Where the hell does my neighbor go?

Let's play a fun game. It's called: where the hell does my neighbor go?

There it is, in all its loud, obnoxious glory,
stuffed to the gills with useless crap.

He moved in next door 4 months ago, and took it upon himself to claim a space in OUR driveway for his '94 Toyota Corolla station wagon, which is filled to the brim with useless bags and other crap.

It wouldn't be a problem, except that his muffler is broken. So each morning, the ground rattles and windows shake in announcement of his departure. He is home all day except for intervals during which he does mystery activities that take approximately 14 minutes to accomplish.

6:17am: leaves.
6:29am: returns.
7:39am: leaves.
8:17am: returns.
10:34am: leaves.
10:52am: returns. And so on...

It goes on all day. Sometimes he's gone a few hours, sometimes a few minutes. What does this man do? He can't be working--the hours are too erratic. Buying drugs? Selling drugs? Buying booze? (Yes, every example I can come up with involves socially unacceptable and/or illegal behavior.)

One day, K and I followed him. We didn't MEAN to, but we happened to be pulling out of our driveway seconds after he did and ran into him at the gas station. There he was, leaning up against the sandwich stand, fervently scratching off lotto tickets.

Lotto tickets? I hope you win a million dollars so you can fix that GD muffler.

It's a mystery, folks. Now make like Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Candlestick. WHAT does this man DO?

Fail Blog Monday

Well kiddies, let's start this awful time warp of a Monday off right with some classic fails from right here in Stars Hollow:

Outside of a local bar. How did they get the gum machine out without someone noticing?

Take care of your teeth AND cry yourself into a tween frenzy! Available at Best Buy.

When they have to put subtitles on a white girl from Indiana, there's a serious problem.

That's what she said.

Either Dawson finds out about Joey and Pacey's stolen kisses, or he has extreme abdominal pain.

The Stars Hollow gym is famous! John Deere goes there, too.

That's right: a man, walking in front of our house with a shotgun in hand. Cue the banjo music.

Maybe our neighbors kept the third wiseman for a year-round celebration of Jesus?

A frustrating day

Can you tell we're sisters? Both on a mission for cake.

Yesterday started off beautifully and ended in tears of frustration.

I took my sister to a bridal show in the morning, which was absolutely fabulous. We had a great time, ate lots of cake, and enjoyed sister time. It was what happened after that that put me over the edge.

While I was at the bridal show, K worked on his mom's car (which she very kindly loaned him while he works on his own.) I followed him home after the show to make sure there weren't any problems.

20 minutes into the drive, he slowed to 15mph in a 30mph zone. I knew something was wrong.

He's so damn cute when he can't figure out how to fix something. He does this thing with his hat, pulls it off then puts it on again so it's not quite on his head right. He walked towards my car apologetically, and tried to verbalize why he thought it had stalled. He stood for a minute then tried to start it again. Thankfully, it went, and we continued home.

A quarter mile from home, the car chugged to a stop again. He tried to restart it, then got out and did the hat thing again as he walked to my car. As frustrated as I was, the look on his face melted my heart.

Both exhausted, we parked my car at the house and walked back to the Jeep to push it home. We held hands in silence until we got there.

I steered while K pushed the Jeep down the road in the dark. Suddenly, I saw headlights behind us. A man got out, and without hesitation, left his own car running and joined K. I looked in the rearview, nerves shot, and tears poured down my cheeks. What makes a person do such a thing? Stop and help complete strangers at his own inconvenience? I was so grateful I couldn't find the words. We managed to get it home, and shook the man's hand to thank him.

We got the car to the driveway, and stood outside in the cold for 2 hours, winter hats on, lights pointed towards the engine. I handed him screwdrivers while we both made "that's what she said" jokes through our own frustrations. An hour in, he looked up at me and said: "God, I love you."

I smiled, and it was in that moment that I realized I had chosen right. Not once did he get angry or yell, he was just sorry. And thankful. And that's how I know we'll be able to make it through whatever life hands us.

This shit just writes itself.

Seriously people, this shit just writes itself. Saturday, before Carebear-Palooza, K and I were having a leisurely breakfast downtown. We returned home to finish decorating the front yard, when an elderly lady walked past us on the street and said "did you hear that someone robbed the bank?" We nodded; it was local news and everyone in Stars Hollow knew about it. "No," she said, "They robbed it AGAIN. Just now!"

My mouth dropped in disbelief: we were JUST having breakfast next to the bank! But more importantly... who robs the same bank TWICE? In ONE WEEK?

K: "How stupid do you have to be to rob the same bank AGAIN? These people must have serious problems."
Me: "...Or they're incredibly SMART. Because they have successfully robbed a bank 2 times without getting caught, and I have successfully robbed a bank no times. Who's the winner there?" (Granted, I'm not wanted for armed robbery, but it must have been a hell of an adventure.)

I cannot fucking WAIT to read about this in the police blotter. We are bound to be in morons in the news, AND I'm willing to bet there will be an overhaul of the Stars Hollow Police Dept, too. You can't make this shit up if you tried.

Rollin on dubs

I knew it was low when I pulled out of the garage. Probably a long-term consequence of my fucking tack debacle. By the time I got to the bank, I could hear the grinding as I drove on the rim.

Cringing, I thanked the man who got out of his vehicle in line behind me to notify me of my already embarrassing tire situation.

I crawled at a snail's pace to the Stewart's in town, which carries free air. Thank G, because I'm not paying for shit I can breathe in for free.

Sheepishly, I pulled into the parking lot in front of my neighbor (of course, small town living!) and three punk kids on bikes eyeing my disabled mobile. I was half a mile from the house, and my mind filled with visions of having to leave my car at Stewart's until K got home from work and walking home to the taunting of the Stars Hollow Bicycle Gang.

I prejudged. I totally did. But I shouldn't have, because one of the punk kids got off of his bike and helped me fill my tire.

I made it home in one piece, thanks to the kindness of my neighbors. And I learned once again that small town living can sure be a blessing. But if you like to live an incognito lifestyle, it's definitely not the place for you.

First rule of yard sale: don't talk about yard sale.

The first rule of yard sale is: don't talk about yard sale. If you keep the uproar to a minimum, we may have a better chance of snagging the hot items. Like Nintendo cartridges. Or VHS tapes.

We had our town wide yard sale this weekend. K and I stumbled upon it last year by chance, driving home hungover from a night at a friend's house. It was early, my head hurt, and I was thirsty as hell, but the call of my neighbors' used items lured me with its siren song.

Yard sale is by far the best day of the year. It is like Christmas (minus the Santa), and I wake up with the excitement level appropriate for such an occasion. This usually calls for jumping on the bed in my PJs and making my stuffed pegasus repeatedly and vigorously hug a very sleepy K until he stirs out of slumber. 

The faux bear rug--a big hit with the kitties.

Last year, we scored our kitchen table and chairs for $40. Awesome, right? We also managed to make it home with a faux bear rug and a suit bag that we got for $1 each. SCORE. 

This year, we woke up a little late. But it was okay, because the weather was a little crappy anyways. We got dressed, drank some coffee, read the police blotter, and we were on our way. We walked around and found a few items that we loved--I got some candle holders for $3 and... a CAREBEAR! For 50 cents! Now THAT is a deal.

Nothing pleases me more than walking down the streets, waving to my neighbors. I am like the homecoming queen, and I would straight wear a tiara if I wouldn't be shunned from Yard Sale.

We learned a valuable lesson this year at Yard Sale, however. We found a coat rack that I was dying to have, it was only $2! And it was in pretty good shape. K insisted that we come back around and pick it up on our way back home since we didn't know how heavy it would be. When we came back around on our return trip, the coat rack was gone. Second rule of Yard Sale: grab 'em while the gettin' is good. Or cry yourself to sleep that night.

Candles I scored this year-- $3 for both!

And the real prize... Bedtime Bear! He lights up and EVERYTHING.

The Hooligan House

I am the nosiest neighbor you will ever have. I work from home full time, live in a small town, and have little else to do than army crawl on my living room floor spying on you out the window.

We live in a peaceful little town for the most part, white picket fences, Victorian style houses, a police squad of about 3 cars. But there is ONE house across the street from us that has disturbed the peace since I moved in. The Hooligan House.

We would constantly hear the big mean bullying teenagers screaming obscenities and pushing around the younger kids as they walked past our house on their way to school. The mom was never home, and the oldest teenage daughter sat most nights on the porch, smoking and rocking her newborn child... in a car seat.

I can't tell you how many times we heard the mom standing on the porch, screaming at the oldest girl for hanging out with the kid across the street and smoking pot. I'm talking white-trash-episode-of-COPS screaming.

Then, there was the time that the girl's underage boyfriend was arrested in front of the house for trying to drive his motorcycle while intoxicated. Naturally, K and I decided this would be the perfect time to go out front on the porch and have a cigarette. Or five. With the porch lights off so we could see better. Come on, this isn't amateur hour.

Just before winter hit, it appeared they abandoned the house. We only figured this out this after we went a few weeks without hearing screaming or cursing, and the cops stopped rolling down our street nightly. They left ALL kinds of crap on their porch. The baby car seat, corn stalks, broken lawn chairs, a pair of galoshes, a broken mailbox, and what was left of a busted up basketball hoop. It was truly a sight to behold, but we breathed a sigh of relief as we accepted that they were finally gone. A few weeks later, the two cars in the driveway were towed, and the things were cleared off of the porch.

Then, driving by one day, (at a slow crawl, so I could survey the scene) I noticed that the front door had been smashed in. Broken glass, it looked like the whole door was bent--maybe kicked in. A break-in? But who would dare trespass on the Hooligan House? And what could they POSSIBLY hope to steal? Beheaded baby dolls? Crack pipes?

A month ago, to my anger and dismay, we started noticing their black SUV in the driveway again. Then came the familiar screams, and the cops rolling down our street daily. And yesterday, I heard the boyfriend screaming at someone on the phone while literally standing in our driveway. I stood frowning, like an ornery old lady, holding my cat and watching him through the window with a scowl.

It looks like the hooligans are back. I can't wait to see what they have in store for us this time around, and what kind of crap they will adorn their porch with. Bah humbug.

Police Blotter Friday: Too Bad, Snow Sad

Last Saturday, on our way home from helping my sister and her bf move, we drove through our little downtown area here in Stars Hollow and saw four police cars, a tow truck, a snowmobile, and a gaggle of bystanders crowding the street around 2am.

In our small town where mostly everything shuts down around 9pm, this was a big to-do. Plus I think 4 police cars encompasses the entire Stars Hollow police force. K and I drove by slowly, faces pressed against the windows, trying not to stare but desperately trying to check out what was going on. We drove by getting no answers, but we knew where we would turn to find out: next week's police blotter. It's our source for all things (and people) criminal and we've made a weekly tradition of drinking our coffee and reading it aloud to each other.

So here's the scoop: come to find out THIS week that the guy driving the snowmobile was drunk and crashed it into a fence, getting himself stuck. He was found walking down the street, helmet in hand, and when police approached him, he said: "he just wanted to go home."

Poor guy. I mean, who drives a snowmobile to the bar? Who then downs a bottle of jack, throws on his ski boots and jumps on a fast-moving machine to get home? Imagine what a bummer it would be to just want to get to your house, throw on your footy pajamas and crawl into a nice feather bed... then WHAM! you fly into a fence and get your hot rod all jammed up. (That's what she said.)

Seriously, dude... you're an idiot. And you deserve to get your mobile taken away. Nobody should be driving drunk, and now you've learned your lesson the hard way!

And that's the Stars Hollow Police Blotter for this week, folks. Have a great weekend--and stay off the snowmobiles if you're having a hot toddy.

Battle with Evil Mail Lady: Round 2... FIGHT.

I woke up to mounds of snow again today; big surprise. It really doesn't matter to me, since I work from home. I actually enjoy getting snowed in, as long as I have plenty of coffee creamer, hot pockets, and milk for my cereal.

Noon rolled around, I looked out the front window and saw her. Evil Mail Lady, right across the street. In a panic, I clumsily pulled on my boots, and trekked out into the blizzardy afternoon to shovel my porch and a little path through the driveway so EML wouldn't break her tiny little legs on our treacherous icy trail to Mordor.

Sweating with the effort it took, I got halfway down the driveway when my neighbor Lisa called out to me that I had already missed her. She said that EML was quite pissed about the snow, and declared publicly that she wouldn't deliver our mail today. I thanked Lisa for the info, filling her in that our snowblower was broken and K was traveling for work, and finished the little path I had so kindly decided to forge for EML, huffing swear words under my breath as I wasted the remainder of my lunch break on a fruitless endeavor.

Frustrated, I called K and told him the second round of the EML saga. I explained that it's not that I don't understand her frustration. I would be pissed too if I had to stomp through 2 feet of snow to get to someone's door too. And it's within her right not to deliver the mail if we don't shovel. It's just the attitude along with it that gets to me, publicly telling my neighbors how mad she was, and the fact that I DID get out to shovel, I just missed her by FIVE minutes.

But the awesome part of the story is that not a half hour after I got inside to return to working, pissed and sweaty, I heard the sound of a snowblower down on our lower driveway. I looked outside, and couldn't believe it: it was my neighbor from across the street, (who I have never personally met, mind you) clearing the snow from our driveway for me. I almost teared up, I was so thankful. Now I could get the car out of the garage and go get some food after work and pick up my prescription, which was actually stressing me out quite a bit. I pulled on my boots and coat again, and ran outside to introduce myself and say thank you. Honestly, say what you will about small town living, but that man spent almost an hour of his day doing something for a stranger, and in the process renewed my faith in mankind. What a sweet man, doing that for someone he barely knows, because he overheard me say our snowblower was broken. I have to say, I'm really starting to love living in a small town.

Hair cuts are terrifying.

Hair cuts are terrifying. If you are anything like me, when you are sitting in that chair watching the woman behind you approach your carefully preserved locks with that sharp pair of scissors and a black comb, you start sweating. Because of this, I always choose my haircut outfits accordingly. No shirts too short, because it will inevitably ride up on my back, leaving skin exposed through that open section of the chair. No hoods, no shorts, (otherwise you're never getting OUT of that leather chair) and long sleeves so I have something to clutch onto when I see her cut those initial inches off and I get scared.

Now you would THINK that I've got the haircut thing down. In high school, I had a pixie cut. That's right kids... a bonafied pixie cut. Hey, it was cool back in the day, okay? But now, I've started to grow it out pretty long (meaning I slam it in the car door and get it caught in my armpit.) I like it long, but the other day when I trapped myself in bed by pinning my hair to the pillow with my elbow and couldn't get up, I decided it was a safety hazard.

It doesn't matter how long I go between haircuts, I always get nervous. I can't tell you why, I haven't had a traumatizing hair experience of any kind, but I suppose it really is the first thing people notice about you. And part of me is terrified that the stylist is going to get caught up in her chatter about how loud the Christmas music is, and accidentally lop my locks into a mohawk.

My other fear was this: I live in a small town. Now, I know I'm judging here, but I've grown accustomed to fancy salons (since I only go once in a blue moon), and I was a little scared to try a new place (next to the PriceChopper in a plaza, no less.) My sister and I went in beforehand to scope it out and determined it was less Fantastic Sams and more salon than we originally thought. But let me tell you, she did an awesome job. She totally blew me and my prejudgments about small town hair stylists away. Right off the bat, she knew my blonde streak was natural (the last stylist in my "fancy salon" thought I dyed it. Come on people.) She walked me through each step in the process, and cut each layer with precision. I was impressed, and I will definitely go back there. The other thing I liked is that she didn't try to sell me the products. Now I know this is part of any stylist's job, but let's be honest here, I'm not about to spend $50 on hair products that I could get at Walmart. So I appreciated that she was honest with me and didn't try to push. And because the place was a smaller salon in a small town, the prices were totally reasonable, and I didn't have to pay an arm and a leg for my new cut.

So I woke up this morning with a great (and inexpensive) haircut, and all prenotions I had about small town salons pushed aside. My advice to anyone is to check out those small salons, they do a great job. And also don't forget to wear your Mom jeans and a long hoodless sweatshirt so your plumber doesn't show through that hole in the leather chair.