I'd Like To Thank My Fan

Earlier this evening, I was on the phone with my friend Marla, who was making plans for a visit. Not only was I excited that I'll be seeing her soon, I was thrilled that she still wants to see me after all of the venting I've done this week about the upcoming move. (And, to be fair, the venting I do just about every time I talk to her.)

During the conversation, she mentioned that she'd told an acquaintance about some of our home-buying woes, because he bought a condo not long ago and would understand the headaches we're having. But the conversation didn't launch into a discussion about real estate, like Marla possibly thought it would.

"Wait a minute," her associate had said to her. "Is that the friend who lives by McCrochety?"

Apparently, Marla had, at some point in time, shown him a blog entry I'd written about her, and he decided to keep reading the blog because he liked my style. It may seem like a little thing, but after the crazy couple of weeks I've had, it was nice to get a compliment.

So thank you, guy-who-reads-my-blog. You brightened my day.

Of course, it wouldn't take much to improve upon the last review I got for my writing.

Several months ago, I took a fiction writing class and have been trading chapters with a few of my classmates, even though the course is long over. One of them e-mailed me the other day to say she had read the latest piece I sent but couldn't offer her comments, because she'd thrown up on the pages. She said she'd caught some stomach virus and gotten sick on the bus coming home from work -- with her only choices being the floor of the bus or her tote bag, she chose the bag, which, sadly, contained my work.

I really hope I will someday get a book deal, so I can get her to write a jacket blurb for me. Something like, "Erika's writing brings things out of a person that they'd never expect."

Say Goodbye To The Freak Show

I haven't blogged much lately, partly because I have been busy, and partly because what has been keeping me busy has me tearing my hair out.

About a month ago, my husband and I put our condo on the market, and, miraculously, it sold in just one day. Since then, our lives have been consumed with house-hunting and planning for the big move.

I do feel a bit sad to be leaving the home we've known for three years (almost four for him, as he bought the place not long after we started dating). It was our first home together, and we have so many great memories there. But, of course, we are looking forward to moving into a house, an actual house, with a fenced-in yard for Stella, a two-car garage for us and enough bedrooms to allow each of us to have our own office.

And it won't have McCrochety.

As glad as I am to be leaving him and his crochety ways behind, I can't help but want to make his life miserable until we move out. My husband and I are tired of being the bigger person; we have been the bigger person for years, and it's gotten us nothing but a banging broom handle. And even now, less than two weeks before moving day, he continues to take every chance he gets to complain.

Yesterday morning at about 5 a.m., Stella woke me up, whining to go outside. When I took her out, she began barking at a dog who had beat us to the yard. I lead her to a different spot to pee, and after taking care of business, we went back in. The whole affair took about three minutes but did not go unnoticed by McCrochety. When my husband stopped home for lunch, McCrochety took the opportunity to ask what the early morning barking was all about. My darling husband, who says about one catty thing a year and never looks crosseyed at anyone, simply shrugged and said, "don't know."

I can't be too upset with him for taking the high road. One day last week, I ran into McCrochety outside and said, "good morning" and smiled at the jerk. Ashamed as I am of the incident, in my defense, it was the first warm and sunny day in a long time; I was thrown off balance by nice weather.

But with yet another entry to the McCrochety logbook, I can't help but feel like my time is running out. We move out in approximately 10 days, and I have yet to get a chance to make any of those great speeches I have worked so hard to prepare. The best I've been able to do is stomp up the stairs extra loud and laugh when Stella spit out a twig she was chewing in front of his door.

I want my chance! I want justice! I want to be able to march right up to McCrochety and let him know exactly how miserable he has made us. I want him to realize what a complete jerk he has been.

Alternatively, I want to throw a week's worth of Stella poo at him and run away laughing.

I'm not sure if I will get the opportunity I've been waiting for. I may actually have to knock on his door on purpose, or leave a note (taped to a rock that I throw through his window? Tempting, but probably not altogether a good idea). But until moving day, I'll be ever hopeful for the opportunity to have my say. If anyone has any poitnant but legal ideas for me in the meantime, I will gladly take them.

If anyone has any poignant but illegal ideas, well, I can't help what you people do in your spare time.

Are You Gonna Go My 'Way?

I didn't mean to ruin her day. But to be fair, I think she was teetering on the edge to begin with.

Here's what happened. I went to the Subway near my office to pick up a sandwich for lunch. The lady who helped me was obviously new; she kept checking her chart to make sure she was slicing the bread correctly, putting the right amount of meat on it, etc. And everything was fine -- I never order anything too complicated, so I gave myself a mental pat on the back for being an easy customer.

Then she pulled out the knife.

I don't know if it's standard procedure at all Subways or just this one, but sometimes, when a sandwich has a lot of stuff in it, they'll shove the contents in with a knife as they close it up, to make sure everything stays in when you unwrap it. The thing is, they don't wipe off the knife every time, so you're getting traces of the toppings of everyone else's sandwich too. And being lactose intolerant, I can't have that. The last time that happened, I ended up ingesting some creamy sauce and was sick for an entire weekend. So when I saw her go for the knife, I spoke up.

What I said was "wait! Please don't use that," but the way her face looked, it was as if I had yelled "Help! The Subway lady is stabbing me!" She was totally thrown off guard. Her face was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. I explained the whole dietary thing and apologized for startling her, but nothing I said got the "get me out of here" (or was it "you get out of here"?) look off her face.

Most likely, she was embarrassed that that had happened in front of her new boss, and I feel bad about that. She didn't do anything that the boss herself doesn't do. Still, I had to speak up; I wasn't about to resign myself to tummy trouble for the next three days just to make her feel better.

Five bucks says she's gone within the week. Or at least finds an excuse to go on break next time she sees me walk in the door.