Sunday, December 4, 2011

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me...

Don't act like you're not excited...

This week?

I Don't Want Your Garbage... I Don't Care If It's Free...

There's this thing people do. I mean, if they're NOT hoarders. They call it Spring Cleaning even in the Winter. And even though it should be called Shit Purging. It's a good thing. I'm not knocking "the thing". I fully support and celebrate the conscious exorcism of materialistic overpopulation.

What I DO NOT celebrate, or even tolerate, really, is when said purging concludes with the stacking of useless garbage curbside with a grease stained slab of cardboard that has the word "FREE" scrolled in Serial Killer Font, precariously balanced atop it.

It would be one thing if this shit was worth taking. But it never is. It's always some broke ass tube television or a 1970's era particle board dresser with missing drawers or a cracked mirror.

This is just a clear and shameless demonstration of Sloth. What the sign should actually say is:

It would take a bigger piece of cardboard, but at least it would be honest.

Listen, I don't want your garbage. I don't care if it's free!!!

And while we're on the subject... I also don't want your horse manure, yet there are signs for that on the side of the road as well.

I'm sure it's useful in some circles. I mean, I'd rather put out a bonfire with my face, than have any part of these circles, but I imagine they're out there... It's LITERALLY SHIT, people. "Oh, your animals have produced an obscene amount of feces and you'd like me to come relieve you of some of it, and you're NOT going to charge me?!?!?! Yahtzee!"

And what about paying money for things you can find anywhere for free? Like dirt. Or rocks. Or pine cones. People do this. MY MOTHER does this. She will get in her car, drive to Home Depot and trade cash for dirt. FOR DIRT!

Ma, I gotta tell ya, I have dirt if you want it. I'm fucking swimming in dirt. I track dirt all over my carpet from the bottom of my shoes. I have to wash things to get rid of dirt, I have such a abundance. I can't swing a cat without hitting some kid covered in dirt. There's dirt inside, there's dirt outside. It's yours for the taking. Yet, you can't stop yourself from forking out your hard earned money just because their dirt has been neatly packaged for you and renamed "Soil".

Also, we live in the Pacific Northwest, why don't you let me go ahead and swoop up some of the grabillion pine cones that fall from the sky every GD day and you can stack them in all the decorative bowls your little heart desires for the bargain price of Mother-Nature-Owes-Me-For-Efiing-Up-My-Car's-Paint-Job. I'll even spray 'em with a little cinnamon Lysol for you. No ventures to Pier 1 Imports required.

I'm not saying I don't like free stuff like a free coffee at Starbucks, or a free gift with purchase, or free shipping. I'm also not saying that I can't appreciate the price of convenience, i.e. food delivery, valet parking, maid service (I can't actually afford any of that... but in a perfect world...). What I am saying is this...

My ass is broke, and even still...
I. Don't. Want. Your. Garbage.
I. Don't. Care. If. It's. Free.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Chester, Chester, neighbor molester, where do you park your van?

I just moved.

It's a lovely place really.

Good neighborhood. Secured building. Spacious, bright, quiet. View of the city. The subtle melody of seals barking in the night air. Really quite lovely.

But as with all new dwellings, there are those little quirks, "personality traits" if you will, one must discover, digest, and attempt to internally reconcile.

My new shiver-inducing, midnight-lurking neighbor across the street, is one such quirk.


Prosecution Exhibit A:

I'm on the third floor.
I have a deck.

From said deck is the aforementioned view of the beautiful metropolis that is Seattle, WA. Also, visible from this deck is the street. And the houses across that street. And the van that parks in front of the houses across that street.

This is not just "a van". I've seen vans before. Some (few) are not creepy. Some (few) are used for the purposes of toting children to and fro, delivering cakes or flowers, transporting lazy asshats that promise to come fix your cable between the hours of noon and next Tuesday. I've seen these vans. This is not one of those vans.

This is one of the vans that is acquired solely for the purposes of abduction, torture, brutal homicide, and body disposal.

How do I know? Well, first, it's yellow. Not canary yellow, or "beige that looks yellow in a certain light", or obnoxious Nissan Xterra yellow. It's rattle can, lane line yellow. With not-so-subtle hints of rust and erosion speckled about. And you might think that yellow would be a less than ideal color selection for a torture wagon. You'd be wrong. Yellow is so obvious, it's discreet. It's hiding in plain sight. Who suspects a yellow van?!?!? Me. That's who.


Second, the windows that it does have, of which there are three, are tinted. And not "the sun's so bright in Seattle" tinted, but "try to guess what I'm hiding in here" tinted. And I don't want to guess. I already know.

So, of course, I'm already a smidge uneasy. But I keep telling myself, "It's just a van, Jill, it's just a van."

Prosecution Exhibit B:

It was late. 10 or 11 at night. Or perhaps it was 4:30. Who the fuck knows? Night falls at noon here in the winter. Regardless, it was dark. Extremely dark. And raining (weird). Not drizzling. Raining. Hard. Sheets of rain. And it was windy... I think... I might have made that part up... but I'm pretty sure. And there were zombies milling about, and you could hear the cackle of witches in the distance (okay, that last part is bullshit). Whatever, it was a creepy night. I was sitting on my deck, enjoying a mug of warm tea, listening to the rain, reveling in the solace, when I spotted him. "Chester" (for the purposes of this blog) standing in the middle of the road. Lurking. No coat. Pelted by raindrops. Perfectly still. Intently staring up at my deck.



I retreated inside immediately, locked the slider, closed the blinds, and buried myself in the comfort and safety of under-my-blankets, resting easy in the knowledge that no one could get me there.

The next day I discovered that "Chester" has a couple of dogs, one called Creepy (not kidding), his master's namesake no doubt, and was most likely just letting them out to piss all over my building, but still...

Listen, I hate to be "that neighbor". I really do. I don't want the local police to recognize my voice when I call to report more suspicious activity. I don't want to be running to the drug store every other day to buy more spiral notebooks in which I jot down license plate numbers and physical descriptions. I don't want to purchase binoculars.

But also, I don't want my life to play out like some low budget independent film entitled I Really, Still, Really, Really, Know What You Did Last Summer. I'm not a good screamer. It wouldn't translate on screen.

So, if it should come to it, let this post be my voice beyond the grave. Chester, The Neighbor Molester did it!  Please to secure Keith Morrison to tell my story.

(Side bar: When I typed "Yellow Van" in to Google Image Search a picture of Jaycee Dugard popped up... told ya so)