Most days, I think I look okay. So maybe my hair isn't salon styled perfect and my make-up hasn't been applied by Bobbi Brown herself, but I hardly think I look like a train wreck. It's just everyone in the beauty industry that thinks I do.
Recently, I decided to switch hair salons for a variety of reasons.
"What do you want?" the new guy asked me. "What's wrong with this?"
I launched into explicit detail on cut and color.
"No. I will tell you," he declared imperiously, cutting me off. "The color is all wrong; too dark here, too light there, the wrong shade. The cut is bad; too long here, too short there."
Okay, so then why did you ask me if you already knew the answer? Was it a trick question? If I answered wrong, would I get buzzed and lose my turn?
"We will fix everything. How much time do you have?" He pawed through my hair like those monkeys you see on National Geographic grooming each other.
Uh, how much time do I need? Should I have packed a lunch or an overnight bag? Maybe I should have called the Extreme Makeover staff and thrown myself on their mercy? How about the guys on that Restoration show. They have lots of tools and can fix even the most derelict antiques to look like new.
Long story short, I didn't like what he did, and ended up back at my old place several weeks later.
"What happened to you?" my old hair guy gasped when he saw me. "Who did this?" He managed to make it sound as though I were Dr. Frankenstein's latest attempt...and it wasn't anywhere near as pretty as his first creation.
"The color is all wrong; the cut is not right. I'll do what I can today, but it will take weeks before it is right."
So you think I'll survive? Gosh, I hope so because I still have so much to live for!
And if both of these guys think my hair is that bad, it's nothing compared to the guys at the mall who try to sell flat irons from those kiosks.
"Miss, miss," they gesture frantically, yelling over the din of the Saturday mall crowds. "Come here and let me fix your hair. I'll show you how good it could look."
Hmm. Okay. You've just insulted me in front of sixty thousand other shoppers, but I'm guessing that you think by calling me miss (which Tim will be more than happy to attest to the fact that the boat has long since sailed on that!) I'm supposed to be so flattered that I will vault over those women too ugly for you to even offer to help and throw myself on your mercy, kissing your feet while weeping tears of joy that I, and I alone, am The Chosen One.
Right. Oh, and by the way, you studied hair design...where? Vidal Sassoon? Paul Mitchell? You know what? My nine year old niece can work a flat iron. Doesn't mean I'm going to let her take a 125 degree weapon and aim it at my head. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll stay ugly.
The only people worse are the skincare and make-up people. Generally speaking, you have to put your head down and run through the department like there is a fire in the center of the mall and you are the only one with a bucket of water. If you make eye contact for even a fraction of a second, you are toast. And NEVER, under any circumstances stop, or they will be on you like a hungry lion on a gazelle.
"Oh dear," they cluck, examining you like a bug under a microscope. "Thank goodness you've come now. Another day or two longer and..." they shudder and trail off as if the consequences would be too horrible to even mention.
"Do you see how dry/oily/scaly/red/green/saggy/wrinkly/baggy and/or dull your skin is? Tsk, tsk. What have you been using?"
Like the "Do these pants make my butt look big? question, there is no right answer to this. You can tell them everything from drug store generic brands to whatever the current best seller among the rich and famous is and they will tell you why it doesn't work and you look like crap. (Basically, it's because they don't sell it)
Then, they will proceed to slather eighty-two different types of goop on your face and after each layer, hold up a mirror and chirp, "There. Don't you look better already? See how the lines and creases are disappearing? Your skin is getting tighter, taking on a youthful glow. The years are melting away. (Why Miss Elphaba, you're beautiful--Wicked reference, she is the green "wicked" witch).
Then, they lean in conspiratorially and boast, "I'm 82, but people think I'm 18. It's all because our products have something nobody else has. Shh. It's alpharetinolcaffinatedteatreehydroxy oil. Plus eye of newt and tongue of frog. And just a little bit of pixie dust.
Okay, so is that a magic mirror you look into? Cause the one you're currently shoving under my nose is not making me look like Heidi Klum. Just so you know.
After all the various concoctions, potions and lotions (and a good hour that you'll never get back has been sucked out of your life) you then move on to make-up, which of course, you have been doing all wrong.
"So what colors do you use?" They query as they pull out a tray with more colors than a super jumbo box of Crayolas.
"Uh, blue?"
"Aspen blue, Blue heather, Twilight blue, Eggplant blue, Neon blue or Teal blue?" They wait expectantly, as though I actually know the answer or can tell the difference between them.
"The blue I bought last year?" I hesitantly offer, wishing I'd said chartreuse. How many variations could there be on that?
"Last year? Last year?" they shriek, clutching their chest and staggering backwards. "You're five seasons behind! No wonder you look like the "before" photo."
With a flick of the wrist, they unroll a set of tools and utensils that would rival a top-notch operating theater and begin transforming you from the hideously outdated creature you were to a cross between a drag queen and Tammy Faye Baker.
"Here is a complete list of all the products I've used today," they tell me another mere hour later. "The first 192 are the must-haves so you don't scare small children or people with 20/20 vision. The other 56 are optional. More or less. Well, less. On second thought, they're not really optional...for you. And by the way, who does your hair?"
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Driving Me Crazy
At our usual Sunday night family dinner, our fifteen year old niece was talking about driving. When I admitted that I did not get my license till I was 21, there was an audible gasp around the table.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Won't You Be My Neighbor
We have lived in three different neighborhoods since we got married, and although each one was very different, they all have had certain types of people in common, like"The Welcome Wagon".
In our first neighborhood, it was a very nice couple who showed up at our door at 6:30 one morning with a gift. Flowers? Nope. Casserole? Uh uh. Bottle of wine? No chance. Dead critter? Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner! And the Oscar for the most bizarre gift goes to...
Seems they were hunters and had shot some kind of game bird and generously decided to share. Personally, I would have preferred the flowers. Even dead flowers. Dead flowers that had been cooked into a casserole.
"Be careful when you eat it though," they warned, "there might still be some buckshot in it."
Oh goody. Something with a face and crunchy texture. Alert the Food Network.
Now, I am a carnivore. I know where meat comes from. I just don't like it looking back at me from my dinner plate with an accusing stare, "I could'a been a contenda...but if I complement that bottle of wine, then, hey, my life was not given in vain."
So while inside my head I was chanting, "Eww, eww, eww. Dead Tweety bird." Outside, I plastered a smile on my face that I hoped was at least half as convincing as the fake vaseline-on-the-teeth-Miss- America-smile and gingerly took the gory little baggie with the tips of nails that I wished were twelve inches long and gave it to Tim who I hoped gave it a proper burial. I still don't want to know for sure what he did with it.
The welcome wagon lady in our second neighborhood stood at the fence watching the whole moving-in process with complete and utter fascination. As the truck finally pulled away, Tim and I walked over to introduce ourselves. With a sniff, she looked us up and down and pronounced: "We do not have loud parties in this neighborhood."
Well, allrighty then. Nice to meet you too. And if that's the case, you are really going to hate us. Yeah. You see, on the nights that we don't have Hell's Angels over for a cookout and beer fest, we invite our really good friends who are all in heavy metal bands and encourage them to bring speakers the size of Stonehenge which we place strategically around the yard so that people in South America can hear them. Thanks for the warm welcome.
In our current neighborhood, we were welcomed the very day we closed on the house by the guy across the street. The builder had come over to see to a few last minute things and I was just pulling out to go get my sixth carload of stuff when the guy comes strolling up the driveway. Thinking he was coming over to say hello, I stopped and rolled down my window.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ann."
"Yeah." He barely slowed down. "I'm just going in."
"Actually, I'm your new neighbor. We closed on the house this morning," I informed him.
"Uh huh. The builder knows me. I'll just let myself in."
Oh, you will? Well, in that case, don't mind me. Just make yourself right at home; my home. And if the boxes of my stuff are in your way, just shove them into a corner. Can't wait to meet the rest of the neighbors based on this encounter.
Which brings me to person number two: The Enforcer.
In our first house, it was the guy across the street who was bothered by he fact that we had put a white sheet over our floor to ceiling bedroom windows for privacy. I suspect he ran the concession stand for the nightly show the previous owners must have put on and missed the extra funds.
We explained that we had to special order a shade and it would take 3-6 weeks. Apparently, he was the only person on the planet to never have ordered anything because he didn't seem to understand that when they say 3-6 weeks, they actually mean anywhere between 6 weeks and the time you appear on Willard Scott's 100th birthday celebration Smucker's jar.
He nagged and prodded us as though we actually could control delivery. Either that or he thought we would use one of our three magic wishes to get it made faster. Fortunately for him, it was delivered before I felt compelled to put up something even more offensive like neon lights and Mardi Gras beads.
In our last two neighborhoods, it has been parking issues that assumed the importance of breathing to the enforcers.
The one woman was obsessed with the property lines denoting the two parking spaces for her one car in front of her house. God forbid someone actually crossed the line! It was like declaring war. Napoleon did not encounter such adversity at Waterloo! And if someone actually parked in front of her house? Well, she conducted a door to door search for culprit that would have mad Dawg the Bounty Hunter look like a rank amateur, and deliver a lecture designed to make the person wish for a cyanide pill.
Here in our current neighborhood, it is a guy who has taken it upon himself to ensure that nobody, but nobody parks on the strip of dirt across the street from his house. Offenders find their cars plastered with fliers warning of the dangers of parking there.
His reasoning goes something like this: cars=riff-raff=drug dealers=anarchy=the fall of civilization= people parking wherever they please. It's jut a vicious cycle waiting to strike at the heart of democracy. I can only imagine how the missive would read if someone had the temerity to actually park on his side of the street!
Which brings me to the final person: The Informer.
Neighborhood one, two or three. It doesn't matter. There is always someone who, like the Great and Powerful Oz knows all.
Near as I can figure, they grill anyone who has the misfortune to be outside when they are passing by, which is somewhere between fifty-six and four thousand times a day. They are generally wise to evasive tactical maneuvers, so it is almost impossible to escape them more than once or twice a month. The CIA could use these people.
They know all about marriages, births, divorces, new cars, new hairstyles; preferences in food, drink and toilet paper; friends, friends of friends, people who are thinking of becoming friends, former friends and the friendless. The informer can tell you what you had for dinner last Tuesday night, and what color the people eight blocks west and four blocks north are thinking of painting their kitchen.
They can tell you about the very first inhabitants of the neighborhood, why they lived there and where their final resting place is. They do more research into their neighbor's lives than Ed Bradley does for a 60 Minutes expose on a corrupt politician.
And so I've decided that our next move will be to a desert island, just Tim and myself. Well, maybe just myself. That way I can be assured of avoiding any annoying neighbors.
In our first neighborhood, it was a very nice couple who showed up at our door at 6:30 one morning with a gift. Flowers? Nope. Casserole? Uh uh. Bottle of wine? No chance. Dead critter? Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner! And the Oscar for the most bizarre gift goes to...
Seems they were hunters and had shot some kind of game bird and generously decided to share. Personally, I would have preferred the flowers. Even dead flowers. Dead flowers that had been cooked into a casserole.
"Be careful when you eat it though," they warned, "there might still be some buckshot in it."
Oh goody. Something with a face and crunchy texture. Alert the Food Network.
Now, I am a carnivore. I know where meat comes from. I just don't like it looking back at me from my dinner plate with an accusing stare, "I could'a been a contenda...but if I complement that bottle of wine, then, hey, my life was not given in vain."
So while inside my head I was chanting, "Eww, eww, eww. Dead Tweety bird." Outside, I plastered a smile on my face that I hoped was at least half as convincing as the fake vaseline-on-the-teeth-Miss- America-smile and gingerly took the gory little baggie with the tips of nails that I wished were twelve inches long and gave it to Tim who I hoped gave it a proper burial. I still don't want to know for sure what he did with it.
The welcome wagon lady in our second neighborhood stood at the fence watching the whole moving-in process with complete and utter fascination. As the truck finally pulled away, Tim and I walked over to introduce ourselves. With a sniff, she looked us up and down and pronounced: "We do not have loud parties in this neighborhood."
Well, allrighty then. Nice to meet you too. And if that's the case, you are really going to hate us. Yeah. You see, on the nights that we don't have Hell's Angels over for a cookout and beer fest, we invite our really good friends who are all in heavy metal bands and encourage them to bring speakers the size of Stonehenge which we place strategically around the yard so that people in South America can hear them. Thanks for the warm welcome.
In our current neighborhood, we were welcomed the very day we closed on the house by the guy across the street. The builder had come over to see to a few last minute things and I was just pulling out to go get my sixth carload of stuff when the guy comes strolling up the driveway. Thinking he was coming over to say hello, I stopped and rolled down my window.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ann."
"Yeah." He barely slowed down. "I'm just going in."
"Actually, I'm your new neighbor. We closed on the house this morning," I informed him.
"Uh huh. The builder knows me. I'll just let myself in."
Oh, you will? Well, in that case, don't mind me. Just make yourself right at home; my home. And if the boxes of my stuff are in your way, just shove them into a corner. Can't wait to meet the rest of the neighbors based on this encounter.
Which brings me to person number two: The Enforcer.
In our first house, it was the guy across the street who was bothered by he fact that we had put a white sheet over our floor to ceiling bedroom windows for privacy. I suspect he ran the concession stand for the nightly show the previous owners must have put on and missed the extra funds.
We explained that we had to special order a shade and it would take 3-6 weeks. Apparently, he was the only person on the planet to never have ordered anything because he didn't seem to understand that when they say 3-6 weeks, they actually mean anywhere between 6 weeks and the time you appear on Willard Scott's 100th birthday celebration Smucker's jar.
He nagged and prodded us as though we actually could control delivery. Either that or he thought we would use one of our three magic wishes to get it made faster. Fortunately for him, it was delivered before I felt compelled to put up something even more offensive like neon lights and Mardi Gras beads.
In our last two neighborhoods, it has been parking issues that assumed the importance of breathing to the enforcers.
The one woman was obsessed with the property lines denoting the two parking spaces for her one car in front of her house. God forbid someone actually crossed the line! It was like declaring war. Napoleon did not encounter such adversity at Waterloo! And if someone actually parked in front of her house? Well, she conducted a door to door search for culprit that would have mad Dawg the Bounty Hunter look like a rank amateur, and deliver a lecture designed to make the person wish for a cyanide pill.
Here in our current neighborhood, it is a guy who has taken it upon himself to ensure that nobody, but nobody parks on the strip of dirt across the street from his house. Offenders find their cars plastered with fliers warning of the dangers of parking there.
His reasoning goes something like this: cars=riff-raff=drug dealers=anarchy=the fall of civilization= people parking wherever they please. It's jut a vicious cycle waiting to strike at the heart of democracy. I can only imagine how the missive would read if someone had the temerity to actually park on his side of the street!
Which brings me to the final person: The Informer.
Neighborhood one, two or three. It doesn't matter. There is always someone who, like the Great and Powerful Oz knows all.
Near as I can figure, they grill anyone who has the misfortune to be outside when they are passing by, which is somewhere between fifty-six and four thousand times a day. They are generally wise to evasive tactical maneuvers, so it is almost impossible to escape them more than once or twice a month. The CIA could use these people.
They know all about marriages, births, divorces, new cars, new hairstyles; preferences in food, drink and toilet paper; friends, friends of friends, people who are thinking of becoming friends, former friends and the friendless. The informer can tell you what you had for dinner last Tuesday night, and what color the people eight blocks west and four blocks north are thinking of painting their kitchen.
They can tell you about the very first inhabitants of the neighborhood, why they lived there and where their final resting place is. They do more research into their neighbor's lives than Ed Bradley does for a 60 Minutes expose on a corrupt politician.
And so I've decided that our next move will be to a desert island, just Tim and myself. Well, maybe just myself. That way I can be assured of avoiding any annoying neighbors.
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