his head, one where I had a specific role, a role I was very unaware of.

“You want this stick? Let me guess, you need it?”

“YES I NEED THAT STICK!” He yelled back, squinting.

“I’ll tell you what, how about we split the stick?”

“OK!” He was very excited.

I broke the stick in half and gave him the longer part. “Here you go. Now run along.”

He didn’t leave. Instead, he started to hit himself in the chest with the stick. He hit whatever hard object lay underneath his shirt repeatedly.

“I’M TOUGH! HIT ME WITH THIS STICK! SEE! I’M TOUGH” He yelled this as he beat his chest with the stick. “I AM SO STRONG! WATCH ME HIT MYSELF WITH THIS STICK!”

As he continued to beat himself in the chest with the stick, I broke up the other half and threw it down. I looked around and saw that the first kid who wanted the stick was urinating on the ground with his father’s instruction. His pants were down around his ankles and he just stood there, pissing, while the bums on the park bench across from him drank from brown bags and tried to focus on something they do regularly as well.

I sat there defeated and stickless yearning for a yard of my own, a yard dressed in urine I’m familiar with if dressed in urine at all. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to react to these children? Was it my job to tell them no? Is it right to ask a kid to go away? Is there a class one can take to learn playground politics?

Was I dreaming?

Where were this kid’s parents anyway? Had they taken a few minutes to do a couple of shots at the local bar? Were they copulating with other relatives? I know, I sound unfair, after all you can’t pick your parents, but I was irritated. Where were his parents? Did they think I asked him to beat himself with half a stick, the half I wasn’t going to take home with my son?

And more importantly, is this what need means?

I need a stick a stick that will thwart poorly supervised children.

I need a stick that won’t hurt my son.

I need a stick that will direct us home.

Joseph Petcka, the man arrested for beating a 7-pound cat to death, had his day in court recently. The jury came back hung: 11 to 1. After five days of deliberations eleven people were in favor of convicting Petcka of aggravated animal cruelty. A lone juror by the name of Francisco DeFlaviis did not believe that Joseph Petcka killed the cat on purpose.

Joseph Petcka weighed 205 pounds at the time. He and his girlfriend had just had a fight. The cat, Norman, weighed 7 pounds. Norman was declawed.

Petcka said he kicked the cat to death in self defense.

I could go on about how I feel regarding animal cruelty in this country. I could go on about how unbelievably angry his actions and this mistrial makes me. But I won’t. Instead of stating the obvious, instead of ranting without resolve, I’m hoping that something positive might come out of this.

Please don’t forget to donate to the ASPCA. Help them put an end to animal cruelty. Help them spread the word that beating an animal to death will not be tolerated in this country.

After the week we’ve had here in America, I think the flier I saw last week may need to be updated.

Suicide isn’t the answer at all. The United States government is.

I have ranted about this to the people I know. I have gone on tangents inside my own head for weeks now. And I know that I’m going to come off as someone who is resentful and jealous. I’m going to sound bitter and scornful.

And perhaps I am all of that. Truth be told, I feel very much the same way about the financial stuff going on right now that I do whenever I see people using the shoulder to cheat a traffic jam thereby making it worse. I feel the same type of anger and unfairness I experience whenever I see someone doing 55 in a 25 with total disregard for everyone else.

I’m frustrated by all those who took out mortgages they couldn’t afford from even greedier banks.

There have been moments recently I have wished we had done something entirely stupid and accepted a mortgage we couldn’t afford. Everyone else was doing it, right? What’s another foreclosure? What’s another declaration of bankruptcy? Why not gamble with our financial stability like so many others have? Why not sit back and hope that it works out?

Why not?

Because we’re cautious. Perhaps we’re a little too cautious because now that so many American banks are in financial tailspins hoping our government throws them a parachute, there’s a pretty good chance we won’t be getting a mortgage anytime soon.

And that’s my question to no one. Are we, as first-time home buyers, going to be penalized because we played things by the book? Are we going to be overlooked now because we weren’t seduced by a high-paying, or sub-prime mortgage back then?

To all those who want less government intervention, less regulation, less bureaucracy: look around you. This is a perfect example as to why your ideal world is an impossibility. When choosing between a high-risk gamble and being conservative many people opt for the former. Just watch one episode of “Deal or No Deal” and you’ll see how greedy and stupid people can be. We need intervention. We need help.

We don’t even have enough personal restraint to get our chubby hands out of the deep fryer, and we get pissed off whenever the government suggests adding calorie count to a menu. (Whatever happened to making informed decisions?) Due to the rising cost of cigarettes, some smokers are now demanding that government pay for their nicotine patches, gum, whatever. (Why should I have to pay for someone else to quit smoking? No one helped me quit.) People were told to leave Galveston, Texas a week before Ike hit. Many chose not to. Two days later, they were begging for help on camera.

We are children in need of adult supervision. We lack the willpower to say no. We need a guardian to step in and make sure we’re don’t kill ourselves, financially or otherwise.

So, I’m going to be honest today. I am a little resentful. I am a little frustrated. I am shaking my head at all those who stepped outside their means, and at the banks for allowing them to do so. And even though I agree with what many are saying—that government intervention is needed right now so that our teetering financial stability doesn’t come crashing down—I can’t help but want to wag my finger at the government as well. Where were you when the banks were giving money to people who couldn’t pay it back? Where were you when people were buying houses they couldn’t afford?

I’m actually one for government regulation. I like knowing how many calories are in my banana nut muffin. And I don’t mind paying taxes to make sure that people are able to eat, get the healthcare they need—whatever. I have always felt that as a society we’re only as good as our weakest member. We need to look out for one another.

But I’d be lying if I said that this member of society isn’t angry.

Forgive me for the horrible quality of this video. I don’t have the fancy equipment needed to do this. Plus, our TV died last week, so we’re using the 70-dollar tube we purchased from a Radio Shack in San Francisco. But it’s clear enough that I think you’ll get the point.

The United States woke up with a wicked financial hangover today. But I’m happy to see that at least these two guys are enjoying themselves. The nipple slurping is particularly unsettling.

This is for egirl because of what she responded with on this post. The trucks were there last night with a big ol’ spot in between them. We woke up to this:

I actually left a note on their car letting them know they made our morning. Hopefully they get to it before Hanna does.

There are so many massive cars living on this block. The juxtaposition here astounds me.

I wrote to HGTV on Friday night. Can you believe that? I am desperate. We were watching House Hunters. I turned to Tobyjoe and said, “Call them and tell them to find us a house.”

“Do it. Write them.”

“Nah. Kidding.”

“That’s how it happens. People are sitting around, frustrated, they send an email and then the get on TV. Write them.”

So I did. I sent an email that will end up in the digital equivalent to a dead letter office.

Here’s the deal. To many living elsewhere, we actually can afford a pretty expensive house. There are many New Yorkers who would disagree, however, because the market here is so insanely resilient nothing ever goes down in price and instead continues to rise. It’s an enigma really. Manhattan was one of the only cities this year to rise where real estate is concerned. Pittsburgh was another. (Hello, Pennsylvania! My first love!)

To people living almost everywhere else in America, we probably sound like a big bunch of babies. And believe me, there are days where I have to stop myself from throwing a temper tantrum. To those who can afford to buy near Manhattan, however, we’re actually at the low end of the financial spectrum. To prove this point, I called a Westchester based Weichert agent last week and when I gave her our price range, she hurried our call. But not before reassuring me she’d call me back the following day. She never called. This isn’t the first time this has happened. We’ve been ignored by several agents because of how little we can afford when you compare it to the majority of the buyers around New York. Just today we were told by another agent that we simply must stop looking in her area based on our price range.

Agents just don’t want to waste their time on us. I can’t say I blame them. But my goodness does it ever make me angry sometimes. I feel totally defeated.

In order to buy a house in the city or close by, one must sacrifice safety, (in most cases) the quality of schools, the house’s structure, size or both. A lot of “affordable” options are total gut jobs. The house across the street from our apartment (which was advertised as a total gut job) sold for 800,000.

We don’t have that kind of money or time to devote to our living quarters.

We did discover some neighborhoods in New Jersey that worked but we were scared off by the taxes (one of the houses we looked at had an annual property tax of 12,000), the crime rate and/or the school system. Plus, like what you see happening here in Brooklyn, most all of the time the houses we could afford out that way needed a lot of work.

Again, we don’t have the money right now or time to renovate or even upkeep, which is precisely what we were looking at in Maplewood.

Then there’s the loan/down payment fiasco. In the city, you need at least 10% down, a lot of the time 20%. Most houses in our area sell for 700,000 and up. Even if we could afford that (which we can not) we don’t have the down payment. We don’t have 100 grand to put down on a house in order to make our monthly payments close to affordable.

If we buy in a safer neighborhood outside of the city (we’re talking an hour’s commute by train) and forego the down payment (which I’m not sure any bank will allow for these days) we would suddenly qualify for a jumbo loan. The interest rate is phenomenally high. That’s irresponsible and quite frankly, we simply can’t do it. If anything were to pop up (an appliance dies, flooding in the basement, termites, whatever) we’d have to use credit to pay things off. I think that’s irresponsible.

On Saturday we went even further out. And guess what? The houses are still very expensive. In some cases, the property taxes went down, and the houses were in much better shape, but they were a lot smaller and more expensive than what we were seeing in Maplewood, South Orange, and West Orange. We liked several of the homes we saw. But again, the lack of a sizable down payment to keep us out of jumbo loan territory stops us every time.

We have discussed downsizing our rental here in Brooklyn and buying a house two hours or more outside the city just to get some equity. But the rents here have gone up almost as much as the mortgages. We can’t afford both a mortgage (even a really cheap one) and rent. And since the rents have gone up so much in our area, finding another rental would mean not being able to save defeating the purpose entirely.

We’re stuck. Not to sound dramatic, we’re basically being asked to leave.

Why am I writing today? I’m not sure. Perhaps so I can one day look back on all of this and say, Thank goodness that’s all over! Because the indecision is killing me. Our inability to buy a place in a city that I have called home since 2000 is really just heartbreaking. Perhaps I’m writing because I hope that someone out there is in the same situation, misery does love a little company, after all.

And I’ll admit it. There’s a small part of me (the same part of me who buys a lottery ticket once every three years) who hopes that by some magical twist of fate my words will fall upon the ears of some real estate bigwig, someone who can step in and assist us, let us know what we may be overlooking. Because I have no idea how to make this work. This just isn’t my area of expertise.

Our lease is up in December and we still have no idea where we’ll be living. I can’t even begin to explain the amount of stress Tobyjoe and I are enduring based on that fact. And all the while we’re trying to raise our astonishingly happy son.

If houses were bought on smiles alone, we’d have thousands thanks to him.

I grew up playing with dirt. I grew up lifting rocks, collecting salamanders, crawfish and wooly bears. My nails and hands were always filthy. I was constantly outside digging and exploring the woods around our Central Pennsylvania home. I loved the outdoors, which is why I am really itching to get out of Brooklyn and find something a little more environmentally satisfying for my son. Plus, I think I’m making poor decisions as a city-dwelling mama.

Yesterday I took Em to the park. I take him to the park every day at least once. Our afternoon jaunt usually consists of some exploration. I wrangle him into some shoes and I let him run around a bit. He always goes straight for the dirt. It doesn’t matter if it’s a foot-wide patch of dirt surrounding an out-of-place tree or a bigger patch worn down by soccer matches. He will find the dirt. He loves dirt. He loves picking up sticks and pieces of bark. He carries them around like souvenirs. It’s adorable really.

I generally try not to concern myself with how other parents raise their children. Unless it directly effects me in some way, it’s none of my business. And I should hope that others aren’t judging me for how I raise my own. But sometimes I have to concern myself with what I’m doing when dealing with other families. It’s the whole social contract thing. If my son is playing with another child, I should keep an eye on what he’s doing and how they’re reacting to what he’s doing. I won’t lie. This is very difficult especially for someone like me who spends too much time worrying about what others think. And it’s becoming increasingly more difficult as he gets older. This is perhaps the most trying aspect of having a toddler for me so far—figuring out what the other parent is thinking and if I should react.

Yesterday Emory was running around with another little girl. She was probably five months his senior but smaller in size. They were playing with her rubber ball. He stopped every now and again to pick up sticks in the patch of dirt surrounding the tree. I let him. I figured that since the little girl’s guardians where letting her play with a rubber ball that had been all over the dirt and pavement, letting my kid play with dirt while playing with their little girl was OK. At one point, a bit nervous about the situation, I said, “Em, why do you have to play in the dirt all the time?” (Incidentally, it’s funny the number of times I ask Em a question which is really meant for the person listening in. But that’s a post for another day—”talking through the baby” is what we call it.)

The girl’s guardians shrugged and said, “He’s a boy.”

So this continued. Em picked up dirt and sticks and giant pieces of bark as the little girl teased him with her rubber ball. He’d touch her face with his hands, and her hands to his. There were a few times Em would grab the ball and try and put it in his mouth. I would snatch it up right away and wipe the spit on my pants.

“Em, do you have to put everything in your mouth!” I said.

“He’s a boy.” They shrugged.

Fifteen minutes into our spontaneous play-date with complete strangers, the little girl bent down and picked up a handful of dirt. Her father ran over and lightly slapped the top of her hand. “NO! CACA!” He said.

Realizing the error of her ways, she immediately dropped the dirt, sticks and bark, which Emory proceeded to collect. I mean, who would let perfectly good dirt go to waste like that? Not my kid.

I need to have another child. That way, I can let my filthy children run around, eat dirt, slobber all over one another and I won’t have to worry about whether I’m poisoning someone else’s child.

I’m gonna breed me my own little filthy family.

---

Do you let your little ones play in the dirt at a public playground? How do you teach them not to? I can’t figure this out. I realize that city dirt can be questionable, but how do you keep a toddler from playing in the dirt? You’d have to keep him or her inside all the time. I can’t allow for that. He simply has to get outside time. But I can’t stop him from playing with dirt either. Am I not being cautious enough while parenting and living in the city?

Parenting is physically, mentally, and emotionally draining. That’s all there is to it. (But it’s awesome too!)

Murray was orphaned at a very young age. I’m sure many of you know that already. He was so young he had to be bottle-fed by human hands. I talked over Chapter 56 with Murray and he agreed that those human hands are what I need to write about today.

Murray was nurtured by two people: Lisa and PJ. Though PJ doesn’t quite remember Murray (due to the number of cats he’s cared for before, and since) he is responsible for much of Murray’s trust of humans. When Murray was a few weeks old, Lisa took over. Because Murray is unable to thank them personally, I’m going to try and do it for him.

PJ and Lisa have dedicated themselves to starting a unique animal advocacy group, and I’m attempting to contribute what I can to their effort.

THEIR MISSION

“The Empty Cages Collective (ECC) is a New York-based animal and environmental advocacy organization. ECC aims to cultivate a culture where animals are recognized as fellow sentient beings worthy of respectful and compassionate treatment. Through advocacy, education, hands-on rescue and assistance, the ECC envisions a world free of animal exploitation, abuse, and ecologically destructive behavior.”

WHAT THEY’VE BEEN DOING

They Trap, Neuter and Release animals back into their natural habitats. Here’s where being a realist can actually make a difference. As opposed to someone like me, who can only see the big picture, someone who wants ALL animal abuse to stop, all homeless cats to be adopted, all things to wrap up perfectly. It’s never going to happen that way. Instead of doing something, I get overwhelmed and give up.

PJ isn’t like that. Neither is Lisa. Sure, they want all of those things as well, but they’re a bit more level-headed about it. They take it day by day. They’re hoping that with every cat they trap and neuter, a dozen less will be born next season. They’re hoping that we city-dwellers can one day coexist with our city-dwelling friends. They’re hoping to teach people that animals living within the city aren’t a nuisance and that it’s not necessary to kill every stray or feral or wild animal you come across.

There’s room for all of us. Hell, they were probably here first anyway.

The problems they’re facing is that they’ve found so many adoptable kittens during their trapping efforts that they’re running out of room and resources to continue with their TNR efforts. To put it bluntly, they need some help.

HOW WE CAN HELP

When I asked PJ what they needed the most, he gave me the following list: donate, volunteer, and adopt. He reiterated twice to me that donate and volunteer are head-to-head in urgency. Granted, if they can get the cats they have in-house adopted soon, they might have more money to use for TNR. Obviously, adoption is important as well.

I’m writing this today on behalf of Murray and all the critters out there that are needlessly killed. Can you help Lisa and PJ and their cause? Do you have a dollar to spare? Do you have some time to donate? Do you have a Web site you can use to help get the word out? Can you write them some kind words? Anything will help, any amount, any number of hands or hours, any advertisement—big or small.

If you have some extra paypal cash and/or an Amazon gift card you’re not using, visit this link and send some stuff their way. (Some of the items on that list run as low as 4 bucks.)

If you’re interested in adopting a cat, here are the animals they have up for adoption. I’m going to put up some pictures as well.

And if you got some old balled up dollar bills you washed in that pair of jeans from last winter, they’ll take monetary donations as well.

For those of you who have some cash but don’t have a lot of time and just want to click a button and be done with it, here’s a link to their paypal account.

To read more about what they’ve been doing click here.

From here on out, I’m going to be donating as much as I can out of the money I make from advertising on this Web site. It’s not much, but it’s something. I purchased 90 pounds of cat litter for them yesterday. Like I said, every little thing matters right now. It doesn’t have to be a huge sum—or cash at all.

At some point in the near future, I plan on designing some banners for them so that other bloggers can add them to their site. I hope that you will join me getting the word out for them. I realize that they’re Brooklyn based right now, but if this works out—this model—it could become a nationwide advocacy group.

If you have a dime or or some time to spare, do it for Murray. He wouldn’t be here had it not been for these two people and their great big hearts.

I mentioned some time last week in the comments section that I was having some issues trying to live here and be a mother at the same time. I’m having difficulty with things like grocery shopping, alternate side parking, and just getting around in general.

One of the hardest problems I have had to deal with is alternate side parking. For those unfamiliar with the concept, every other day (for an hour and a half) you have to move your car from one side of the street to the other. Let’s say it’s Thursday right before 1 PM. The street cleaner has come and gone and now everyone from the Tuesday/Friday side has to move their car from that side to the other side to avoid a ticket the following day.

What you get is this: at around 12:45 PM at least five people get in their cars, move them, and sit there until 1 PM. That way, they are guaranteed a spot the following day and don’t have to drive around forever (or park somewhere dodgy, like I usually do) later on.

That’s all fine. I get that mentality. If I had the time and never used my car except to move it from one side of the street to the other, I’d probably do that too. My biggest problem, however, is in regard to our neighbors. The house directly next door is home to an extended family. They purchased the entire three-story home (which is split into three apartments) and three families (from the same family) live there. It seems they have about 5 cars total, but three are there all the time.

And these people drive me crazy. They simply refuse to follow any sort of social contract when it comes to alternate side parking. They don’t take up one spot per car. Instead, they take up anywhere from four to six car lengths. And one of their cars is a monstrous SUV.

Below is a picture taken an hour ago. Behind the tree on the far left, you can make out a little bit of the SUV. That car is owned by the older guy and he lives on the second floor. His car talks. It says things like, “PROTECTED BY VIPER! STAND BACK!” which is REALLY awesome when you have a baby napping. The car in the middle is owned by the guy living on the third floor. The car in the back is owned by guy who I think is the younger brother of the guy on the third floor. He lives on the first floor.

The amount of room in front of the SUV is double the space of what you see behind it. I can’t get a shot of that from here, but here’s an illustration:

And, no, this isn’t the fault of any other car on the street. These guys know exactly what they’re doing. They do it almost every day. Granted, they have no control over how close the car behind the last guy parks in relation to their own, which is why when the red car pulled in late last night after a rarity occurred and someone left, I snickered.

I can’t tell you how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed by how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed I don’t have the guts to say something to them about it.

This morning, as we left to see Tobyjoe off to the subway, I decided it was time to write a note. I put it on the SUV, (delicately of course as IT’S VIPER PROTECTED!) On our way back home, I removed the note from the car because it seemed too passive aggressive and pathetic. Plus, I know it’s not going to change anything.

And so…

I’m embarrassed I wrote this. But I simply don’t know what else to do. Yes, I could ask them to stop, but they won’t (and I’m too much of a coward anyway). They do this because they don’t want anyone scratching their precious hunks of metal (they never drive). (Edited to add: I learned from a comment that it’s for another reason entirely. I feel so stupid!)

I’ve watched my mother’s once mint condition, hand-me-down get keyed, scraped, dented, and smashed in only a year’s time. But I don’t do crap like this. Having your car’s bumper destroyed is one of the things you silently agree to when you live here with a car.

I’m not proud of myself for feeling this much rage over something so mundane and simple. I try and do the whole “Embrace it and let it go” thing—you know, breath in, breath out.

But I can’t let it go. It never stops pissing me off. So, I wore patchouli today in hopes of conjuring up some residual hippie vibes leftover from college. Someone’s gotta give and it simply has to be me.

I know this is a long shot, but if anyone out there wants to get together to watch the game tomorrow, hit me up with an email. I know this is totally last minute.

Nevertheless, TJ and I are looking to get a group together to watch the Spain Vs. Italy game. It’d be great to find somewhere out and about but I gather most places that are showing it are likely rowdy, packed bars. But a gal can dream, right? (It’s times like this where I wish we lived in the suburbs.)

I think that particular match is going to be awesome. GO SPAIN!

We have reservations at Gramercy Tavern tomorrow for 7 PM. But we just found out that we can get in to Le Bernardin tomorrow at 8 PM. (Toby knows people and those people pulled some strings for us.)

So, if you’re reading this and you’ve been to either, or you know anything about either restaurant, please help us decide.

We so rarely get to go out these days alone. I’d like to make the very best of it.

(Email me if you can suggest either.)

Some of you may remember The Hobo Nest. This post is a brief update as to what’s been happening since last February when he first arrived.

This is what it looked like last September:

This is what it looks like today:

A couple of months ago we woke up to find a pile of tires where the nest used to be. We’re not sure who put them there or why. A couple of weeks later, the hobo got drunk, freaked out and threw them all over the parking lot. He put them all back again the very next day.

Since September he has made a mess of the entire parking lot, adding a bunch of trash to the dirt pile that was once pristine. We watched someone deliver a futon frame a couple of weeks ago. One of his many mattresses is now off the ground. That particular bed is sitting behind the tree alongside the house perpendicular to ours. At one point, he also had a small bedside table as well as a lamp. The lamp never actually worked.

Right around December a construction company dropped off a port-a-potty. At roughly the same time, the hobo showed up wearing an orange jacket sporting the word “SECURITY” on the back of it, which is pretty brilliant if you ask me.

He is still very much drunk and dying in the parking lot directly behind our backyard.