The Odd Broad

Saturday musings

Thanks for the kind words and messages regarding my furry little friend, Kittie with an ie.  We're still feeling her absence, although it's been a little bit better since we moved.

We've moved!  Sweet hallelujah!  And not a moment too soon, since the very next day the news reported three assaults on women in my old neighborhood. 

So we're out of the 'hood, and into...a neighborhood. 

People say hi to one another here.  Someone started talking to me at the supermarket the other day and I was so confused I forgot to buy crackers.  ("You talkin' to me?)  A car blocked the crosswalk when I was trying to cross the other morning and I started to give him my standard you dirty bastard look, but it was completely unnecessary because he rolled down his window to say he was sorry.  Twice!

Ah, it's okay, man.  Really.

We're not in Kansas anymore, Dear Reader.  And I like it!  This neighborhood has everything I was wishing for: parks, trees, a bona fide downtown, great restaurants; and we even have a fenced-in back yard for our sweet bambino to play in.  We're seven miles from the city, and a fourteen minute train ride will take me there.  This apartment met every requirement on our checklist, too, which once again confirms my theory that if you really, really want something, you have to write it down.  Or say it out loud.  Or just meditate on it, even.  You really only have to ask once.  But you have to put it out there, you have to place that order, so somebody (God, the universe, Michael Jackson, whatever it is you believe in) can respond.  Because I do believe Someone is aways listening.  Of course, this also means if your thoughts are focused on crappy things, you just might get something...crappy.  Why is that so difficult to remember?

Incidentally, if I thought packing and unpacking when I was nine months pregnant was a challenge, it was a Saturday stroll through wine country compared to packing with a baby who's crawling and teething!  But we made it through, and miraculously Hubby and I did not kill each other.   

I placed Kittie's ashes in a pretty wooden jewelery box my friend Vanessa gave me.  I set her on the top shelf of our brown bookcase, next to the little glass jar containing a lock of her fur, and beside a picture of her sitting sassily in a sink, glaring gorgeously at the camera.  (Hubby finds this beyond creepy, naturally.) 

My friend Greggie and I went to an animal shelter on our lunch break the other day, just to look, and there was a cat who looked eerily like my Kittie.  He was male, though, and didn't have a black chin, but otherwise it could've been her.  Only he wasn't.  Maybe someday I'll be able to get another cat.  I hope so.

Okay, Dear Reader, I'm off to spend my Saturday with my darling baby.  He's awake!  And it's time to play.  I hope you enjoy your day.  xoxo

Oh yes, I've been here before.

How does that saying go again?  Something like, "Grant me patience, oh Lord, but hurry!"

I can't believe I'm even typing these words, but it looks like we're going to have to move.  Again.  I could throw up just thinking about it, but there you have it.  This will be the fourth time we'll have moved in the three years since we've been back in Boston.  Obnoxious neighbors are one thing, but people being shot on our street is another.  (Someone was actually killed back in June, but I didn't write about it.  Honestly I think I was trying to pretend that it didn't happen.)  But it did happen.  And just the other day it happened again, although supposedly nobody got hit.

It's not like I'm living in the slums!  This is a beautiful apartment in an otherwise quiet neighborhood!  (Even though as I type this, the Bambino and I are getting a contact high through our dining room window as my neighbor smokes a blunt on his back porch.)  But we can't have gunfire on our street with a newborn.  It's just sickening. 

That being said, the rental market in Boston is kind of a shit show.  Unless you're a landlord, that is.  Just check Craig's List: there are people charging $950/month...for one room in a three bedroom in Southie!  Nothing is regulated, and the college dorms are bursting at the seams with students; leaving schmucks like me to compete with parents who are apparently willing to pay these outrageous prices. 

The word greed comes to mind.  Sure, some colleges do build additional housing, but then often times they immediately increase the number of students they admit!  Oy vey.

It's a veritable free for all.  But I'm not giving up hope that there isn't a quiet, tree lined street somewhere where I can walk with my baby, go to a store or two, and still get to work in Boston in a timely manner.  Oh, and not have to pay $2,000/month.  (A washer/dryer on premises would be nice, too.  Just sayin'.)

Basically, I'm looking for my Astoria, New York in Boston.  Are you out there?  Oh, sweet, de-leaded, two bedroom (with possibly an office) apartment; I know you're waiting for us somewhere!  Hubby, Bambino, Kittie and me need to find you, asap.

Please and thank you.  Namaste.  Amen.  xoxo

Return of The Dance Macabre

The other night Hubby and I were lying in bed, plotting the demise of our upstairs neighbors.  They're the worst, you see.

It's was 2am on a week night.  We'd finally gotten our sweet bambino back to sleep after he'd been awoken for the umpteenth time by a mysteriously loud banging.  What was going on up there?  Were they...

Practicing boxing moves on a punching bag?

Rearranging furniture?

Walking around in combat boots?

Incidentally, when I was growing up it used to be considered a serious insult amongst the neighborhood kids if someone were to tell you, "Your mother wears combat boots!"  I'm not sure who came up with that one. 

The really weird thing about our upstairs neighbors is that we have no idea how many people are even living up there.  There was that middle aged couple who helped the leprechaun-ish man move in back in January, but we haven't seen them since.  In addition to this leprechaun, who is always very pleasant, there's a tough looking, lanky kid who I've spotted smoking butts on the front porch; a muscular guy with wire rimmed glasses who once offered to carry my stroller downstairs; a blond girl who comes and goes and a twenty-something brunette who sat smoking in her car one day before coming into the house carrying a white garbage bag.  About twenty minutes later she was gone. 

All of these souls have keys except for one guy (possibly the muscly armed lad), who asked Hubby to let him in one day and told him, by way of explanation, "That's my dog that stays up there."

Um, what?

There's no way around it, the situation is beyond strange.  But who am I to judge?

"Well," I yawn to Hubby, "Whatever it is they're doing right now, noone could ever be worse than Charles was."

I've told you about "Charles," Dear Reader, do you remember this post from back in 2007?  About my NYC neighbor who used to dance macabre in the wee hours of the morn?  (I'm not using his real name, of course, for fear of being killed.) This pale, gothic person provided many nights of free entertainment for our out of town guests, who'd make guesses as to what on earth he might be doing up there.  Was he...sacrificing wildlife?  Killing hookers, perhaps?  We never could tell.

Mostly he was just annoying.  After all, who wants to listen to rhythmic banging over their heads at 3am?

One night things really came to a boiling point when, right smack dab in the middle of his Dance Macabre, we heard him chant, "Do you want me to fucking kill you????!!!!!  Rain, Fire, Rain, Fire!"

I tried my best to imagine a scenario in which this sentence would not make me want to crap myself.  Nope, couldn't find one.

Now initially, I thought he said "Pain, Fire, Pain, Fire!"  In the end, I decided to go with the weather theme because I found it slightly less threatening.  In any case, I've never stopped wondering who (or what) was on the receiving end of that dreadful question.

"Hey, I wonder if he's on Facebook?" I hissed into the darkness.  "Let's Google him!"

Why had this never occurred to us before?

One quick search on Hubby's Droid and we'd found our goth.

Hubby's voice was a whisper, and the words that came out of his mouth made something in the pit of my stomach turn over, as if on cue: "He's a writer.  He writes horror novels."

Of course he does.  A sickening chill went down my spine.   How perfectly terrifying.  

"Can I see?  Give me the phone, I wanna see!"

But Hubby resisted.  "No, it's too creepy.  His book covers are really creepy.  You'll be scared."

Creepy?  What exactly did he mean by creepy?   He was right, I would be disturbed.  Maybe not now, but soon, and for the rest of my life.  I'm the type of person who can read the description of a scary movie on the TV guide and be awake all night thinking about it.  Which was precisely why I wanted to see what that damn website looked like!  

I let out a silent giggle. "I wonder if any of his stories are about a sax player and an aspiring actress?"

I couldn't sleep that night, thinking about what it could be, specifically, that made those book covers so eerie that Hubby didn't want me to see.  The next day I went online and discovered that our reclusive former neighbor is a celebrated author.  He's published a plethora of horror novels, some while we were living below him, and he's also a teacher.  I also gathered from his facebook page that he's ten years our senior, and that he shares a birthday with one of my closest friends.

Who knew?

At least we can finally say we've solved the mystery of what in hell was going on up there.  Hubby and I are pretty sure we've figured it out, you see:

He was getting into character.  Oh sweet Jesus, now I'm scared again. 

Life is what happens to you, while you're busy making other plans...

When I moved into my current apartment back in March, there was enough drama involved that it prompted me to pull out my tarot cards and do a few readings.  In each reading, one theme stood out boldly: the Ace cards.  For whatever reason, I kept drawing Aces.  The Ace of Cups, Ace of Wands, Ace of Pentacles...

Aces generally indicate a birth.  Fertility.  Pregnancy.  Huh? 

Well, they must be symbolic of a creative birth, perhaps?  For myself, or Hubby?  There was no way it could mean a literal birth, of that I was certain.  Perhaps this new apartment would inspire us to grow creatively.  Yes, yes, that must be exactly what it symbolized.  What on earth could it possibly mean otherwise?

My favorite Beatle once said, Life is What Happens to you while you're busy making other plans.  You weren't kidding, John.  Two months later, I was pregnant.  Not with some creative new idea, either- with a baby.  A real, live baby.  One afternoon I was sitting on a bench in Copley Square when I spontaneously decided that I was ready to have a baby.  Thankfully, it turned out Hubby was, too.  A week later, I was pregnant.  Go figure! 

Another thing that stands out clearly in my mind are the two cards I pulled as the "outcome" of us moving into the apartment.  I drew the Strength card, which depicts a woman gently taming a lion; a card I always associate with my mother because she inevitably ends up drawing it whenever I do a reading for her.  The other card I drew?  The Tower. 

The Tower?!  Ugh, not The Tower again.  (No offense, Tower.)  The Tower, well, it basically depicts a burning, flaming tower.  On some decks, there's a man falling from the burning tower.  Its meaning is pretty much self explanatory: it symbolizes upheaval, starting over, forced change and renewal, the rug being ripped from under one's feet, the overthrow of existing conditions, new opportunity.  It's a fresh start, whether you like it or not, although usually it stems from some inner desire to break free.  You get the general gist.  But hadn't that been what we'd just gone through when we moved into this place?  Hadn't we paid men to hoist our furniture up over the balcony on pulleys?  Hadn't all my cousins cursed me out whilst going up and down three flights of stairs with boxes and boxes (and boxes) of my belongings? 

Weren't Hubby and I through with upheaval, just for a little while?

Now, I know as well as anyone that we humans are blessed with free will, and fall as they might, the cards we draw in life are never fully set in stone.  The Strength card gave me confidence that things would turn out beautifully, and yet...I couldn't get that pesky burning tower out of my head.  Nine months later, I understand its meaning entirely.  Because we're moving.  In less than two weeks.  And even though we haven't even moved yet, this hasn't been an easy, simple thing; no- it's pretty much felt like tumbling from a burning tower. 

Our landlord, ever the lunatic, generously offered us a release from our lease, probably because she was fed up with us asking her for basic things every renter should have.  (Lights in the hallway, perhaps?  Fixing a hole in the wall?  Fumigating for flea infestation?)  She told us we could leave early, without penalty, because she knew we were about to have a baby.  When we told her two weeks later that we'd found a new place, she decided 27 days notice wasn't good enough.  She needed 30.  Of course, she'd made no mention at all about needing 30 days prior to this.  She'd only told us we could break our lease without penalty.

For being 3 days short of giving her 30 days, she wanted us to pay her a full month's rent.  She was even legally entitled to this.  (She hadn't returned my emails asking what she'd like us to do about December's rent, seeing as we'd already paid her a deposit of the last month's rent when we initially moved in.)  I never dreamed she'd cash December's rent check, and since she wasn't responding to me, I put a stop payment on it.

Now I understand why she wasn't responding.  It turns out she was planning on cashing that check all along, as well as planning on keeping our last month's rent deposit as penalty for giving only 27 days notice!  She wanted us to pay a month's rent for an apartment we wouldn't be living in.

Did I mention we wouldn't even be moving if she hadn't told us it was okay?

Did I also mention I'm 34 weeks pregnant?

I rattled off a careful email, asking her why she told us, out of the blue, that we could move in the first place with no penalty.  Why mislead us?  The way I saw it, we had a few options: pro-rate her the three days rent and return the five bucks for the stopped check.  Stay until our lease runs out in April.  Sublet the apartment.  Or, lastly, let it play out in court.  (I thought that last suggestion had a nice little dramatic ring to it.) 

I also wrote that I'm about to have a baby and that this stress is something I really didn't need right now.  I told her my entire pregnancy had been marked by a lot of stress, all of it a direct result of being her tenant.  There was more I wrote, but I ended up deleting it.  Like how I spent over $600 on vet bills because her building was filthy and infested with fleas.  Like how her realtor screamed at me and made me cry at work, after I told her I felt I was "getting the run around"  because the apartment was dirty and full of someone else's belongings when we tried to move in.  Or how that wack job down stairs refused to turn on the hallway lights, or lock the entryway door.  Or how...

I deleted all that though.  My mother always told me I could catch more flies with honey.  To state that I'd been stressed out would simply have to suffice.

It still really chapped her ass, though:  "You mention being stressed," she wrote.  "I have never had tenants that have been so difficult and caused me such stress as you and your husband have!!!"

I have no words, Reader.  I honestly have no words.  All I can say is in the end, the crazy bitch is letting us go.  And thank God for that.  (And the Blessed Mother, and Saint Jude, the saint of hopeless cases, whom I was desperately pleading to in my wretched, sad, hormonal state.)

We are leaving!  And here's hoping I never have to think about that woman, her stupid cousin downstairs, or her stupid cousin's feral cats ever again!  (That was something I deleted from my email as well.  I really wanted to leave it in, but perhaps it was going a little overboard.) 

After reading her response, in which way she plainly made herself out to be the victim, my shaking fingers desperately wanted to rattle off a nasty email of my own, listing all of the weird, sometimes disgusting things we've had to deal with while living in her building.  I wanted to tell her how many times she'd literally made me feel sick, hopeless and stressed out of my mind.  But the truth of the matter is we've gotten what we wanted, and my ego can take a little hit  for that.  So she thinks we're assholes.  Whatever.

The Strength card is the 8th card of the Major Arcana.  It's also the corresponding card that goes along with my due date, January 26th (2 + 6 = 8), also the day after my mother's birthday.  It implies deep belief and implicit trust in oneself and one's strength.  Not the masculine, raw courage type of strength, mind you; but instead the feminine, internal type of fortitude that can only come from trusting one's intuition and wisdom.  A strong person doesn't need to exercise control over others.  Instead of fighting the beast, one tames the beast inside oneself, seizing control of his or her destiny and overcoming all obstacles.

Okay, so I'm not going to write her a nasty response.  I'm not going to write anything at all, in fact.  (I suppose that is what this blog is for.  Haha!)  We're moving, which is what we've been hoping for all aong.

Today is my 32nd birthday.  I can't think of a nicer birthday present than being allowed to move into a clean, very large apartment and setting up a lovely nursery for my little boy.  Incidentally, when Hubby asked me, for the umpteenth time, what I wanted for birthday, something miraculous and beautiful occurred to me.  I didn't want anything.  In fact, I wanted nothing at all.  I patted my stomach and told him I already had what exactly I wanted.  And I really, really meant it. 

Drama-rama

Years ago, I bought a really fascinating Astrology book that gives a personality profile for every day of the year.  It's uncanny the way each day's description relates so accurately to the people in my life.  (My particular day is entitled: The Day of the Hellraisers.  Tee hee.)

Each day comes with a custom meditation, and the one given for those born on my birthday is: Difficulties are lessons, obstacles are challenges, impossibilities are invitations.

Hmmm.  Now, I've been casually trying to figure out why things have been so topsy turvey in Odd Broad Land as of late.  I won't bore you with all the gory details, but suffice it to say my mouse of a landlord has been being a pain in the ass again.  In a nutshell, we were given an order to go to housing court, for possible criminal charges, for a gas grill that we do not own.  (We use an electric grill, y'all!)  This form was processed two days after we told the guy downstairs (and his cousin-in-law, our landlady) that the building needed to be treated for fleas.  Fleas that came from his dogs and feral cats, mind you!

Has the fool downstairs been reporting us to the fire department in retaliation for demanding basic renter's rights, or was it the witless, absentee landlord?  I can't be certain, though I must say I'm beyond curious.

Of course, when the fire inspector actually came out to our house he saw for himself that we don't have a propane tank and told us not to bother coming to court.  He also shook his head a lot and said, "These people have no class."  He told Hubby I sounded like a very nice girl over the phone.   (Well, I am a nice girl!  Plus I called him sir.) 

As the inspector was leaving, Hubby pointed out the vast array of paint cans and paint thinner piled on the steps leading down to the back entrance, which is why the landlord is now getting an abatement order of her own.  (Paint cans are a fire code violation, you see!)

So we hadn't done anything wrong, and in the end this was acknowledged, but it's the principle of it that annoys me.  I mean, on top of all of the valid things I'm probably supposed to be spending my energy on these days (the impending birth of my first child, finding suitable day care, buying a car, re-learning how to drive after a thirteen year hiatus, Hubby finishing school and finding a job a month before our son arrives, moving from this godforsaken apartment and finding a new place to live), it seems like instead I've constantly been putting out fires regarding our current housing situation. 

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I'd even go so far as to say this apartment has been nothing but a headache since the minute we got involved with it.  But why?  I like to believe everything happens for a reason, so there must be a point to all of these petty little trials.  But what lesson am I supposed to be learning?  And am I somehow unconsciously manifesting all of these troubles?

It could be a sign that we need to move outside of the city.  It could be the universe's way of forcing me to become more assertive.  It could be I'm supposed to learn how to let things roll off my back more easily.  Or...all parties involved could simply be f*ckfaces.

I do wonder about it, though.  Kittie the Wonder Cat has also been suffering a good deal lately, and after taking her to two doctors she finally seems to be a little bit better.  She's been put on the 'roids, a low dose, so as not to interfere with her dormant feline diabetes (Drama!  And...jazz hands!).  The vet told us we'll have to treat her for fleas for as long as we stay in this apartment.  Yipee!  The poor thing has been in itchy agony and losing hair from grooming herself so often.  It's sort of turning her into a lunatic.  I could punch that fool downstairs for doing this to her; and I would, I tell ya- if I had any upper arm strength.

In the meantime, there are less than eleven weeks left to my pregnancy.  The time has gone by amazingly fast.  I'm feeling good, still squeezing into mostly non-maternity clothes, which leads me to believe my pre-pregnancy wardrobe was either very, very stretchy, or just made me look preggers. 

The other day my friend Diane told me I looked like a Dr. Suess character, because I'm still skinny everywhere on my body except for my tummy.  (I suppose this has only been intensified by my deep affection for maternity stretchie pants.)  She eventually decided I looked like Mr. Grinch, the way my stick-like legs contrast with my enormous stomach.  But...not in a bad way, or anything.

Gee, thanks!

I think about my sweet little son constantly.  I can't wait to meet him, to hold him, to finally see what he looks like, to gaze into his eyes.  It pisses me off that an otherwise lovely pregnancy has been interrupted by my landlord and neighbors, but what can you do?  Everything is going to work out, I'm quite certain.  The future is still unclear, but it does seem like the fog is lifting.  Now is the time to be brave.  Now is the time to have faith, and fortunately that's one thing I've already got.

In the meantime, I'm focusing on staying centered.  And one of these days I've got to start doing those damn kegel exercises!  (A lady on the bus told me so the other day.)

And if this broad needs to raise some hell in between Qi-Gong moving meditations, so be it.  I can always go back to being a pebble in the pond afterwards.  Happy Friday, Dear Reader. 

Love,

The Grinch.  xoxo

Is it really October 21st already?

Things are sort of settling down here lately.  I am no longer wishing my neighbors or landlord bodily harm, which is always a step in the right direction.  It takes a lot of energy to do battle with dim-witted ninnies!  Especially while attempting to maintain an air of zen-like calm (in between fantastic bouts of rage!) for my pregnancy's sake.  I made the mistake of reading an article on the affects of stress and anxiety on the fetus, and now I can't even have a good pretend fight in my head with the idiots downstairs without feeling guilty!  Add it to the list of bad behaviors this broad can no longer exhibit, in the name of motherhood.  And here I thought weening myself off of crack was hard.  (I'm joking of course; I still haven't been able to give up the crack.)

Granted, I continue to consider them all a bunch of frigging imbeciles, but I figure that's harmless enough.

We still have yet to come to an agreement on a name for our sweet Bambino.  Last night Hubby declared that my baby name of choice, coupled with our last name, sounds like someone who steals cars.  (Mind you- if we stay in Southie, there's a good chance this may come to pass.)  Even still, I told him to bite his tongue!  Over my dead body will our son be a hooligan!  Plus, the Bambino would never break his mother's heart that way.  He's a very considerate child, I can already tell.

Kittie remains somewhat crazy; she's constantly grooming herself and meowing for food pretty much all day and night, even when her bowl is full.  The vet tells me once the tapeworms and fleas are gone, she should hopefully turn back into the feline I know and love.  I'm praying she's right.  I can't stand watching her act so neurotic, although who can blame the poor thing? 

As for me, I've just returned from preggo yoga.  Time to go relax for a while before the groovy buzz wears off.  xoxo

Takin' care of business

It's been a drama filled week in Odd Broad Land.  Lots of jazz hands and leaping.  Liza Minnelli even stopped by on Tuesday night to sing a rendition of New York, New York.

Mercifully, though, this flea business is almost over.  After going back and forth with my infuriatingly negligent landlord, we finally came to a resolution.  This was only after I threatened her with the Board of Health, of course, and informed her in writing that Hubby and I "view all of the expenses related to the health of our cat and ourselves as direct and consequential damages of her failure to treat our apartment and the building for fleas."  I told her I'd spoken to legal counsel and as well as the health inspector, and she had 48 hours to take action before I set this process in motion.

She stopped talking about squirrels after that.  Go figure.

Thankfully, I had a lawyer friend look over my email and help me with the terminology.  I think the thing I was getting most hung up on was the fact that my landlord didn't seem to give a rat's ass that I was pregnant and my cat had gotten fleas and possibly parasites from the idiot downstairs.  She wasn't looking at us as people, as Odd Broad and Hubby, but merely a rent check she collected every month.  To her, we were cold hard cash, nothing more or less.  Now, I sort of pride myself on being a "nice girl", and definitely have people pleasing issues, and I just couldn't comprehend why she was being such a douche bag.  

In the end, I know this experience was good for me, because right now I couldn't care less about who likes me and who doesn't.  Incidentally, why is it sometimes in our nature as humans to be concerned about a person liking or not liking us, when we don't even like said person in the first place?  I think everyone involved in this situation is a giant, gaping asshole, so do I really care if they think I'm a hormonal hard ass?  I do not.  Not anymore, at least.  No siree, Barbara.

This is such a freeing feeling!  These days, the main thing I'm concerned about is the little wiggle worm squirming around in my belly.  He deserves more, and I'm willing to have people think I'm unhinged to get it for him. 

While all this was going on, I was meditating, praying and Qi Gong-ing my little heart out in an earnest attempt to stay Zen.  And I was pretty calm at times, though it never lasted very long.  Soon I was walking around the apartment in my pajamas and high heels (click!  clickity!  click!  How do ya like THAT, dingleberries down below?) and spouting unholy words and sinister declarations with terrible abandon.  (Wicked, bizarre proclamations, such as my landlord could drop dead tomorrow and I'd "dance on her grave.")  And then I'd go back to being Zen again, with a forgiving, loving heart.  Om.

The professional exterminator comes tomorrow to treat the entire building, top to bottom.  We're moving out the first chance we get, of course; but for now, I'll take this little victory.  I'm considering it a small win for good tenants everywhere.  I plan to celebrate this occasion by consuming an entire package of Oreo cookies.  (Of course, I'd probably be doing that anyway, but at least now I have a valid excuse.)  xoxo

 

 

PS: This Kittie girl may have gotten fleas from the filthy pigs who live below, but she can certainly still work it for the camera.  Although her expression suggests an air of pissy weariness, her spirit remains sassy and indomitable.  She's on about a trillion different medications right now, which hopefully means she's on the up and up.  My poor little friend.

PPS: Yes, that plant looks dead, but I watered it afterwards and it came back to life.  It's been a stressful week, okay?  Don't judge!

xoxo

This used to be a fun house...but now it's filled with evil clowns

If you're a reader of this humble weblog, then you've probably heard me make mention of the nutcases colorful characters who live downstairs. (You know, the weirdo who lets the flea ridden feral cats come in and out of the basement, leaving the back entry door open for any Tom, Dick or Harriet (be they human or rabid animal) to waltz in?  Yeah, him.)

Hubby ventured into said basement once, just once, and when he emerged, his legs were covered in flea bites.  This I filed under the "Not Okay!" category.  The tenants downstairs (did I mention they're related to our landlord?) told us it wasn't the stray cats that had the fleas; it was their dogs.  They picked up the fleas while being boarded, and he was going to flea bomb the basement to remedy the situation.

After that, it almost looked as if things were taking a turn for the better.  Almost, but not quite, because Houston, we have a problem.  Now Kittie has fleas!!!!!

Kittie, yes, Kittie The Wonder Cat, the feline who has never, ever been allowed outdoors, who doesn't come in contact with any other animal whatsoever, has fleas.  Oh, and I'm covered in flea bites myself.

When the vet confirmed the flea diagnosis, my mouth hung open in shock.  She said since Kittie is an indoor cat, the fleas had to have come from the other animals living in the house.  Two hundred dollars later, Kittie is thankfully on the mend.  There are still more tests and bloodwork the vet wants to do, since Kittie has lost four pounds due to what looks like either a tapeworm or parasites (caused most likely by...you guessed it...FLEAS.)

Did I mention that I'm six months pregnant?

Hubby decided he would write to our landlord, copying the man downstairs on the email.  (Email is our landlord's preferred method of communication, since it seems she doesn't like to talk to us on the phone.)  Hubby explained the situation clearly and calmly:  Our cat has fleas.  We've had her for seven years and she's never had fleas.  The vet informed us they came from the other animals in the house.  My wife is pregnant and covered in flea bites.  This situation needs to be dealt with safely and quickly.  Please advise.

Sounds reasonable enough to me, no?

Apparently, no.  The man downstairs replied in his usual curt fashion, flatly denying that his animals have fleas.  There are no fleas in his house, nor have he or his wife been bit.  He is sorry we're having a problem, though.

It was time for the Odd Broad to step in.  I rattled off an email of my own, stating that there have most definitely been fleas on the premises.  (Memba?  Three months ago?  Anyone?)  Being six months pregnant and having fleas in one's living quarters is simply not something one expects, and I'm sure everyone involved can appreciate my concern.

On a side note, Sissy enjoyed how I referred to our apartment as living quarters.  "What is this- a Jane Austin novel?" she teased. 

Nobody wrote back.  Not the neighbor, not the landlord.  I decided to take one more route.  After spending most of the morning on the phone with everyone from my doctor's office to the Pesticide Hotline, I discovered that getting rid of fleas will most definitely be a giant pain in the ass, but it's safe as long as we're not in the apartment.  The nurse told me the flea bites shouldn't hurt the baby.  Shouldn't?

Again I reached out to the landlord, herself a mother of three, and told her my main concern is a safe pregnancy.  (And a healthy cat.)  I told her I'd done the research, and luckily there were many ways for her (as our landlord) to safely remedy the situation.  Her response? 

Are you ready for this, Dear Reader?

She informed me that she had indeed gotten my messages.  "I don't know what I can tell you.  The animals downstairs do not have fleas.  Your cat could have gotten the fleas from the squirrels that are everywhere up at the third floor level."

Squirrels, Dear Reader.  Squirrels!

She continues: "If you go out on the deck and a flea jumps on you, it can come in the house and the cycle begins.  When there are animals in a house fleas are a possibility.  It is just a fact of life!"

Oh, I forgot!  I DO like to cuddle up with rabid squirrels when I drink my morning coffee!  I mean, don't we all? 

So my indoor cat magically contracted fleas from...squirrels.  An Immaculate Transferal of Insects, I imagine.  Seriously, I don't even know where to go with this latest piece of crazy.  And here I thought my old landlords in NY were strange, but this tops everything, truly it does!  Oh Boston, you never disappoint me! 

I am twenty-five weeks preggers today.  Mama Mia.  At this point, I'm praying for Divine Intervention.  As Mr. Dylan himself once wrote: there must be some way out of here.

Help us, Baby Jesus!

Itchily yours,

The Odd (squirrel luvin') Broad, and her scratchy Kittie cat xoxo

Don't leave your windows open during a hurricane

The build up to Hurricane Earl, in the end, was all for naught.  At least here in Boston, anyway. 

Even so, how was the fool downstairs to know the weather forecasters would get it wrong, yet again?  And, furthermore, how was he to know that Hubby and I would be intelligent enough to close our skylights, windows and doors?

That must be the reason why he taped this note to our door.  Because surely we'd leave the skylights open during a hurricane... 

Yes, this note came from the man who leaves the back entry door open so stray cats can enter and exit.

Hubby and I have always had an uncanny knack for finding assholes to live beneath, or above, or adjacent to.  We're just good at it.  Take Michael, the solitary goth who'd go jogging in black combat boots and would dance macabre (and perhaps sacrifice small animals?) in the wee hours of the morn.  Or Fred (aka: Smeagol) and his elderly mother, God love them, who were just plain...insane.  Think George Costanza's parents on an acid trip.  Oh, the shenanigans Smeagol got up to!

I could teach a course at The Learning Annex: How to live in close proximity to the mentally deranged.  We broke the lease on our last apartment, after putting up with drummers, a mad violinist, and countless other douchebags.  And now we've found yet another boob to brighten our days.  

Even Hubby was insulted by this ridiculous note, and it usually takes a lot to get him riled up.  As for me, I've found being pregnant has helped me to better put things into perspective.  I'm less apt to get annoyed by your garden variety imbeciles, which has been a nice little change.

Of course, I do still swear at cars who don't stop for me at crosswalks.  You can't expect me to give that up.  And then I attempt to shame them, by resting my hands on my belly.  (a la: I'm preggers, you wanker!)

Happy Friday, Dear Reader.  I think it's going to rain in Boston this Sunday...please be sure all of your windows, exterior doors and skylights remain CLOSED.  xoxo

Don't take this the wrong way, but in my free time I fantasize about spraying you with mace

The saga of the lunatic neighbors continues.  When last we left these morons, they had reported us to the fire department for having a gas grill and were leaving the back door open to accommodate the three stray cats they like to feed.  (They love them enough to feed them and give them the run of the common hallway/basement, but not enough to actually let them live inside of their home.) 

Silly little me, I'd honestly thought this issue had been resolved, but it seems I was sorely mistaken.  While these two oddballs were away on vacation last week, whoever came to feed the kitties was once again leaving the back door open and unlocked.  In a passive aggressive turn, I decided to tape a small note to either side of the door that read: "Please keep door locked." 

It was short, simple, and to the point.  People pleaser that I am, I resisted the urge to write thanks! or doodle a smiley face.  I'm preggers and tired of being so agreeable!  In any case, it seemed to work, because the door was kept shut and locked for the remainder of the week. 

Fast forward to today, when I thought I'd just swing around back and see if the door was locked.  It was closed (Yes!  Victory is mine!), but when I tried the knob, it turned.  Dirty mofos.

Truly, what nerve!  Since we don't have a key to this entrance, I had to march around the front and up the stairs, through my apartment and down the back staircase to LOCK THE DAMN DOOR.  As I did so, I let loose a terrific barrage of curse words, which flew from my angry hormonal lips like so much rotten filth.  It felt nice.  An impressively obscene display, if I do say so myself. 

My neighbors and landlord prefer notes and emails to actual adult interaction, so that's what I gave them.  I taped a note on their door, asking for them to please keep the back door locked, as I do not feel comfortable with its being left open.  Signed with love, from the woman upstairs who wishes to pepper spray you.  (Okay so I didn't include that last part, but you get the gist.)

Now that I think of it, I do remember the previous tenants telling us they'd insisted on getting a lock for the front doors to the building, because prior to them living there, that entryway was kept open as well.  They'd had to make a stink, but in the end it finally got done.  Perhaps it was them who'd typed up the note that is now taped to the door that reads "Close Both Doors." 

Whoever wanted that door shut, I'm grateful they did, because yesterday afternoon Hubby went to take some menus off of the front door handle (they'd been tied on with a rubber band), when a bat flew out of the bundle!  This was a nasty little surprise, for both parties, and one that Hubby did not enjoy in the slightest.  (He enjoyed it even less than today's Odd Broad's Swear Fest 2010)

But honestly, these fools actually prefer to leave the main entryways ajar?  Forget about crackhead intruders, what about creepy little bats?  Or squirrels?  Or rats?  And have I mentioned this man actually knocked on my door shortly after we moved in, to tell me it was raining and to remind me to shut the skylights/patio doors?  (He doesn't want rain leaking through onto his ceiling, you see.  Rain is bad.  Human intruders or rabid animals, not so much.)

Hubby, he of the cool-headed calm, naturally thinks I'm overreacting with my angry tirades and notes.  I probably am.  But we're good, reasonable tenants, very quiet, and we pay our rent on time; why do people always have to f*ck with us?  If you ask me, Dear Reader, I say I'm reacting, not overreacting!

Sweet Baby Jesus, will we never own a home sweet home of our own?  Will we forever be dwelling in flea infested quarters, sharing our personal space with control freaky weirdos?