The Big Dig: “Ain’t nobody got time for that”

In the words of Sweet Brown:

Word, Sweet Brown.

(If you are unfamiliar with Sweet Brown’s original news clip, click here)

My story is not unique. I believe I read that the Blizzard of 2013 affected upwards of 24 million people. I’m just here to offer you a first hand view of digging out. As many of you know, I live in a condominium complex that’s full of rules, but also carries some limited outdoor maintenance benefits.

When I went to bed on Friday night (February 8), about five inches of snow had accumulated. The local New Haven television weather forecaster predicted a total of 10 to 12 inches by morning. However, my town was right on one of those lines they draw on weather maps that had 6-10 inches to the left and 12-24 inches to the right.

I woke up around 6:15am on Saturday, went downstairs, opened the curtains and saw this:

I guess I won’t be grilling for a while

Ut oh. How am I going to get the wiener dog out AND find a place for her to do her business?

Wading through thigh-high snow, I made it to the road and just put her down to do her thing.

At the same time, this is how my car looked:

How will I even begin?

The snow was still coming down. There was nothing to be done except go indoors and fire up the coffee pot. A landscaper-plow truck had gone by when I was outside and he told me not to bother even trying to dig out for a while. I offered him a fresh cup of coffee and told him to knock on my door whenever he wanted a refill.

When all was said and done, the Bubble ended with upwards of 30 inches of snow. Drifts went well to five feet and beyond.

Soon enough, cabin fever set in. By early afternoon, I had to go out and at least try to free my car. This is what I faced:

Really?

After 90 minutes of shoveling, this is all I had to show:

Ain’t nobody got time for that. It’s wine o’clock

I had achieved the goal of at least identifying where the snow ended and my car began, ever hopeful that the promised bob cat and pay loaders would take care of the mounds in front of my car.

After an hour break, I could no longer stand sitting idly indoors. And it was too early to open the bottle of wine. Further effort on Saturday brought me to this:

A couple of kind neighbors helped get me to this point.

I woke up on Sunday with arms sore in a way that they’d never before experienced. No choice but to carry on.

My main goal was to at least be able to free the car enough to move it forward a few inches and dislodge the snow’s hold on the back end. After clearing what I thought would be enough to let me rock it out of there, no luck. I shoveled more snow from around the tires and tried again. Still stuck. Finally, on my fourth attempt, I was able to move forward.

Be free, Tiguan, be free.

It’s not as if I can go anywhere because more than 75% of our town’s streets remain unplowed, but I accomplished my goal of freeing the Tiguan. My arms feel so sore and well-exercised that they ought to look like Jennifer Aniston’s. No such luck.

Damien, the Creepy White Squirrel

Last week, my friend Haddie arrived for an afternoon visit.  It was a mild (for Southern Connecticut) late autumn afternoon.  We decided to step out onto the deck and enjoy a bit of sunshine.

As we chatted, I noticed one of the Bubble’s dumb white squirrels about 50 feet away. (I call it dumb because it waits until the dog is six inches away before running up the tree.) I pointed it out to Haddie.  She had never before seen a white squirrel in person.  We continued to shoot the breeze.  After less than five minutes, we noticed something move to the tree adjacent to the deck.  It was the white squirrel.

Haddie and I laughed a bit and made mildly aggressive gestures toward the squirrel figuring it would scurry away.  It did not.  Rather, it seemed encouraged by our movement and crawled closer.

This creature continued to approach us in a manner we soon deemed to be threatening.  The curious and formerly cute squirrel was firmly in the no-longer-funny zone.  At the corner of the deck, there was an empty planter leftover from summer habanero gardening that had about a half dozen wooden stakes leaning inside.  I grabbed a stake and started banging it between the slats of the deck hoping to startle it away.  No such luck.

The white rat got closer still.  Haddie and I nervously giggled, but it was apparent that we would not be surprised if this thing launched itself at our faces.  I threw the stake in my hand toward the squirrel.  It made contact.  Not a full clunking head hit, but it was definitely felt.  What did the *&$% do?  It came closer.

Haddie picked up a wooden stake and tossed it for a near hit.  The squirrel got even closer to the deck, preparing to jump.

We promptly ran inside and closed the deck slider door.

Normally the wiener dog turns into a whirling dervish when a rat b*stard squirrel lands on her deck.  For some reason, she never saw this exchange.  I was too horror-struck by the fearlessness of this demonic rodent to even think about Phoebe.

Minutes after Haddie and I escaped to indoor safety, Damien the Satanic Rat jumped onto the deck and began to approach the glass slider we secured ourselves behind.  He struck a pose in front of my grill.

By this time, I’ve started banging the glass with my forearm.  The rodent was no more than two feet from the glass and he didn’t even flinch.  He simply moved in for a close up.

After about 15 minutes, Damien appeared to have left.  We stepped back outside to the deck looking left, right and, more importantly, above.  Haddie and I were certain this thing would descend from a tree limb.  Thankfully, the area seemed to be clear.  Later, we did however see Damien sitting on a rock, staring in our direction.  We got the message and retreated indoors.  This thing was not to be messed with.

I’ve not seen the creeper since Haddie left on Thursday.  Tomorrow, however, she is scheduled to come over and help decorate my place for the holidays and bake some cookies.  I expect Damien, the Sequel.

The spiders continue to haunt me…

This has been constructed on the lamp post at the end of my sidewalk at least three times in the last week.  The rain comes at night and beats it down, but then the next night it’s back up.  Must be a good hunting ground.

Actually, even the nights when it doesn’t rain, the web seems to be gone in the morning.  Can anyone tell what type of spider it is from the photo? Should I be more frightened than I already am?

Does this mean I have to start going to church again?

I realize that a snarky, foolish blog is no place for a post about religion.  But please allow me to go there for a moment. I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic high school.  I stopped being Catholic the day I graduated in 1979.  Catholic school knocked the religion right out of me.  But a mysterious series of events over the last few days has me wondering…

First, a little background

One of my favorite pieces of jewelry was a birthday gift I received last year: a thin silver bangle bracelet with diamonds embedded on one side. It’s a simple piece but it works well with anything from jeans to a little black dress.  I wear it three or four times a week and have a sentimental attachment to it.

My favorite bracelet

When it comes to storing my jewelry, if I’m near the jewelry cabinet in my bedroom when I remove anything from earrings to rings to my beloved bracelet, I’ll try to put it in the cabinet.  But I also may put it in the nightstand drawer if that’s closer.

If I’m downstairs in the living room, I might place the jewelry in the end table drawer.  If I’m in the home office/guest room? Put it on top of the desk or next to the computer desk. It sounds unorganized but it’s never failed me.

Until now.

Last Saturday night as I dressed to head out to a dinner party, I opened the jewelry cabinet to don my favorite bracelet.  I didn’t see it hanging in there, but there was no need to panic.  I had an immediate vision of it sitting in the end table drawer down in the living room.  I headed down the stairs, pulled open the drawer….not there.  No reason to panic.  I still had three more “usual” storage spots to check.

An hour later, and now a half hour late for the dinner party, I’ve checked and rechecked the five spots four times each.  Now I’m panicking (well, not so much panicking, but my heart is breaking just a little). I decide to put it out of my mind and concentrate on having a fun Saturday night.

On Sunday, I spent at least two hours not only checking the five spots, but also on my hands and knees with a flashlight looking under every piece of furniture in my condo and sticking my hand between cushions of my sofa and upholstered chairs, some I haven’t even sat in for weeks. I also went out and checked my car – the floor and between the seats.  Twice. Nothing. I really didn’t think I’d find it there or that it might be lost at the grocery store or the home of a friend I’d visited. I knew it wasn’t likely that it would simply fall off because of the type of clasp it has.

By now, I’ve whipped myself into quite a frenzy.  I decided to try and settle in to watch the NASCAR race, hoping to take my mind off it.  Since I wasn’t quite happy with how the race was going, I got restless and began searching again.  For the 17^th time.  What’s that quote about the definition of insanity?

And what’s this got to do with church?

I’d resigned myself to the fact that my bracelet was gone. But as a final effort, I decided to post an appeal on my Facebook page asking the dozen or so friends who are local to my neighborhood (and are also dog parents and, therefore, walking around the Bubble) to keep an eye open in case it fell from my wrist as I walked Phoebe.

I was not prepared for the commenting on the post that came from beyond my friends within the Bubble.   I was hit with friends encouraging me to pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost and found.  Who? What?

image via ourcatholicprayers.com

Dear St. Anthony of Lost and Found, please make my bracelet come around

Considering my lack of religion, I was skeptical that St. Anthony would pay much attention to my plea.  However, throughout the day on Sunday, several more people jumped on my Facebook post saying they would pray on my behalf.

When I woke on Monday morning, I was absolutely possessed with the intention to go test drive a VW Tiguan immediately.  The lease on my current car wasn’t up until October.  I had been thinking about checking out the Tiguan, but really wasn’t going to start shopping around for a few weeks.  Nevertheless, I HAD TO GO THAT DAY.

By 12:30pm on Monday, I had put a deposit down on a new Tiguan and was scheduled to pick up the new vehicle on Tuesday. When I got home, I began to clean out the old car.  I lifted the lid of the console between the front seats and what did I see peeking out among the accumulated junk? The bracelet.

I have absolutely NO recollection of removing the bracelet while in the car last week. There’s no reason I would have.  It’s not as if it interferes with my driving. Furthermore, if I had removed the bracelet in the car, why wouldn’t I have simply dropped it in my handbag sitting right on the passenger seat instead of lifting the lid of the console that I open perhaps once a month? You’ve got to understand too, I work from home, so I’m not even necessarily in the car every day.

But, no time to puzzle over it.  I was overjoyed that my adored bracelet was back!  I decided to post the update on Facebook to let the neighborhood know the search was over. Did St. Anthony have a hand in this? I’m still getting friends commenting that it was indeed his work.  Dozens of comments and “likes” from friends who have known about this approach that I’d never heard before.  They swear it works.  Who am I to disagree? Apparently since St. Anthony couldn’t gain access to my condo to return the bracelet to me, he placed it in the console and orchestrated the scenario to quickly lead me to it.  I just wish he could have chosen a less expensive route.  But I guess that’s the payback for turning my back on the Catholic religion.  See?  That Catholic guilt never goes away.

Nut up, Betty

This afternoon I went down to my basement to transfer a load of laundry from washer to dryer. On my approach, I stopped dead in my tracks because I saw this gigantic spider parked in front of the dryer.

If you’ve read some of my earliest posts, you know that I fear spiders.

I looked around for weapons of defense and my hockey stick seemed that it would give me the best distance to beat the crap (sorry Hipster Dad) out of it. But I feared it might retaliate and decide to come after me if I missed it.

It was quite a dilemma. Transfer the towels that had already been left in the washing machine for at least 12 hours or take a chance that my middle-aged eyes would provide sufficient hand-eye to club the spider. I decided to take the wiener dog for a walk to see if I could entice a helpful neighbor to kill it for me.

After only five minutes of wandering on the hill with Phoebe, my neighbor the Navy man drove up. SCORE! I knew he wasn’t afraid of bugs because of our on going involvement with fake rats, snakes and most recently cockroaches. After quite a lull in snaking and ratting between our two condos, I recently dropped a rubber cockroach on their doorstep thinking that I’d catch Lola’s mom with it on her way home.

Lola’s dad (the Navy man) actually discovered the rubber roach before Lola’s mom came home and laughed off my pathetic attempt to scare them. He acknowledged that yes, snakes would make him jump…possibly the fake rat (which his daughter was the one to add to the game)…but bugs? Nah, those didn’t get him.

So when this brave defender of the United States stepped out of his vehicle, the wiener dog and I approached. I asked, “are you afraid of spiders?” Of course he asked why. I explained that a particularly large spider was preventing me from transferring laundry from washer to dryer. I hoped that he would volunteer to come slay the invader.

His reply to me? Nut up. Do you have a can of Raid?

We are both fans of Zombieland (me, thanks to Thoughtsy and Hipster). So I knew what he was saying. But I still considered whether I had other options. Dad? No. I knew he wasn’t available. My sort-of for-lack-of-a-better-word boyfriend? No. He was supposed to come by earlier but had been hit with a shit storm of work and kid issues.

Time to nut up or shut up, Betty.

I went down the stairs to the basement. Grabbed my hockey stick (thank you, Jeffrey, circa 1990). Unsure whether the reader glasses would give me a better view, I left them on and pounded it twice. It twitched. Then I wrist-shot it into the wall, away from the dryer. She shoots, she scores!

The laundry is dry. But I still have to find someone to come over and remove the carcass.

Penny for your thoughts

Recently I received a flower delivery that arrived without the usual packet of flower cocaine.  As you probably know, this magic powder gets dumped into the water to extend the life of the flowers.

Over the years, when shopping for flowers at the local grocery store, I’ve noticed pennies in the bottom of the large vases holding the selection of stems.   I’m sure everyone’s heard various tricks to add life to flower arrangements. Things such as bleach in the water, cutting the stems on the diagonal (I know this one works), and, of course, the penny in the water.

image via wikipedia

Lacking the flower powder – as well as bleach – and assuming that a freshly delivered arrangement was properly cut by the florist, I decided to try the penny.

image via overstock.com

Past deliveries I’ve received from this particular florist always seem to live for a good 6-8 days before truly deteriorating.  This beautiful batch of magenta sweetheart roses lasted just three days before the buds started drooping like they’d been decapitated.  Must be the penny.

Ever reluctant to toss a gifted bouquet of roses, I let ‘em ride for a full week. It was trash collection day so if I didn’t dump them then, they’d fester either on my dining room table or in the kitchen trash bin for another four days.  The decrepit stems hit the Hefty bag, dumped the water down the drain and the vase to the dishwasher.

You know where this is going, don’t you?

Two days later, I had some stale bread that I jammed down the drain to run through the garbage disposal. I turned on the water, flipped the switch to start the blades and immediately the disposal seized up. The lack of grinding sound, only a dull hum, indicated that the blades were not moving.  I gave the ol’ “flip the switch rapidly on and off” a few attempts.  Nothing.  These blades were not moving.  From stale bread? How can that be?

I phoned my dependable fix-it guy (Dad), told him it was no rush because water could still flow through and I didn’t have an immediate need to run anything else through the disposal.  But Dad being Dad, he came right over (he’s retired and it was Mom’s day off from her part-time job – I know he was dying to get out.)

I told him I couldn’t understand how bread could seize it up, but acknowledged that I’d been on a fresh cherry kick and it was possible that a cherry with pit could very well have fallen down the drain while being washed.

Eventually my father got the blades turning.  We were able to determine that there was something metallic rattling around down there.  Thinking back again, I speculated that perhaps I’d dropped a beer cap after twisting.  I didn’t think so, but it seemed like the best possibility at that point.

Like a bad penny

Another 10 minutes of digging around and what does he come up with?  Of course you know it was the penny.  But at that point in time, I was absolutely bewildered as to how a penny could have gone down the drain.  Don’t forget, it was more than a week since I’d tossed the penny in the vase.  Since my parents had recently spent a week in my condo watching the wiener dog while I traveled, I was certain the penny must have been something that they mistakenly dropped down there.  I couldn’t say that of course, but I sure thought it.

Until the next day when I began to empty the dishwasher and put my hand on the vase…..for the record, I did call them immediately and own up to it.

So there’s another reason never to try using a penny in the water to extend the life of your roses.

Merry St. Patrick’s Christmas Almost Easter Day!

St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone. Throughout the neighborhood, residents had shamrocks on display.  Except, of course,  the DB neighbor. As of early March, his door looked like this:

My nice neighbor (Lola’s mother) and I have been doing a slow burn about this wreath since mid-January when we considered it was beyond time for the wreath to hit the trash pile. It was browning then, so you can just imagine how ratty it looks now.  Complete with gold bow and dangling mini ornaments (by dangling I mean falling off the wreath and hanging by a thread.)

There are certain violations for which a resident can receive warnings. In fact, after Lola’s mother told me that the view from her kitchen was straight onto DB’s deck where he had discarded his decomposing Christmas tree, I reported the violation to the condo association. DB’s was promptly issued a “ticket” on his door. It took him almost a week to finally haul out the dead tree.

We thought that might encourage them to discard the wreath.  No such luck.

In the days leading up to St. Patrick’s Day, Lola’s family displayed a shamrock….and also added a wreath to see if DB would take the hint.  I added a couple of snowmen and Christmas beading:

DB, can you take a hint?

A couple of days after St. Patrick’s Day, Lola’s family still had a shamrock displayed on their door.  Knowing that they would get the joke, but more so hoping that the DB family would get the hint, I posted the following note on their door:

St. Patrick's Day is over. Don't you think it's time to remove the shamrock?

That didn’t work either.

So, yesterday we decorated our two mailboxes like this (his mailbox is just to the left, out of view):

still not taking the hint

We are now just about two weeks out from Easter and the decrepit  Christmas wreath remains.   We are starting a pool.  When will they finally take it down?  Place your bets here.

Back to my Roots

It’s pretty clear that I’ve had very little to say over the better part of this year. Even though my muse/partner-in-crime, June B. Stewart, no longer walked the beat with me, I still thought I’d have things to say. Apparently not.

In addition to June’s absence, I guess I didn’t realize that there was simply nothing interesting happening in the Bubble.  Until….the tenants in Unit B (which shares a porch with my unit and another) moved out.  Swell, here we go again. Most importantly, it reminded me why I launched this blog.

I won’t bore you with the usual petty b.s. that happens when a neighboring condo unit turns over. But those of you who know a little something about me know that while I’m basically a laid back, easy going person, unwritten condo common courtesy parking infractions send me over the edge. It’s the Betty possession.

After three weeks of watching the new arrivals in Unit B blatantly disregard established parking courtesies, they continued to park in my second space, which admittedly is not occupied even close to 24/7.  But since each condo unit is entitled to two parking spaces at all times, I act like an unreasonable lunatic to ensure that the four to six total hours a day that I might need my second space, it’s available.

So, as Mr Unit B (whom we’ve officially nicknamed DB) and the four cars associated with him continued to park beyond the two spaces to which he was entitled, I dropped this “joke” parking citation on his windshield one morning.  He did not find it humorous. Come on, wouldn’t you laugh if someone hit you with it?  Especially the hummer violation.

If you didn't laugh when this was dropped on your windshield, then you are probably a jerk.

Have a great Thanksgiving holiday!

xo

Betty

Payback’s a bitch. Revenge served cold – 6 year old style.

If you’ve read my rubber snake post, you know the background.  (If not, check this out first.)

Soon after scaring the bejeezus out of my housecleaner, I decided to launch the snake on my six-year old neighbor, Lola. I did ask her mother’s permission, of course.  I may not be fond of children, but I know where to draw the line.  Plus, this kid is cool. You can actually have an interesting conversation with her.

I knew that Lola was a prankster, so I asked her Mom if it would be okay for me to put the snake in their mailbox.  Lola’s newest extension of boundaries allowed her to walk to the mailbox herself to collect their mail. Mom thought the snake was a great idea.

I watched from my window as she skipped to the mailbox, opened it and….immediately grabbed the snake, dancing around with laughter.  Within seconds, my doorbell rang and there was Lola mocking my pathetic attempt to snake her.  I then told her that the snake was hers to pay forward. I explained that revenge was best served cold.  The next day, she sprang it on her father.  She had it waiting in the bathroom for him.  I was disappointed. She just didn’t get it.

Or did she?

This afternoon, a good three months since I snaked her, I stepped out with the wiener dog to collect my mail.  I opened the mailbox to this:

Ben, is that you?

I’ll admit, my initial reaction was fear.  But then I connected the dots.  I could not, however, bring myself to touch it. Its paws just looked so creepy.  I brought the wiener dog back inside. I knew if she was beside me when I pulled it out, she’d come unglued, thinking it was another fun thing to chase like squirrels and chipmunks (the latest Bubble invaders.)

I returned to the mailbox to collect the rat and my mail. As I walked back to the porch that is shared with Lola and her family, there she stood. Bent over with laughter. She knew she got me.  But the rat is now mine. The wheels are turning.  Who will be the next victim?  And what does Lola have in mind for the snake?  I haven’t forgotten that she’s still sitting on it. Two in play.

Would you ever expect evil glee from a cute kid like this?

The Reason Rubber Snakes Exist

Back in the early 90s, I was sent on an extended business trip through Europe. During a stay somewhere in Germany, I came across some sort of chocolate covered insect that I bought and shipped to a friend/colleague back in the US. As I had hoped, they creeped her out (I can’t remember what sort of insect, but it was an intentional selection on my part, I knew it was a particularly disturbing species for her.)

I returned to the office two months later. As I settled back into my office space, I discovered her revenge: a strategically placed rubber snake. This snake bounced between our two offices in various hiding places for the next several months until she left the company. I then decided to initiate the snake into my personal life.

For the past 17 or 18 years, this snake has traveled among a few households of family and friends. After you receive the snake as a victim, the key is to hold onto it for several months until the other participants simply forget its existence, then make your move. There is no particular order for victim selection. The more random, the better.

This snake has popped up in countless “hiding places.” It could be boxed within a victim’s Christmas present, coiled inside a pot in a cabinet and, of course, between sheets. Although between the sheets does create the desired horror, it’s a common location that generally hits the same day you happened to have visited the victim’s home. It’s always good to select a hiding spot like the pot in a cabinet because it could be days or weeks after your visit that the victim makes use of the pot.

I came across the snake in my closet about a week ago. It wasn’t the “plant,” I had found it months earlier but had simply put it away to ponder the next victim and destination. I was leaving the next day for a trip, so I pulled it out of the closet and just hooked it over the railing of my staircase. This way, I’d be reminded to get working on it when I got back from my trip.

The problem is, I forgot that my cleaning people were coming in while I was traveling. As one of them started up the stairs to clean the bedrooms, this is what she saw:

Apparently her biggest fear is snakes. The email she sent me today had me crying with laughter – I’m still crying. After reading today’s Blurt, I fear that revenge is on the horizon for me. If so, I can take it because the housecleaner experience epitomized what rubber snake pranks are all about. I’m only sorry that it happened to an uninitiated, but otherwise the best rubber snake prank. Ever.