offend me

Ok, Mike, I'll play. Mike has tagged me with this offensive meme, and up until recently I didn't even know how to pronounce meme, so.

• Religions other than my own are wrong because ______
  they don't rely on extraterrestrial transport to reach the next dimension.

• Although it's not politically correct, I like to make fun of _____
  people I envy. Yeah, you and your snotty kids in private school and your stinking McMansion and your goddamn SUV with the stupid OBX sticker on the window...I'm talking to you.

• Ways that George Bush is not like the Anti-Christ include ______
  um.....uh...other than the Anti-Christ being smart and articulate, I can't think of any. See

http://www.bushisantichrist.com/

• The celebrity rumor that I wish to start is _____
  Tom Cruise has a button penis.

• Kids suck because _____
  They can eat Cocoa Puffs and Cap'n Crunch Peanut Butter cereal together and not feel totally guilty when they wash it down with a mimosa.

Mike, are you checking my answers? Are they right?

bitching and sniping

This is kinda what my angry neighbor looks like:

I'm sure she's really a lovely woman, and was just having a bad day.

Meanwhile, I caught part of my game last night, the first time in a decade, anyway. I like it; my hips don't, though. You're always in motion, backing up throws, up and down. I'm a fairly intimidating presence on the field, although I don't mean to be. I'm really downright easygoing! However, one gal tripped over me as I was blocking the plate, and she gave me a dirty look and some comment about how she was hurt, wahhhh; I could hear her sniping on the bench. How about a left-field triple over your head, bitch? Glad to oblige. Ha! Ha! (It might have been a home run if it didn't take me a month just to get out of the box. Like cartoon characters--maybe Fred Flinstone--when they're trying to go somewhere fast but their legs just whirl and spin and they don't go anywhere? That's me.)

As a rule, I do not get drawn into the sniping and bitching, not even when my own team does it. I'm a lover; a peacemaker. I'm there to play, and I play hard, and that's the best defense against bitching and sniping.

But I see there's a theme going on here: I really have a problem with conflict.

more neighborly love

My neighborhood is rather old and, some might say, charming. Realtors call it "desirable," but to me, that's a word best and only used in romance novels. Our houses share an alley with the houses behind us.

A couple years ago, new neighbors moved in behind us, about 2 houses down. They tore down the nice little one-car garage, which meshed with the relative quaintness of the block, and built this massive 2-story structure, big enough to block all available sunlight, conduct a probably illegal car-repair business and house the occasional ne'r-do-well relative from Gloucester, one of whom gave Remy a black eye. Other neighbors have called the cops on them because of "excessive trash" and having too many cars on their property.

Now, we don't really know these people well, and we don't care to. Their kids are creepy--if it's ok to call kids creepy, and I think it is; they have this vacant, children-of-the-corn quality.

So we don't talk to them, and we're not talking to psycho-daughter's family anymore.

A new family moved in next door several months ago: a woman, a man and a little boy. (We say hello, but that's about where our communication with them ends.) It was our understanding that this was not a nuclear family. A boyfriend? The kid's dad? The boy's not there all the time. But the boy and the guy have the same name? What gives? We don't know. I was tempted to find out as I started out on a walk one evening a little while ago, when I heard this:

"NO, Billy, you're a fucking asshole! Fuck YOU!"

Followed by sounds of male mumbling.

"I was in my FUCKING OFFICE, BILLY. You're an IDIOT! FUCK YOU!"

More male mumbling, followed by more very loud cursing. Their windows were open, of course.

This kind of arguing really makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I don't argue like this, but I know people do, and I envy them for it: they can REALLY let their feelings out! That's healthy!

I stopped on the porch, and could see them in the kitchen window. Then I did what any good neighbor would do: I crouched down, tiptoed off the porch and snuck closer to the fence to listen in. Then I continued walking, and could hear them a block away.

This was to be the first of an ongoing series of shrieking, obscenity-laced arguments I've heard coming from their house. I don't know these people, except she works (in a fucking office somewhere) and he, apparently, does not. He comes outside to mow the lawn, sand the random dresser, smoke cigarettes and cough and spit in the yard.

Oh, and they also have two pit bulls.

I guess I should try to love my neighbors, but here's how I see it: they're all frigging crazy.

can I see the future or what?

Ok, this'll be the last Chase Utley thing I post for awhile, now that the restraining order is in effect. ;)



That's right: my own 5-speed Vibrating Chase Utley Bobblehead (see previous post).

This little gem was up for a silent auction Friday at our elementary school's annual Mayfair. I split my tickets between the Cole Hamels signed baseball (an investment) and the bobblehead (a dust collector). It was the last prize to be auctioned off. I was working the putting green ("No! Don't wave the clubs around like they're light sabres!" "No, YOU go get the ball, I told you not to hit it so hard." "No, I'm sorry, we're out of Ring-Pops.") when I heard my name announced...

...and literally squealed and skipped all the way to the table to collect my prize. "I won! I won!" I hollered. (I don't usually win stuff, so you can imagine my delight.) Boo was nearby, hiding his face in embarrassment, while I could hear Remy somewhere on the grounds going "woo-woo-woo!"

It doesn't much look like Chase, but I do like his little soul patch. Now the question is: do I save it forever in the attic and have it buried with me? Or do I take it out of the box and play with it?

ball games

I think I’ve mentioned several times to anyone within earshot that perhaps the best way to celebrate Mother’s day is to just give the woman some time to herself and buy her food. Anything above that is gravy: gifts, a day at the spa, flowers, a puppy…all extra, welcome displays of appreciation, but not necessary.

So of course, my family decides it’s a great idea to take me out to a Phillies game, where I have to referee squabbling between the boys.

But at least I didn’t have to get up and buy my own Schmitter (a sandwich--named after the legendary yet reviled 3rd baseman Mike Schmidt--featuring unidentifiable meats and gloppy dressing. In retrospect, it was pretty gross, but I enjoyed it at the time. It’s one of those foods that tastes better at the ballpark.) And I had a beer to go with my Schmitter. One can’t devote themselves to the game more than wolfing down a sloppy Schmitter and drinking a $6.50 cup of beer.

The real reason they took me to the game was because it was Chase Utley Fleece Blanket day--the only way I’ll ever get Chase Utley to lay on top of me. I wouldn’t call myself a soccer mom, but I do cart around the obligatory fleece blanket or two in the van.

Next promotion, maybe the Phillies will come up with something a little edgier: The Chase Utley Warming Massage Lotion. The Chase Utley Deluxe 5-Speed Vibrating Bobblehead. A Role-Playing Adventure with Chase Utley, In Which You’re the Umpire and He’s Been Very, Very Bad. I’d pay for that giveaway.

Unfortunately, the Phillies could only muster up 3 hits and lost this very uninspiring, lazy game on Mother’s day. Still. It was a beautiful, sunny day; I got my blanket; and later we went out for Chinese. All in all, a pretty good Mother’s day.

psycho girl AND her mom are looney

My stomach churned last night as I thought about how I was finally going to approach the psycho girl’s mother.

After being told by the guidance counselor and the vice principal a couple of months ago to leave my son alone, she’s still at it, with the taunting and the teasing. Last night before their school concert, she was saying things to Boo, and he told her to just leave him alone. She said, “No.” No, she won’t leave him alone.

Before I went to school officials again--and believe me, I didn’t want to--I thought it might be best to at least say something to the mom. Maybe I wouldn’t have to say anything to school officials. Maybe she’d hear me out—as I think I would if someone came to ME and said, yeah, we’re having a problem with your son. I’d want to know what that problem was, and find out his role in it. Seems reasonable, right?

Problem is, I head for the hills when confrontation’s nearby. So last night, my heart was racing, my stomach churned, and hesitantly I planned a strategy, like I was about to invade a frigging hostile country.

I would be nice. I would not yell. I would not blame or point fingers. I would listen.

This morning I decide to run over there for just a few minutes before work.

Knock on the door. Mom opens the door, giving me dagger eyes.

Immediately I’m shaken. Wait, I’M the one with the beef. WTF. Don’t you give me dagger eyes, bitch.

“Uh, yeah, uh…(looking out into the street, trying desperately to be nice)…I, uh, know there’s some tension between our families.”

“Yeah. It’s more than that.”

“Well, yeah, I guess that’s why I’m here. Boo tells me that psycho-daughter said……”

Well, I didn’t get a chance to finish. She just laid into me with the same crazy delusional wave of shit that her daughter says to Boo: Being friends with us was “the biggest mistake of our lives,” she informed me. Her daughter has done nothing. My family is the tormentor of their lives. The dh is the town psychopath. Boo is close behind. We all need counseling. I’m delusional. The entire town thinks there’s something wrong with us. WE NEED TO STOP FOCUSING ON THEM!

In reality, we hardly ever even see these people; we’re not even around half the time with games and little league stuff. We don’t sit down and have discussions about them, which apparently they must do, because they’re all on the same script.

I really just couldn’t get a word in, so now, of course, she still doesn’t understand that her daughter is quite simply a bully. I was incredulous; I mean, I couldn’t even respond to most of what she said. She didn’t listen; she didn’t even hear me. It was one of the most bizarre, surreal experiences I’ve ever had with another human being.

So what’s that they say about fences being good neighbors? I’d say we need a walled fortress.