Last Spring Break, We Didn't Kill Each Other in NYC

I love the fact that my son has a day planner. He used to make fun of me for writing in mine.

“Why do you have to write everything down?”

“Because I’m old.”

“Yea, true dat. But there are PDAs and computers for that, nowadays. It’s the 21st century, y'know.”

“I spend all day on a computer. I like to hand write things whenever I can. It makes me happy.”

“Whatever.”

And there he goes, writing when rent is due, when his credit card bill is due, when assignments are due, when his dentist appointment is. Sighing with exasperation when schedules change and he has to erase or cross out. It makes me think of us as the two peas in a pod we used to be.

“It’s wacky how you’re not using a PDA for all that.”

“What?

“You used to make fun of me for writing things down in a planner and not using something like a PDA.”

“I never did that. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you did.”

“Whatever.”

“Will you ever stop saying whatever?”

“Will you ever stop making up things about me?”

“Oh, What. Eh. Ver.”

“I’m going back to Bloomington now.”

“Finally.”

(Quite the letdown from last year's Spring break.)

Five Years Like Yesterday

How can it be that it was five years ago when I first came across Clay McKemie and Sean Wilkinson’s beautiful and happy school picture faces on CNN? I remember where I was so vividly. I see my office and my desk, I see the headlines, and I see the dozens of online reports in my head. School trip gone horribly wrong. Missing boys. Florida ocean. Coast Guard.

People still ask me why I felt so haunted by their story. I tell them about my connection to Rome, Georgia, having lived there for five years in the mid-nineties, but more than that, I tell them about my son who was also 15 at the time. I saw his face in theirs. Then, of course, there was the unmitigated gall of Steve Hall, the trip leader who was in the local paper two days after the boys were found dead running around the field and telling reporters at a Darlington soccer game how much fun he was having coaching the team. (Of course, by this time, anyone involved had been told to not discuss anything with anyone by Darlington lawyers. And not talk, they did. As a result, Hall went unpunished for what was so blatantly criminal negligence.)

It worried me that no parent could easily get information about Hall before sending their child on a trip he was leading. So, I posted what I knew and how I felt here.

I get traffic hits all the time from people googling Clay and Sean. I am so happy that they are remembered by people all over the country (and world, actually). I also get a slew of hits from searches about Darlington School, Wasatch Academy and Steve Hall, and each time, I hope it’s a mother investigating and changing her mind.

And I admit that I get a little hitch in my giddy-up when Steve or Chris Hall stop by to check on me. It means that they are thinking of that night, that weekend, that week. Not in the way people with consciences would, of course, but it’s something, and I’ll take it.

Every time my son has a typical life milestone, I think of Clay and Sean. And I think about their mothers and sisters and brothers, who are strong and funny and full of life and love and faith. And who will grieve forever. And I thank God for the Internet because, through all of this, I got to know them just a little.

My Lil' Winter Wonderland

And it's still snowing, though I do see a break in the clouds. Stayed home today to enjoy it and keep my new car safe. We're still in that getting-to-know-you phase, and I'd hate to scare it off with too much responsibility.

 

In My Dreams

Last night, I took a Tylenol PM and here's what happened. I was on assignment to interview Craig Ferguson for some famous magazine. The article's angle was to reveal the everyday man, so it required spending lots of time getting to know him. Another day, another dollar. 

He had a home remodeling project going on and invited me to hang out while he and his friends (one of whom was Gerard Butler poor me) worked on the house. He had recently purchased this huge fixer-upper near his actual residence as a fun project. He hadn’t decided if he was going to move into it himself or just sell it. He said it depended on the market. Yes, it was discussed at this level of detail. I’m an idiot.

I hung out with him for what I think was a week or so. I’d ask him questions and watch him work, sometimes handing him things and answering questions he'd ask me about myself. Some days, we drove to get coffee in the morning and pick up deli for everyone for lunch. We also went to Home Depot, a hair salon, a lighthouse and the arcade at the mall. We barbecued in the empty swimming pool a couple of nights after grueling days of not a lot of working but a lot of mutual interviewing. 

He let me stay in the house at night. There was one bedroom magically and completely move-in ready, so that was dream-convenient. There were no lights yet, so I assume there also was no AC and no heat. The world was of the perfect temperature, I guess, because I was comfortable. There also was a light hazy gray misty color about the atmosphere so I could see around. Must have been some sort of romantical night vision dream machine. We talked about how complimentary it was. 

In other words, Craig and I really hit it off. For obvious reasons. ;) And, as you would expect after a few days of hanging out with me, the relationship crossed the line into animal attraction. Again, duh, for obvious reasons. 

Anyway, I was upstairs in the dream-convenient-ready-made room eating pizza (yet again, for obvious reasons) when the doorbell rang. It was he. In a t-shirt and jeans with his hands in his pockets sporting a puppy dog and 5 o’clock shadowed face all leaning up against the door jam. 

“I like you, ye know.”  Being creative even in my dreams, I came back with, “I like you, too.”

We stared at each other for a moment until I broke the silence with, “You have to go home now.” 

And, with that, I turned away Craig Ferguson. Why, you ask? Something about my knowing how much he loved his wife. And, because I cared about him and his happiness. But mostly because I can’t even do drug-induced dreams right. 

So, he sat in his car in the driveway, hoping that I’d change my mind and invite him back into his house. I watched him from the window while I ate some more pizza, but I didn’t go get him before the alarm went off.

Cursed With Higher Expectations

Wouldn’t you know it - a traffic snarl about a half-mile from where I needed to turn. It was Saturday and the weekend number of cars on the road usually made this particular stretch pretty uneventful, so I assumed there must be a wreck ahead. 

I noticed that all the cars were leaning toward the right lane with their turning blinkers on, which was perfectly normal behavior to get around an accident. But just ahead, I could also see a long stretch of lights and turning blinkers from cars pointing towards me and waiting patiently in the left-turning lane. Not exactly. The real situation involved more diesel truck exhaust. :)

When we finally moved up a car length, I got my first glimpse at the situation. The first thing I saw was a gigantically tall wind wiggler cowboy. Then, dozens of balloons floating from the corners of things. Then, a line of people completely wrapped around the building. Then, a ginormous inflatable Red Burrito Taco Salad out front.

Yes. It was the grand opening of the new Hardee’s in Plainfield, Indiana.

My first and gut reaction was, at it usually is, to poke fun at these morons. I mean, who in their right mind would sit in this line for their turn at a speaker or parking place to get a biscuit? Is this seriously the best they could come up with for a Saturday morning? Then, I got a look at the people waiting in their cars. There were parents and grandparents and children and babies and they were all talking and laughing and oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all. Dang it, they were happy. Why, God, WHY? 

I read this year that the people of Denmark are the happiest among us and the primary reason is their low expectations. Denmark, meet Plainfield. Plainfield, meet Denmark. This happy lot in the middle of what used to be KKK country (a big goal around the office is to retire to some land smack dab in the middle of Martinsville, because it’s the hilly part of Indiana, and to hell with the decades of bad karma) doesn’t ask for much and doesn’t expect much. 

Damn you, Universe, for exposing me to things and cursing me with higher expectations. I know I will never be as happy as these people sitting in a line to see their new neighborhood Hardee’s on opening day. 

When I drove back by at lunchtime (contrary to popular belief, there is more than one road in Plainfield, but I had no idea that the hoopla would last into the afternoon), I noticed that a cop had been called to direct traffic. It wasn’t helping much that I could see and this, of course, opened up a whole ‘nother issue in my head: How can a traffic cop direct stopped traffic? 

Argh. Foiled again. Must stop asking why. Must stop asking why. Must stop asking why. Must stop....

Do This, Don't Do That, Can't You Read the Sign?

I took the picture on the left driving the road to Mount Agamenticus in Oqunquit, Maine, in Spring 2002 to remind me of where and how I wanted to live someday. I took the picture on the right this weekend driving the road into the condo community here in Indianapolis. It’s no New England seacoast situation and the sun wasn't shining, but I think it's uncanny all the same.

My son, he’s no Technical Writer

In cleaning up a home computer the other day, I stumbled upon a folder named “pbj” and had to laugh. I remember it well. Seventh grade. He was so ticked off at this assignment. It took him days to even think of something to write about. He hated English classes, period, but to be told to write a document of instructions about something, anything his heart desired, pushed him over the edge of civility. 

I kept telling him, “Look around the house. There are a million things to write about. How do you connect your PlayStation? How do you play that game you always play? How do you get ready for school? How do you feed the dog?”

“I don’t know how you do this every day. Writing instruction books is so boring. I’d kill myself.” (Aw, sweet, sweet baby. Keep talkin'.)

Here’s what he ended up with:

How to make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

1.Bread.

2.Peanut butter

3.Jelly

4.Together

5.Finished

So proud. I really think he went the extra mile with that “Together” stage. He didn’t have to include that. How helpful to his audience, right? 

An Owl and a Squirrel walk into a branch.....

An owl and a squirrel are having a heated discussion outside my office window. Something about a branch, but that’s all I’ve been able to make out. I don’t think they speak the same language, but apparently, whatever Owl is saying, it’s petrifying Squirrel. He’s yelling back, but even I can tell he’s paralyzed with fear. He hasn't blinked (assuming quirrels blink) or moved. Owl, on the other hand, appears to be washing his face and filing his nails.

Gawd, how I love living in the woods! Well, when the bugs and the bees and the mosquitos and the poison ivy have given up for the season, that is. And the birds stop flying into my upstairs window. Talk about sad. And disgusting. But it has explained the gray and white cat who wants nothing to do with me but loves my front door.

When I go out said front door here at the condo, I’m young again. I’ve recently been invited to “The Supper Club”, a group of retired ladies who meet for dinner every Wednesday evening at 5:30. Kind of late, I know. But it actually sounds like fun and I can pretend to be spry and interesting for an hour.

I’m also excited about the procedures around these suppers. According to the undocumented instructions, I am simply to stand outside in the circle until a car drives by and picks me up (thinking the mailman situation in Funny Farm).

When all of us ladies are in the car, we talk destination. On busy days, I've been told that another car may be required. In these cases, one of the "extras" will volunteer to drive her car and the first car will stop at the second car where the destination discussion will take place. It’s all very hip, very loose, very sixties and I dig it.

But now that I type this, I hope they’re not pulling some prank on the new gal. They don’t know me that well. I might stand out there for quite some time waiting on a trip to food. I won’t think about this anymore.

The picture is not where we are now – it was taken in winter 2003, I believe – but, trust me, her life o’ troubles is about the same.Sabrina has made so many new friends. There’s Mollie and Bear and MyMy and Millie and Jack and Bruiser. There’s a lady we run into a lot on our walks who calls her Samantha, but Sabrina responds anyway. We don’t say anything, because it might only matter in an emergency and Sabrina doesn't really doemergencies anyway.

Squirrel caved. Owl won and now won't stop hooting in a really snotty way. Poor sportsmanship, if you ask me. Sabrina's snoring, and I'm on my own for dinner tonight.

It’s been a good little day today.

Blame It On the Economy

My beautiful, pristine, 11-year-old Chevrolet Lumina’s windshield was attacked by what I think was a meteor the other day. In my panic, I had a brilliant idea. I would put lipstick (it was the handiest) on the glass at the end of the gash to measure the speed of the spread. But by the time I opened and aimed the tube while driving 70mph to keep up with traffic (not one to cause problems, after all), the crack had already grown a couple of inches and was continuing to spread. Into my 10 and 2 region. I reached my destination, but I'm sure I could’ve easily died a fiery death. With shards of windshield in my head and lipstick in my hand. 

Apparently, the replacement glass industry is a competitive one hit hard by the economy, because while still getting estimates, I received a few callbacks lowering the price. The winning bid was $150. Speaking of lipstick (on a pig), I now have a shiny, new windshield on a car whose floors are coming apart, whose Service Engine Light never goes off, and whose fuel efficient days of youth are long gone.

Waiting on it to be fixed, the shop owner explained his economical situation (people do like to do this, thus this post, I s’pose): a big chunk of his business depends on the trucking industry and when people buy less, truckers truck less and need less repairs. His biggest customer has parked a third of its fleet. 

Sad.

Closer to personal, I have a friend who is looking for a new contract. His talent is in work as a Business Analyst. He was recently sent on an interview requiring a tie. A tie!! And we laughed (instead of crying) about a recent email about a job touting a pay range of $18 - $22 an hour. He has four children! And they’re girls!! The really expensive kind of kid. 

Sad. 

And I can’t remember the last time I was called or emailed about a technical writing job. The number of corp-to-corp.com emails in my inbox has even dwindled. I’ve never expressed interest in any of their projects, but it was oddly comforting to know that India was still doing AOK in the IT industry. 

So, all this to say that I am determined to get my project off the ground this fall. I have a November 1st launch date in mind, because that date screams the beginnings of the number 1. It keeps me occupied and hopeful, if nothing else. I especially enjoy the creative work and the conversations with freelance artists. This project is my company. Hopefully, in the professional sense, too. Wouldn’t that be nice!

I don’t want to talk about it too much, because I have a hard time keeping the faith about my own endeavors. I am being professionally coached through this process, and that’s been priceless. I want to write about that here, but I’m also having a hard time writing this month. Growing up is hard. And, boy howdy and stomping feet, how I’ve been forced to grow this month. The initial relief from all the moving and settling chores has been replaced by some discombobulation and sadness. I haven’t lived in a tiny place of my own for….well….ever. It’s just awkward. Everywhere I turn, there I am. And the silence. Sheesh. They're right, it's deafening.

Oh well, Interwebs. Thanks for listening. I think October will be better. It’s my favorite month of the year. I make lists and plan for the upcoming year. I love the falling temps and falling leaves and football and cocoa and tiny town festivals and sweaters and long pants and socks in bed and Halloween candy and the scary smell of a groggy heater. I even love remembering long drives with a boy. Thank God all that sort of nostalgia is usually gone by November, but it is nice to feel a little girl-y for a month every year. Plus, my mother always comes around in some way on the 17th of every October to teach me something grand. 

I hope October begins a new season for this country (and world), too. We all could use some more hope for 2010.

Five weeks, four - teebajillion lists, three moves, two deaths, but only one meltdown in a pear tr......er, cubicle

I love a good list. I love making it, I love organizing it by time of day or priority, and I especially love crossing things off it. So, you can imagine how happy I’ve been the last five weeks. Moving me. moving my son and moving half the house to the Homeless Veterans Foundation has required lists to keep up with lists that keep up with other lists. Two households since July 15th. Dependencies that require spreadsheets. Too many phone calls with Customer Service. Too much cleaning. Documentation. And sweating. Yes, some sweating has occurred. But the lists! The silver lining in it all.

Everything ended last Tuesday with my driving away from Bloomington to my new tiny home with no television. I should be grieving now, but I’m not. Last year involved two weeks of unexpected crying jags. This year, nothing. Just relief. Relief at nothing to do, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about. Not even dinner or finagling around someone else’s nighttime work schedule or what silly reality TV show is gonna tick me off for being on the air in the first place.

Until today. Some song played that I don’t know the name of but remember being popular during a particularly emotional time of my life. And there it was taking its sweet time: the meltdown. It’s natural, I know, and there could be more to come.

But, the spawn is happy. Instead of a shrug and a “whatever”, I hear about him handling his new life with a spring in his step. It’s fun for me to think about. It’s the one thing I’ve really hoped for. So, that has minimized the sadness of it all.

Although, if I continue to connect the dots of grief, I have resorted to watching a few DVDs of Season One of the Brady Bunch. The ones when the kids were young and just starting their new family and Mike and Carol couldn’t keep their hands off each other, especially when they were answering the front door together.

Yea, I’d say there could be more meltdowns to come. When I start watching Mary Tyler Moore again with my usual glee at her life, I’ll know I’ve weathered the storm and made it, after all.

My How The Years Have Flown

Dammit, it seems that I’ve become attached to my son again and just in time for his August repeat departure. I swore this wouldn’t happen. In fact, how did it happen? It shouldn’t have, because we had some severe growing pains and a few not-so-clean fights this summer. I never thought in May that I’d feel this way by July. But, here he goes. Again.

I wonder now, while it is still July, how my separation period will compare to last year's. Then, I was better in a week or two. Now, it could take longer, because this is a real move (for the both of us). It involves purging and separating our stuff and purchasing new grown-up stuff and putting rent payments and utilities in his name. And for two full years. And, likely, for good.

Plus, I’m going to the south-side of things – where’s the attraction in that? At least this year I had the north on my side. He’d come home for a few days just to be within crawling distance of his friends. I do still have the dog, but she wasn’t much of a draw last year no matter how hard I tried (I’d send pictures, I’d even put her on the phone and give play-by-plays when I made him say HEY to her, but nothing ever was enough to come home very often). The bed and the quiet were the only real sellers, and he’s taking those with him.

Although, he will have his truck with him this year…..and a house with five other college boys. Maybe my stock will go up in time for the holidays. In the meantime, I'll watch you go and wish you oodles of happiness. Be a good boy and make lots of friends and be nice to the girls and have lots of fun and learn lots of biological stuff. And call me and the dog on Sunday afternoons.

Something Wicked (Good) This Way Comes

The best birthday in a while. Lovely dinner(s). Only people I like came near my work area. Wishes from people who mean an awful lot to me. Surprise wish from someone I haven't thought of in a while, but am so glad that she thought of me. A few cards including a pretty darn funny one about being old. My father's didn't, for which I am grateful because I really hope he's moved on. My son called and said, "Happy, Happy Birthday". Not only did he remember, but TWO Happies! I'm convinced he wants something, but I'll think about that another day. Nobody anywhere near me in Target and when I asked the checkout lady where the restroom was, she said, "Go ahead and go. You'll feel better, and I'll just save your place." That called for peanut M&Ms. Gas at $2.19. Nary a road riot. Brady Bunch (luvs) cards and a note from Austin. The return of thoughtfulness? UPS man delivered my new Rob Thomas CD, Once, and Quinn Cummings' first book. And then a second UPS man (the theme of two treats in one continues) came with new chair covers. Visa back to zero. Clean sheets. Clean dog. And just now, the little family of bunnies hopping and playing in the freshly cut grass. I guess they're as happy as I am about the 60-degree, breezy evening. I don't know what all this goodness means, but I'm diggin' it and figure it has to be the start of something really big.

It's Not Unusual

I do love a road trip. Tom flies in from Vegas, sometimes another place depending on his schedule but usually Vegas, and we get to spend a few uninterrupted hours together. After saying our hellos and flipping through inserts together, I slide his shiny, still too cool for school self into the little slot in the dashboard and off we go.

He sings and I listen. I sing and he just keeps singing. I talk and he professes his love in so many different ways – each about three minutes long and separated by tiny moments of silence for reflection. I like to reflect on his hairy chest and unbuttoned white satin shirt with the ruffles, and he likes to reflect on my crackerjack driving skills and uncanny knack for navigation.

We laugh (oh, how we laugh when we pass the sign for Stinking Creek Road somewhere in Tennessee) and we reminisce about our other road trips together.

Most of our time is spent talking and singing about life and love. I say I’ll never let him go (meaning, I won’t leave him when I return the car to Hertz), and he says that he’ll turn the tide for me with his hands (tide, maybe, but apparently ol’ Thunderball can’t do anything about the yay-hoos going 55mph in the left lane).

At this, we laugh some more. He takes a sip of scotch (I’m driving) and starts singing “She’s A Lady”. I am reminded of how much he really does mean to me, so I pat his little jewel case, take back the unladylike namecalling and graciously accept the turning of the tide. 

Stay until tomorrow? No, I know. We say our goodbyes and he heads back to work. I take one last look as I put him back on the top shelf and can't help but smile. Till next time, young man, till next time. 

Happy Birthday, You, Wherever You Are

June 25th, nineteen years ago, at 1:23pm, Austin interrupted a particularly good episode of All My Children by FINALLY insisting on being born. If you see him, please, please, please sing to him. As loud as you can. And, preferably, while squeezing his cheeks. He loves that.

With each of his big events of late (18th birthday, graduation, the dropping off at college scenario, and so on), I post this video*, because it fits how I feel. I couldn't be happier about the man he's become, but I couldn't be sadder about his getting older and dragging me with him.

*Yes, I do other maternal stuff, too, like researching banana pudding recipes (which will hopefully go from research to implementation phase before June ends), putting a check inside a card (which is much more personal than transferring money at ourbank.com), and making reservations (nothing says "I love you" like a McCormick and Schmick's dinner).

Hillbilly Papa-razzo

I live in an area of Indianapolis known as Meridian Hills. It is within the city limits and is considered a more than decent place to live. Mostly professionals, mostly folks with a little money (I moved here for the school district and am in on a "just passing through" technicality).

The name is a little misleading, because you'd have to drive the area for an hour or so to find an actual hill. BUT, you can easily find the hillbilllies. They're next door to me.

When I talk about my neighbors, one might think I live in the sticks. It'd be an understandable conclusion, because it is exactly where they should be. They are recently retired campers. Not RVers, just campers. Their favorite place to go is the campground (and not "the new one") in Gulf Shores, Alabama (lookie there, favorite and Alabama in the same sentence!). They practice casting (throwing a fishing pole, right?) in the backyard. They have gobs of family over almost every day. They have a little fishing boat behind the camper and an overgrown diesel truck in their extended driveway. Sometimes, they rip the tarp off the boat and sit in it with the grandkids. (Don't they have video games to play with like normal children?) Recently, they repaved their driveway and had a big hoe-down in the front yard, grillin', sippin', I'm assuming spittin', and watchin' the tar dry.

Not much goes on in our backyard. Mostly just getting in and out of our cars, dog business, and lawn mowing. But, boy howdy, when something happens, it's like we're movie stars.

Today, we had someone cut up and haul off our downed tree (which every member of their extended family has come in the yard to get an up-close and personal look-see. Maybe they're hoping for Jesus or the Virgin Mary in it or something). When it was cleared and the man had gone, we went outside to approve the job and do a tiny bit of leftover clean-up. I glanced in the neighbor's general direction and saw a big ol' shadow in the screened-in porch. The hillbilly Papa. Just staring and not even flinching when we saw him.

Then, I stood outside and chatted with the cable repairman for a minute or two. And there ol' Pap was again. Unnerving me and cramping my style.

Later, I pulled up in my rental car for my trip to Charlotte for work tomorrow and there he was again. I'm not even sure he went inside. I don't know if or when his shift ends.

Maybe I should throw him a line. He must be drowning in boredom if we're something to see.

Moving Out of the Taj Mahal, The Trilogy

I’ve always heard that bad things come in threes. Since Friday at high noon, I’ve had my three and it better damn well stop there. (It's important to mention how much my kooky landlord thinks of his 1968 3BR, 2BA ranch-style house (although he doesn't spend a dime on maintenance of it - he's complicated like that). He has called me several times over the past two years to check on critical things like the paint, the bushes and the dishwasher. I pray that someday this man has children to worry about this much - no, scratch that, he'd ruin 'em.) 

Friday AM: Landlord receives email I sent Monday about lease non-renewal. He’s ticked. I can hear it when he tells me I’ll be showing the property, he’ll be “inspecting” the property for damages, and that he already has 20 inquiries he’s told to drive by and look at it.

Friday 5PM: First prospect he's given the address to pulls up in driveway, looks for cars in the parking area behind the house, looks in dining room window and leaves.

Friday 7PM: Kitchen sink explodes. When I turn the garbage disposal off, a Yellowstone geyser of water shoots up. Email to landlord (telling him it could indeed be our fault, not sure) and explain again about reasonable notice and my disdain for peeping toms.

Friday 10PM: Tree falls on power line to house, cutting power, cable, phone wires. It’s still 86 degrees outside with 75% humidity.

Saturday 11AM: Cancel my plans to leave for Charlotte. Make reservations at nearby hotel that accepts pets. Call insurance for ideas, etc. High volume on everything due to storm. May hear back next week.

Saturday 2PM: Call landlord about tree. It was like his own limb had been cut off. “We’re fine. Thanks for asking.” (to imaginary "How are you guys? Is everyone okay?")

Saturday 3PM: Check into hotel and cool off. Kindly send pics of tree to landlord for his homeowner’s insurance. “You’re welcome.” (to an imaginary "Thank you.")

Saturday 7PM: Drive back to house to pick up something I had forgotten. Note in the door from someone named Mark who wanted to see the house. Call Mark to find out what landlord had told him (apparently "Stop by! Knock on the door! Look in the windows! Check it out!"). Mark is drunk. And Mark left a trail of roofing nails in the driveway. Leave landlord another voice mail about this idiot and BEG him to make appointments after July 1st (45 days from move-out date according to lease) and not to give out the address anymore.

Saturday 8PM: IPL pulls up while I’m fuming at the house and restores power.

Saturday 11:30PM: Landlord returns call from 7PM and leaves pissy voice mail telling me all the things I owe him because he's been such a good guy. ("Remember how I had the heater replaced when it died that one dead o' winter time?" "Remember how I lowered your rent 6.84% the second year to keep you from moving after the first year?") 

Sunday 7:30AM: Check out of hotel, return things to fridge, and leave for work.

Sunday 11AM: Still trading email barbs with landlord. He thinks he’s done me great favors and I think he's silly. He's ticked that I'm ticked and now I'm ticked that he's ticked. He has now added “lawyer” to “inspector” on his list of professionals he’s going to contact about me. Uhhhh, okay.

Is this still just three? 

Update: Sink issue not my fault or responsibility. Looking so forward to another shit storm of whine from landlord when he gets rent check (less costs). 

This post was tedious, just me venting and has nothing to do with anything. I know this and am now as bored with myself as anyone reading this.