Just a few minutes ago, I was sitting at my desk working on some freelance stuff. The General was out on the porch spending some quality time with the laptop and open windows. The Boy was trying to find a flashlight so he could find a book that was under his bed. Suddenly, it sounded like the 4th of fucking July in our backyard. The houses in Northeast Minneapolis are fairly close together. We couldn’t really see anything out the windows; we could just hear shit exploding relatively closeby. After reading this article today, I decided to investigate since I didn’t feel like finding a new place to live.
I went downstairs while the dogs were going ballistic, headed out the back door and noticed one of our downstairs neighbors was in the front yard. It wasn’t him and it sort of looked like he was doing the same thing as me – trying to figure out who the hell was about to burn the neighborhood down. About the time I was walking into the alley, the Giant Turd that lives next door comes flying out of his back door asking screaming at me to find out if I’m the one lighting fireworks. (Dude, I’m 31 fucking years old and it’s a work night. I have a 12 year old child upstairs. I foster animals for Pete’s sake. Do I fit the profile of shooting off hundreds of fireworks in the middle of the 10 o’clock news by myself with no audience to impress?)
As much as I would have loved to answer with a myriad of words The Boy isn’t allowed to say, I just answered with “No” and I’m just it was in a very unfriendly way. He responded back again in his sweet screaming tone: “Then quiet the fuck down!”
I’m sorry. Did you just tell me to quiet the fuck down, sir? I can’t remember what I said exactly, but I’m pretty sure it bordered on “Jesus Christ, you crazy fucker”. And then he went inside and slammed the door. This is the same guy that chased me out to my car within a month of us moving here to tell me I needed to “Clean the fucking shit out of the backyard” before he called the cops.
His house is for sale. It kinda makes me want to do things like shit on his sidewalk anytime there’s going to be an open house. I can make sure he doesn’t get the $299,900 he’s asking for his crappy house.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been reminded that I hate to sweat. A lot. We reside on the second floor of a duplex that was built… a long time ago. In the winter, we were rarely cold, because a) hot air rises and b) we have this ridiculous furnace that could probably heat all of Northeast Minneapolis. It was nice. And then summer got here.
I don’t know what the deal is, but we cannot get our apartment to cool off. It probably doesn’t help that fact that a couple of weeks ago, something happened with our hot water heater that involved standing water in the basement. That situation finally got taken care of last night at some point, I think. Maybe Friday night. I can’t remember. But since the whole hot water heater fiasco materialized, it’s felt like a fucking sauna up in Unit #2.
The humidity in our entire house has felt like something from Missouri. And you Missouri folk know that stuff is not pleasant. Lately, it’s been 63 degrees at night, but we’ve been sweating like whores at church on Sunday when we try to watch such class programs as She’s Got the Look and 147 and Counting, or whatever that Duggar show is called.
Right now, on our back porch, it’s like a lovely Minnesota summer morning. But I can guarantee you that come noon if I were sitting on the couch watching Judge Judy, my clothes would be sticking to me in places that were not meant for clothes to be sticking. My hair would look like I’d just showered, except I can promise you I wouldn’t smell like it.
We’ve gotta get this whole humididty, sweating off 8 pounds a day thing under control. It doesn’t help matters that the wiring in the house only allows us to plug in one of our air conditioners at a time without blowing the electricity for the entire second floor… with the exception of the bathroom, of course.
I don’t mind being warm all the time, but when Mama wakes up in a pile of her own sweat, Mama’s not happy.
The Boy turned 12 at the end of May. After many, many in depth conversations between The General and I, we ended up getting him a cell phone for his birthday. The biggest pro for me was that we don’t have a landline, so anytime we leave The Boy at home alone, we have no way to get in touch with him and, really, he has no way to get in touch with us if there’s an emergency. I don’t know how much a landline costs, but I know that we got his phone for free and we’re only paying $5 more per month to have him on our cell phone plan. And, we can see everyone he calls and texts, which is pretty much safer than a landline anyway.
We wound up getting him the Samsung Gravity, which comes complete with a camera and a QWERTY keyboard. He’s already taken full advantage of our unlimited text and photo package. On Friday, I got six different messages while at work ranging anywhere from “Wassup dog” to “What are you doing”. For the most part, he keeps busy texting me, The General and his dad. He also has a Flickr account (which I can give to you if you want to email me and you’re not a psycho), which has proven to be quite interesting. Most of his pictures turn out something like this:
Why, yes, that is a picture taken of his TV while he was in the midst of playing Kingdom Hearts. Or maybe Kingdom Hearts 2 – I can’t keep track, but I do know they’re releasing a Kingdom Hearts 1.5 in a little while and he’s dying to get his hands on a copy of it because his favorite character is in it… Seriously.
And, then, every once in a while I’ll get a surprise picture message from him that will be something as adorable as this:
And then I don’t get so irritated about the text messages that tell me what episode of Roseanne he’s watching while I’m on my way home from work.