Google Desktop: Do I want it? And if so, why? Is it the coolest thing since sliced bread, or just more crap cluttering up my desktop?
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Our house was originally located on 5 acres of land. When the Banks family bought this house, they cut out an area of about half an acre and sold it to her father, who put a manufactured house on said half acre, and he and his wife moved into the house. Mrs. Banks’ mother eventually got sick and had to be moved into a home (I think) and since Mrs. Banks wanted to be closer to her parents, they sold this house to us.
Since we bought this house, the house next door has been occupied by Mrs. Banks’ brother, who has been a perfectly fine neighbor, though sometimes he liked to wander around his yard wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, so every now and then I’d glance out the kitchen window and my corneas would be seared by the sight, and I’d stumble around blind for a day or two.
Mrs. Banks’ brother is apparently considered the black sheep of the family, and lately there’s been a bit of activity next door culminating in a nasty note being taped to the back door (and I think you KNOW I snuck my ass over there at dusk one evening to read the note in all its glory, and I am only saddened by the fact that I didn’t take a picture of it to share with y’all), and finally in Mrs. Banks and a couple of her sons moving all of her parents’ furniture into the shed in the back yard late last week.
So anyway, that house has been up for sale for a few weeks now, and there have been two or three instances where I’ve looked over to see potential buyers wander through the yard. I turn into a total fucking Mrs. Kravitz, peering out the window while trying to look like I’m going about my business with no interest in what’s going on over there.
Yesterday I was doing dishes when I saw a couple of young guys walk through the yard with Mrs. Banks’ father (let’s call him Mr. Hooper). I stood and watched them walk around the back of the house, pointing out various things on the foundation and the windows and various things like that.
Fred came in the house a minute later to see if I’d noticed the potential buyers walking around with Mr. Hooper, and we discussed them.
“Why are two young guys interested in buying a manufactured home on half an acre in Smallville?” I asked. Now, when I say young, I mean that these guys were definitely youngish, but whether they were college-aged or in their early 30s, I have no clue. All I know is that they were younger than me, or at least that was my impression.
“Maybe they’re a gay couple!” Fred offered.
I don’t know why, but I am completely enthralled with the idea of having gay neighbors. Gay people are – pardon the stereotyping – the coolest, and the idea of having two young good-looking gay men or women move in next door is something I can get on board with. They’d surely have fabulous gay parties and invite their fabulous gay friends and give my inner Mrs. Kravitz something to spy on.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” I said sadly. “They look like brothers. Probably they’re going to move in with their wives and have lots of small children who don’t know nothin’ ’bout honoring no property lines. Fucking breeders.”
(Yes, I have a child. I suppose that makes me a breeder. But I taught her the fine art of honoring a property line and you’d never find her tromping through someone else’s flower bed. That I’m aware of.)
The guys stood in the front yard and talked to Mr. Hooper for a few minutes, then left.
“Did Mr. Hooper leave?” I asked Fred when he came in with our steaks, which he’d just finished grilling.
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t come over and tell you what was going on?”
“Nope.”
“Well goddamn, that’s rude. Call his ass up! Tell him you want to know what’s going on!” I demanded.
“Because it’s clearly our business?” Fred said.
“Indeed.”
We went outside to eat at the table on the concrete pad. We like to do that when the weather is nice, so that Maxi and Newt can share in our meal (Maxi is pickier than Newt. I think Newt doesn’t chew a single damn thing he eats.), and Fred can toss scraps to the chickens. While we were sitting there, the two guys showed up again. Then it was like a clown car – more people kept appearing around the side of the house.
“There’s a third guy,” I narrated to Fred, who had his back to the house. “And another one. Damn! And another one!”
“Maybe it’s a family of twentysomethings who are going to buy the house together and throw loud and obnoxious parties. Sucks to be the person whose bedroom is on the side of the house facing that house.”
“Quick! Take your shirt and pants off, and traipse around the yard!” I ordered. “Scratch your ass, too! That’ll scare ’em off!”
Then a twentysomething girl appeared, and the whole crowd walked around the house, pointing at the foundation, looking under the deck. Newt went wandering across the yard, then stopped to look at the crowd. He looked at them, then looked at us. Them. Us. Them. Us. I could see the “Hey. I don’t know THOSE people!” lightbulb go on over his head, and then he ran over to us and gave us the “I’m starving!” eyes.
The crowd hung out in the front yard for a little while, then left.
“Call Mr. Hooper and find out what’s going on!” I demanded, but Fred wouldn’t. Bastard.
And before you suggest it, I should point out that we seriously considered buying the house, selling the house off the land, and keeping the land for ourselves, which is what we’d really like to do. (We also considered buying the house, then renting it out, which is a much less appealing prospect, because we have no desire to be slumlords.) But Mr. Hooper is really asking more than we can afford to spend for half an acre of land, and chances aren’t great that we could recoup much money from selling the house.
I will, of course, keep y’all informed on what happens over there.
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Every night around 7 – sometimes a little earlier, sometimes a little later – it’s snackin’ time for the kitties, our kitties, and the two who hang around outside and DO NOT BELONG TO US.
After dinner – usually around 5 – every time I walk through the kitchen or stop to get a drink or whatever, the cats (especially Spot) run into the kitchen with the “IS IT SNACKIN’ TIME?!” eyes, and they mill around then decide it’s not snackin’ time because I haven’t bellowed “WHO READY FOR THE SNACKIN’?” like I always do.
Last night, Fred was taking a shower before we started watching TV, and I went into the kitchen to get the kitty snacks.
“WHO’S READY FOR THE SNACKIN’?” I bellowed, and they all started doing what they do every night at Snackin’ Time. Sugarbutt and Tommy jump up on the counter so that the instant I open the cans of cat food, they can stick their little pig noses in and start licking whatever they can get their tongues on. Spot sits in the middle of the kitchen and meows his weird soundless meows (you can hear his mouth opening and closing as he does it). Spanky sits in a corner of the room and gives me the “I am so hungry, but I am a big wimpy wimp who cannot fight the hordes of cats for a taste of the tasty snack. Help?” (he gets a little bit on a dish to himself). Mister Boogers stomps back and forth waggling his stump and meowing bitchily. Miz Poo might wander in to see if she’s interested, but she’s usually not.
Anyway, as soon as I bellowed “WHO READY FOR THE SNACKIN’?”, I heard the sound of a human running goonily down the hallway. I instantly knew it was Fred, and he was going to show up in the kitchen doorway and either meow or give me the crazyhungry eyes.
I glanced around at the cats, sure they’d be freaked out by the sound of a person running down the hallway, but they were all eyeballing the can of cat food in my hand. As Fred approached the doorway, I turned around to give him a grin.
He popped into the doorway, and the instant he did, the cats lost their minds. As one, they levitated and ran into the laundry room. There was a loud clanging noise, and then they reappeared, some of them scrabbling to regain their balance as they ran across the hardwood floor of the kitchen, and they raced through the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, and then they vanished.
I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pass out.
For the rest of the evening, the cats walked around low to the ground with big, dark eyes, tails puffed out, trying to remember why they were so freaked out. And I’d remember them racing into the laundry room, hearing that loud clanging noise, and then them running back through the kitchen, and I’d laugh all over again.
Even now, writing about it, I’m giggling.
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Tommy makes like a bat.
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Previously
2006: I’m READY FOR SUMMER, THANK YOU.
2005:
I like cats. They’re good to eat.
2004: No entry.
2003: We’re some calendar-loving motherfuckers, that’s right.
2002: Kitty meeting.
2001: So… I guess we could probably sell your shithole…
2000: It sounds like there’s a lot to do in Gatlinburg, so it should be fun.]]>