Wagging Tales

This week seemed to last forever! Last weekend, we were south of the border to visit my nutty sister and her family. The usual mayhem ensued—near flashings, accidental harmless spiking of drinks, and backing into pillars that would not get out of the way. 

We should have spent the entire week there, considering my four year old, Lanes, was on Spring Break, but I am not prone to making choices that make life easier for me. I am now worse for wear and hiding from a turkey—literally.

The purpose of the visit to my nutty sister’s house was to meet my brand new nephew—of the four legged variety. I think I’m not allowed to call him a pet. Considering my sister used to raise her nose with polite disdain whenever my beloved late Labrador, Muttley, used to pant enthusiastically next to her, I would say she has come a long way!

My ‘nephew’ was very well behaved and peaceful, until he was face to face with his arch enemy—paper! Lanes, who at times was having sibling rivalry issues with him, made him a card for his ‘birthday’ and Mochi was delighted and turned it to confetti. 

Lanes found it hilarious.  If anyone has any paperwork that needs to be disposed of, do let us know! We were rather tempted to hide him in our luggage and bring him back.

Lanes thought he was super cute, but then from time to time, she would run away from him. When we first arrived, I was doing something in the kitchen,  and my hands were occupied and Lanes grabbed onto my jeans and nearly pulled them down. Of course all this has to happen under the purview of my brother-in-law, and this timing was really unfortunate. 

When I was fifteen, he had come over to our house to ask my parents for my sister’s hand (she is much much older than I am).  I was bouncing about the house and my shorts fell off and I flashed him with my flowery underpants. I never lived that one down. He let the best man know that when P and I got married, and now it’s recorded in our wedding video for all of posterity.

Other than that, my sister and I drove her kids insane. Lanes was packed off with my dutiful spouse, P, because both were in need of some shearing, I mean a haircut, and I accompanied my sister and my nieces to the mall.  

On the way there, they were trying to point out a very sadly named apartment building on the left.  As usual, I was craning my neck to the right, and marveling at a rather fabulous looking row of town houses. It was not until the girls kept chorusing ‘no no, the left, the left’ that I realized my mistake. Simple things are challenging for me.

While they were feeling sorry for Lanes, who would have to deal with me in my golden years, which are bound to be stellar, if my 30s are anything to go by, my sister and I engaged in our favorite pastime—talking with outrageous South Asian accents. My nieces really wished that they had an ‘eject’ button to escape. Luckily for them, it was not a long ride.

Of course on the way back, we were running late as usual, and my nutty sister accidentally backed into a concrete column. The man waiting to take our parking spot looked horrified and honked a belated warning. His mouth was agape for the longest time. I don’t know why considering the bump was so light no damage was done to the car or the unsuspecting pillar. He waited till we left the garage to take the spot.

That evening, my sister and her husband were looking suspiciously at the ‘potions’ I got from my homeopathic doctor (for the pain in my back that turned out to be my liver protesting madly at my large consumption of deliciously unhealthy foods).  It’s actually hard enough counting thirteen drops without my sister suddenly shouting ‘ten, eleven, twelve’ and derailing my train of thought. I have no idea if I over medicated myself that night!

Then my brother-in-law opens up a bottle and takes a whiff and announces it smells like rubbing alcohol.  He then sprinkles some of the liquid on the palm of his hand and slurps it up! Great. If his liver starts to function better than mine, I’m going to be pissed off! I hid my bottles after that because they do look a lot like the mini booze bottles available at a hotel room mini bar.

Any old how, the three of us and my six bottles came back to Canada the next day. I think my nutty sister was relieved because it was hard to feed me on this diet. She still can’t get over the fact that I turned down chocolate chip cookies—it’s tradition that she has a warm gooey plate waiting for me whenever I show up (she’s a good, if slightly insane, sister). I think she was eyeing me suspiciously from time to time to see if I was an impostor.

P, had to work late this week, and he was busy with work related stuff when he was at home. This did not bode well for me, because I had to find a way to entertain Lanes for five days straight with little or no energy.  She was relatively good when I had my ‘boring mom chores’ like cooking, cleaning, laundry. Lanes no longer thinks it is fun to be me. It seems she was under the impression I watch TV and hang out with my imaginary friends all day while she is at school.

I took her out a couple of times. One day I took her to the mall to get her a treat, and we were at the food court and a family sat next to us. They had a little girl Lanes’ age, and a boy who was slightly older. Lanes kept smiling coyly at the boy and didn’t even notice his sister.

In the end the nice boy was beaming at Lanes and telling her all about himself and how he was eating the most fabulous fries in the world. He then wanted to share them with her and told me to bring her back to the mall every day to see him! His parents and I were amused.

The next day, we went out with Lanes’ BFF from school and again, another family with a boy and girl sat next to us, and in the end that boy offered all his fries to Lanes too. What's up with the fries? Too bad I was on a diet--this could have ended nicely for me as I used to love them! 

His father was laughing at the two of them and told me to keep an eye on her and the boys when she is big! Oh dear. It’s a good thing I’m planning on going to college with her (or wrestling school—I think she will have a bright future in that).

On Saturday, P felt bad that he didn’t have time for Lanes and that I  was with her 24/7 so he had some ‘quality time’ with her while I escaped for some adult time with a friend—which really consisted of us having a lovely lunch that didn’t involve crayons or balloons. Not only that, I actually got to leisurely go shopping without running commentaries from a spouse or child.

I was having a really good time and resisted all temptation to call and see how P and Lanes were doing. Ok, I called three times, but that was 26 less times that I wanted to. When I got home, Lanes came running to me saying she got a turkey. Naturally, I thought she was referring to a rubber toy or stuffed animal so I told her that was great and to show it to me.

She told me it was far too heavy and that I’m going to be so happy to meet the turkey. I was getting slightly concerned considering when I left the house, she was asking P for a pet puppy like Mochi and we had settled on a fish. 

I knew somewhere along the line, since Lanes as the memory of an elephant, they would be stopping by to pick up two unsuspecting goldfish, who would have the good fortune of being named ‘Thumpy’ and ‘Bumpy’.

P came out sheepishly from the kitchen and announced that the supermarket gave him a free turkey.  I nearly collapsed in a heap, thinking a feathered friend would come clucking or gobbling, whatever turkeys do, behind him.  Then he showed me a frozen butterball that was in no way going to fit into the tiny freezer of the fridge in our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment.

I was mortified. The cover said it was a ‘young turkey’ and it made me insanely sad. P, knowing my love for animals despite the fact that I’ve been known to chow down on drumsticks and ribs, looked a bit pale and quickly said he was excited to win something and he didn’t think to exchange it or give it back and just brought it home. He said he really won two turkeys, but took one.

He shoved it into the freezer and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ll try to figure it out, but for now I’m avoiding the freezer—I’m all chicken about the turkey. My nutty sister said I should just cook it since we have it and can’t return it or give it away. I just can’t see myself sticking my hand up the rear of a bird. Sigh. This is what happens the one time I leave Lanes and P unsupervised: )

On that bright note, I need to mess up counting my drops of medicine and turn in for the night—it will take a lot of bribing to get Lanes out of holiday mode and back in preschool tomorrow, so I need all the strength I can get.  More musings from BC next week and suggestions for my fowl friend in the freezer are welcome (shudder)…

That's Not On the Menu

The highlight for this week was that I went for a one session class to learn how to cook some Singaporean and Malaysian dishes. This does not seem to be the brightest thing to do considering I’m on a restrictive, fun extinguishing, liver detoxifying homeopathic diet.  That aside, I planned for this class in January and I was determined not to miss it.

As usual, we were running late and I got in a flap and nearly missed the entire lesson altogether! Highly anal retentive by nature, I was completely thrown off by being plunged into the class half way rather than being able to ease into it. I felt like the kid who shows up late to her middle school talent show and starts the tuba off key in the middle of a group performance.

How did woe become me? P, my stiff upper lipped spouse, is notorious for his lack of punctuality. If he was a groundhog, folks would have to wait till June to see his shadow.  In fact, when we got married, the only way I got him to church on time was by telling him that if I get there all dolled up and the priest is ready to go, I’m going to marry the best man if P is not there on the dot (yes, C.D. this is the fate that you escaped—sorry you had to find out this way).

Any old how, fifteen minutes before the class starts, P is nowhere to be found. It’s too late for me to hop on a bus, and the point is moot considering I was with our four year old, Lanes, who would most probably not be welcome in a class that involves frying, dicing, and slicing. P’s cell phone was off and I was really in a spin trying to figure out what to do. Should I stay or should I go? Should I yell or should I scream?

When I finally get through to P, he says he can’t drive because his pupils are dilated!  I muttered that it was highly inappropriate for him to be scurrying around town with dilated pupils.  He said when he tried to go in for an eye exam real quick before my class and the whole pupil thing was not anticipated.  Hmm.

After much ado, between me being indecisive about being able to handle going to class mid-way and worrying about P driving with his challenged peepers, I was eventually jet propelled to my class after P promised me the optician said it was ok for him to operate a vehicle.

I was mortified to show up half an hour late. P takes these things in stride, and all but ejected me from my seat as I had a last moment bout of jitters. I’m way to uptight to deal with such things, but luckily the chef teaching did not notice and the folks right by the door quickly gave me their notes and tried to bring me up to speed.

In the end, I missed all the explanations about the recipes and I had no time to go over them. We had to form teams and start cooking right away! Chop chop. I didn’t know what was going on, and while I was standing in the middle of the room like a deer caught in the headlights, I was quickly absorbed into a group of rather efficient looking folks.

There were five items that needed to be made and five of us. My team consisted of a married couple and what I thought was a mother-daughter duo. Luckily, I didn’t make any comments like ‘oh I hope one day I can take a class with my daughter’ because it turns out they were sisters-in-law. So I narrowly escaped sticking my foot in my mouth. 

I was not so much lucky with the other stuff. All of a sudden, everyone rushed to gather ingredients. I felt like I was participating in a challenge for the ‘Amazing Race’. So I followed the herd blindly. Fortunately, the married couple brought over all the meat and veggies, but in my hurry to keep up with the Jones’, and my exhaustion from the dieting, I was just not feeling focused. 

Luckily, my teammates were happy go lucky folks that were constantly offering me encouragement. The married couple’s role in the team was to continually pepper their chicken curry and my poor soul with heartening words like, ‘it’s ok, it will be fine, these things happen’. 

My mission was simple—to make chicken satays. Then came a series of accidents. I forgot to season the meat before marinating it because the ingredients for the seasoning were listed after the marinate. Or do you season after you marinade? Either way, no seasoning happened. Again, I had a flashback to the third grade when the teacher was reminding me to read all the instructions instead of just immediately following the first one.

Next, I forgot to soak my skewers (in my defense—it was not written in the instructions, but not so much in my defense, I would have heard the instructor saying that had I been on time for class).  Then came my biggest mistake—I wound up putting two tablespoons of garlic and satay sauce into my mixture for the peanut sauce. 

The lovely married couple gushed ‘oh but we love garlic, the more the better, don’t worry’. I don't know what Care Bear factory they came out of, but I was so thankful they were on my team. Bless them. 


The team next to me had Attila the Mom, who was disapprovingly monitoring every action of every member of her group. She had accused the nice married couple in my team of hogging all the onions or something and they quickly relinquished them to be rid of her.

Instinctively, I thought two tablespoons seems like rather a lot, and even though my tired, food deprived eyes kept scanning the recipe, I was misreading it in the midst of all the chaos at our kitchen stadium. 

After giving it all a nice mix, I realized that the recipe did indeed say teaspoons.  Eventually, with the addition of more of another sauce by a very patient and good-natured teacher, it all worked out. These things only happen to me. 

It turns out, you don’t just shove the chicken into the skewers, you have to twist and shove gently. I think the chef must have cottoned on to my clueless nature, because he anxiously reminded me that the bamboo was sharper than it looks and to please not stab myself. I wanted to add that on a good day, I was sharper than I look too, but didn’t bother because that day I was much like the cute but slow puppy in doggy training class.

It took me a couple of tries to twist the chicken just right. My germaphobic nature was making me worry about salmonella as I was manhandling those bits of chicken, and my anal retentive nature was complaining that my fingers were stained yellow from turmeric in the marinade.

I cautiously cooked the chicken, because the last thing I needed was to top off the evening with uncooked meat. When I was done everything, I suddenly discovered a major omission. My peanut sauce had no peanuts! 

I was about to launch into my three hundred and twenty second panic attack of the evening when the nice married couple quickly told me that the instructor had said he was not allowed to bring peanuts into the building (the class was in a high school). Whew!

Surprisingly, the peanut-less peanut sauce didn’t taste like there was anything missing. Maybe all that extra garlic I put in numbed our senses! After cooking, we all sat down to eat our meal. I felt slightly better because team Attila the Mom had burnt some of their food and their curry turned out a peculiar shade of baby poop green.  

I had to sit and watch everyone eat for the most part because I am not allowed to eat after 7pm.  My teammates looked rather sad about that, so I took one bite of each of their food and offered the appropriate compliments and regaled them with fascinating facts such as if you spray Lysol on turmeric it turns pink! They instantly wanted to try that but we could not find any Lysol.

I was wishing that I could have recorded the cooking class and submitted this week's entry as a video blog. It would have been very entertaining to be a spectator on my team. 

I have mixed feelings about going--I could have just got the recipes online and made the stuff at home, and these days I have no energy at all in the evenings, so that last thing I felt like doing was getting involved in a marathon cooking session (and subsequent clean up--although it was not so bad considering the married couple kept washing all my things for me! Could they be nicer if they tried?).

With that I must sign off, as it's close to 10pm and since I am sugar free for two weeks exactly, my brain is not functioning. I was hoping to use blogging as an excuse to have a bite of chocolate, but P fixed me with a stern look and that made me determined to show him that I will indeed survive this diet!

Next time on Canadoodling, we have Seattle based shenanigans that might or might not involve pants that fall down accidentally in public due to wayward puppies. More musings next week...

Liverish

Tired of the constant pain in my side, I decided that if Western medicine can’t help me, I’ll try homeopathy! My bones have been scanned, my back has been x-rayed, I was issued gigantic pills which might really be horse tranquilizers, and I have no solution to my situation. The net result is that I've been scanned more times than international luggage. So I thought I'll go all natural.


A friend of mine went to see a doctor, who is not only a fully qualified MD, but also a doctor of homeopathy, acupuncture, reflexology, the whole nine yards. He is a walking talking health spa.  I decided, this was the person who would give me answers (I'm optimistic on the inside although I'm pessimistic on the outside).

He had this wonderful machine that told me (or him rather) everything that is wrong with me, whether I liked it or not. All I had to do was hold a metal cylinder with my right hand while he put some pen like gizmo at key points on my hands and feet. I was intrigued at first, worried about my pedicure (because who isn’t vain in medical moments like this)  the next minute, and stunned at the end of it all.

Turns out my body is completely out of whack! The computer even spewed out ailments I wasn’t thinking of complaining about, like occasional dizziness. It was amazing! Who needs boring old stethoscopes and tongue depressors? Doctors should walk around with this machine.  Diagnosing illnesses would be a breeze.

Long story short, turns out my liver is in bad shape. I thought that was rich considering I don’t drink. I mentioned this and pointed to the spot that was giving me the most pain. He politely smiled and said patiently ‘yes, that would be where your liver is.’.

This is what happens when you don’t pay attention in high school biology class. But in my defense, I kept telling my overly practical spouse, P, that the pain was due to an internal organ. Sadly, he does not regret rolling his eyes at me in my many drama queen moments where I was trying to convince him my gall bladder was about to go kaput. I wasn’t too far off—I think the gall bladder is near the liver?

Any old how, the problem it seems, comes from my fondness for all things sweet, fried, spicy, and artificially enhanced.  Decades of doing bright things like gobbling can loads of Sour Cream N’ Onion Pringles and drowning everything in Ranch dressing has taken a toll on my system. Preservatives are the enemy and my liver is protesting!

While the doctor went to get me some medicine, I was left to repent for my poor choices, but not for long, as I have the attention span of a gnat.  I was soon imagining the doctor ferociously pounding a mortar and pestle and whipping up exotic ingredients, possibly with the use of a cauldron. As my imagination went wild, he walked in and gave me not one, but six bottles of medicine!

That’s when I realized this is serious business. I have a strong gag reflex for things that don’t taste good, such as cough syrup and raw vegetables. I listened diligently to his instructions to put thirteen drops from each bottle into a glass of water, but in my head I was thinking, if it tastes like a newt (not that I know what newt tastes like--bitter I presume), I’m likely never to drink the tonic.

I was also put on a depressing diet that left me unable to eat any of what I consider to be the basic food groups. No nuts (except crazy relatives & almonds), nothing from a cow or goat (meat & dairy), no soymilk (what?), no caffeine, no citrus fruits, no fun, I mean no sugar, and (gasp) no chocolate. No chocolate. 

P blanched. No chocolate means trouble for all.  I was snappier than a starving alligator stuck in sewer for the first few days. My mouth, now idle since a lot less chewing is taking place, has taken to spewing out lots of whinging and complaining.  I hid under the covers when I had cravings for a cookie and ordered my brain to shut down and got to bed. It didn’t work.

Even my nutty sister, who calls daily either to speak to my four year old, Lanes, or to torment me, was silent for the last two days. When I called to see what was up she said she was waiting for P to tell her I have broken down and had a spoon of ice cream before calling because she was scared that she might be told off. Wonderful.

Things are so sad for me now that I'm debating taking children’s gummy vitamins to get a sugar fix. To make matters worse, I was told to walk for an hour everyday. I tried it a little. It’s exhausting and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stick to it.  By sticking to it, I mean actually doing it properly, if at all.

I never realized how long an hour could be. Maybe an hour has more than 60 minutes when you have to do things like exercise to save your liver. I’m sure there that must be it—some untold secret of the time/space continuum.

On Saturday, it was raining and P was home so I left Lanes in his care and went off to the mall for my ‘walk’. It’s amazing how much easier it is to spend an hour walking when you have options to flex your muscles pulling out your credit card!  I was very good and restrained myself, but I sure did a lot of window shopping. Makes a girl tired!

When I got home, I was hoping P would get the full Lanes treatment. I thought that he would be a little worse for wear so that he gets to see what I do while he is at work. No such luck. She was an angel, ate all her food, and did not use him as a jungle gym. As my sister says, they always save the drama for the mamma.

Whenever P gets home from work, my hair, which defies gravity normally, is sticking up so much that it could pick up signals from out of space. In the few hours after Lanes is home from school and before P arrives from work, I’m exhausted between attending tea parties with stuffed rabbits, having my hair yanked playing beauty salon, and participating in marathon coloring sessions. This is in between wrestling with Lanes to get her to take a shower and have a snack.

When I got home from the mall, I expected to find P with barrettes in his hair and some of my lipstick all over his face. Instead Lanes was peacefully having her milk and he was on the sofa with a book in his hand--a book for him, mind you, not for Lanes! Some guys have all the luck.

Meanwhile, I'm struggling with remembering to take the medicine. The liquids are colorless and don't taste too strong--a mild alcohol flavor. However, I'm finding administering exactly thirteen drops a challenge. Invariably, sometimes I put in fourteen. Or fifteen. I'm hoping that's not a bad thing. 

The doctor also gave me a book about homeopathy. It's handy for dimwits such as myself who go around envisioning bat's wings and cauldrons. Apparently, homeopathy works very slowly and requires patience. 


Also, symptoms get worse before they get better as toxins try to leave the body. Or something to that effect.  I read random sentences from the book and pretended I got the gist of it.

Charming as I am, I guess I'm going to be even more fun to have around in the next few months! Like sunshine on a cloudy day, no doubt. On that bright note, I better go catch my forty winks--if I can count that properly. I know it's really late because Lanes has already migrated to our bed and is currently talking in her sleep.


I better sign off before my spot on the bed gets invaded and I find myself either on the couch or Lanes' twin bed. More musings from BC next week...

Back in the Saddle Bags

After twelve days of battling the flu, I’m finally back on my feet again. No one is as happy about that as my four year old, Lanes, who sees me not only as her mom, but also as her best friend, big sister, pet poodle, trampoline, and jungle gym. 

She was getting rather tired of seeing me slobbering on the couch, punctuating random exclamations like ‘we’re getting late for school!’ with a wheeze here and a sneeze there. Everyday she would look so disappointed when I told her I was still sick.

To celebrate, Lanes has decided to wake me up every morning by exclaiming ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mamma!’. She circles my bed like she’s in a ring and literally jumps on me like a pro wrestler.  It’s a good thing my dutiful spouse, P, got his job settled. I wonder if extended insurance covers getting body slammed by half a camel.

While I’m rubbing my forehead and kidneys in pain, she puts a blow to my ego by adding that I am so ‘nice and soft and lumpy’. Lumpy? I sound like the dwarf that was voted off 'Snow White'.

Perhaps it’s a good time to start saving for charm school. Lanes in etiquette school will be like watching Big Foot handle fine china at a tea party. The teacher will run out screaming within minutes.

Now that I’m in good health again, the morning ‘why do we have to go to school?’ battle with Lanes has recommenced. Realizing that her pleas and tears fall on deaf ears, this week, she came up with a new plan. Instead of wailing, going limp, or feigning a fever, she stopped and earnestly asked me, ‘Mamma, do you love me?’.

I was forced to stop the assembly line going to put her lunch together and state the obvious. Who doesn’t love her own spawn? She turned her big eyes up to me and says ‘then why do you send me away? Don’t you miss me so much when I’m at school?’.  Where do kids get this logic from? I say we turn the courts over to them. 

So I told her that I send her to school because I love her and it’s for her own good and yes, I miss her, etc. I added that when I was little my mom sent me to school. Her eyes grew wide open with mischievous wonder and she gasped saying ‘aaaah, your mother sent you to school?’.

I took the opportunity to quickly put her out the door before she said 'so is that what happened to you?'. I’m sure she will say something to my mother when she calls. As it is, she thinks my parents aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed.

Whenever they call—which is daily—they tell Lanes they can’t wait to come over and hug and kiss her. She sighs and patiently explains to them that they live very faraway and they can’t just come over so quickly like when we were in the motherland.

She tells them to stay put and that she will come in a plane to see them, but they will have to wait a long time because she is all the way in Canada. Then she looks at me and shakes her head as if to say that those old folks sure are not quick on the uptake.

Any old how, the last few days, I got her ready and off to school without much ado. I did notice before leaving she would break away from me and run to her favorite stuffed rabbit, the one she holds by the ears like a freshly plucked carrot, and she'd whisper something in his ear. 

I was ready to extract the bunny from her grasp, when I heard what she was saying: “Max, take care of my Mamma when I’m at school, ok?”.  I had a Hallmark moment! Suddenly, being late for preschool didn't seem like a big thing.

She probably wondered why I wasn’t stuffing her hat on and asking her to skedaddle out the door. Instead, I gave her about a hundred kisses to her disgusted delight. She gave me instructions to stop already because she didn’t want to look messy for school. Apparently she has people to impress.

When she got home she asked me if Max looked after me and I grinned and said indeed he did. She said she needed a minute and ran to her room, hugged Max and whispered ‘thank you for looking after my mommy’ in his ear, thereby bringing on my second picture postcard moment of the day.

I decided it was a moment I wanted to etch into my brain. So when she is a teenager and brings a mangy boyfriend home, I will think of that moment before I blow a gasket. I’ll also think of it the hundred times a day she tells me to play with her because she is so lonely without a pet or a sibling.

When I related this story to my nutty sister she claimed she did the exact same thing when she was little, because apparently Lanes is just like her in every way. Good luck to me. 

She then went on to sing praises to Lanes, thereby inadvertently lauding herself (since they are apparently one and the same). Now I know fore sure that the person who invented Caller ID obviously had a sister he/she was avoiding.

When she was little, my sister loved to do fabulous things like stick bobby pins inside electricity outlets and climb onto the roof of our house.  I think that's why my parents waited so long to have me!

No wonder I watch Lanes like a hawk. Let’s hope she has enough of her sensible father in her to dilute whatever she has inherited from my sibling! Or else, we will just have to line all her clothes with bubble wrap, slap on a helmet and cut electricity to the house.

In other news, my geriatric neighbor who leaves her strollers full of trash, I mean recycling, out in the hallway has launched a vendetta on an unidentified male subject, who might be my long suffering college student neighbor.  She has put up a ferocious, dare I say unladylike, sign in the lobby cursing (literally and metaphorically) the person who stole her garbage, I mean bottles.

Considering she is always watching through her peephole and she is the only one in the building with a TV channel showing the front entrance of the building, it’s amazing that she doesn’t know for sure who did it. Perhaps she just wants to torment the college student—I noticed she does that from time to time.

One day she banged on his door and yelled at him for putting his footprint on her door.  He was almost crying when he said he didn’t do it and to end the conversation he said he will come over and clean it. I felt so bad for him. Then she told him she already took care of it. So much drama. How do I know? I could hear word for word from my kitchen.

I noticed she does prey on the meek like that—collecting souls like all the discarded items she puts in her strollers. I noticed when we first met, she thought I’d be a good bet because I liked the elderly and I was always concerned for her health.  Then one day she told me she won’t be friends with me if I’m friends with the manager of the apartment.

What is this middle school? One thing about me, I never like to be told what to do. When it was clear to her that I did as I pleased, regardless of how many megawatts I put into the smiles I flashed her, she kept me at a polite distance—until she wanted to complain about something. 

Sure enough today I’ll hear about ‘Bottle Gate’. She has also decided P doesn’t like her (thus she doesn’t like him) and I’m surprised she didn’t tell me I can’t be friends with P anymore either!

On that note, I better go do the laundry before my cranky neighbor is up for the day. For your amusement, see below a picture of the garbage trolleys, I mean my neighbor’s strollers, strategically placed next to the fire exit. More musings from BC next week…