Saturday 9

Saturday 9: Jamming (1977)

1) In Jamaica, "jamming" means to celebrate. What's going on in your life today that's worth celebrating? I don't have anything that must be done today! That makes me happy. 

2) The group that became famous as "The Wailers" originally called themselves "The Teenagers." What was trendy when you were a teenager (clothes, music, etc.)? Going back to the year I turned 13, I'll say FRINGE!  Both girls and boys wore fringe vests and I had a shoulder bag that was dripping in fringe.

3) Bunny Wailer and Bob Marley were very close. In addition to being bandmates, they were friends in elementary school and later became family (Bunny's dad and Bob's mom had a daughter together). Who has known you the longest? My longest friendship dates back to Kindergarten. We're still going strong. In fact, she's flying in from California in twelve days.

4) Does the person you named in #3, the one who's known you longest, know you best? I don't know if she knows me best, but she is the one I'm most comfortable with.

5) Bandmate Peter Tosh became an avid unicycle rider. What's your favorite form of exercise? Stationary bike.

6) Bob Marley was known for his signature dreadlocks. When were you last in a stylist’s chair? One week ago today.

7) Marley's charisma is credited for popularizing reggae music the world over. Are you a fan? Not really.

8) Mr. Marley is one of the highest-earning dead celebrities, and manufacturers pay his estate to use his likeness to sell their merchandise. What dead celebrity have you seen recently on a t-shirt, mug, poster, etc.? Marilyn is ubiquitous, isn't she? I find it ironic that the little girl lost who couldn't get enough love during her life has been discovered and loved by every succeeding generation, now that she's gone and can't enjoy it.

9) Random question: Have you ever had your palm read? Once, years ago. I don't remember a thing about it, except I felt it was a waste of $10.

Books, books, books

Today was the kick off of a major neighborhood event: the used book sale at the high school. Over 100,000 books overflow the cafeteria. 

We're very enthusiastic about this. It's a delight to see all the people who come with red wagons and rolling duffel bags. My favorite "sight seen" was a pre-teen who plopped herself in the middle of the floor and fingered the books in the complete set of Harry Potter books with awe. 

I filled my canvas tote with:

•  Two books in the Library Lovers Mystery Series. It always makes me happy to discover a new series.

•  Barbara Stanwyck by Al DiOrio. The moderator of my movie group is a massive Stanwyck fan and has told us how he feels her hardscrabble youth informed her art. I'm hoping this bio will give me insights.

•  Sisters: The Story of Olivia deHavilland and Joan Fontaine. This year, Miss Melly turned 100 and the ensuing press coverage revisited her legendary feud with younger sister Joan.

•  Peter Lawford: The Man Who Kept the Secrets. Peter Lawford has been a bit player in so many biographies I've read. After all, he was a Rat Packer, a Kennedy and a contract player in MGM's heyday. Let's see if he holds my interest when he's in the spotlight.

•  A Common Struggle by Patrick Kennedy. The son of Ted and Joan tells the story of how addiction devastated his family. Reading about the Kennedys as I do, I'm not expecting any new revelations. Instead I hope for context and humanity. My mother's parents were both alcoholics and I felt the impact, two generations down the line. My mom was so conflict averse that I grew up feeling exposed and vulnerable. I mean, if my own mother wouldn't defend me, I really was alone, wasn't I? So Patrick is right, it is "a common struggle."

•  The Essential Scratch and Sniff Guide to Becoming a Wine Expert. Author Richard Betts uses the format of an oversized, interactive children's book to explain to adults why "wine is grocery, not a luxury." I picked it up as a gift for my niece. She's a budding connoisseur, going through a rough patch, and I hope receiving a surprise package with this book in it will make her smile.

ALL THIS FOR $10! If I have time, I may take another spin through the sale tomorrow.

There's one every year -- the book my neighbors bought in big numbers and then decided, seemingly at all once, to discard. As I drift around the massive tables, there's always a title that turns up again, and again, and again.

In 2006, it was The Corrections.
In 2007, The Nanny Diaries.
In 2008, The Da Vinci Code.
In 2009, My Life by Bill Clinton.
In 2010, Scarlett, the Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone with The Wind.
In 2011, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
In 2012, Sixkill by Robert B. Parker (a Spenser mystery) 
In 2013, The Da Vinci Code all over again.
In 2014, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
In 2015, "The Girl" again, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
In 2016, it's The Help

Now how did I get to be so smart?

I just now got around to reading the January issue of O Magazine, which has been traveling to and from the laundromat with me for weeks. (Kindly remember that the premise of this post is that I'm smart, not organized or neat.)

The article that stopped me and captured my attention asks the question, "Do we choose to be happy?' Is happiness just a matter of mind over matter?

Author Marilyn Beck writes that the secret to a happy life is "the following prescription: Allow your pain to exist. Dissolve your pain."

In other words, take some time to really feel your pain so your can get rid of it.

Sound simple? I suppose. And it only took me hundreds of hours of couch time to get here. But yeah, this is what I do.

My best friend used to call my particular brand of self-help "awfulizing." I take what is scaring me or hurting me and carry it through to its worst possible conclusion. I make it as ugly and bleak as possible.

For example: Let's say I lose my job. Now I'm carrying way too much credit card debt than is wise. I'm an old lady in a young person's industry. I have special assessments looming and my friend Barb -- a senior vice president at a competing agency who could and would give me freelance work to tide me over -- retired, so I've lost my Plan B. What will happen to me?

Really, I start by adding every turd I can find to the shit pile. I make it as tall and smelly and disgusting as I can.

Then I work backwards. OK, my mortgage is paid two months in advance. That's a good thing. And I have savings earmarked for emergency, and this would be an emergency, so I have enough to live on for about eight months. Then there's severance and unemployment benefits, so let's say 10 months.

Gal, you can make all your bills for ten months, so calm down! In the space of 10 months I'd have time to find freelance and spread it to a year. Or maybe I'll try my hand at something else. For some reason, I can see myself working for Goodwill. Sorting the stuff that comes in, helping with the pricing. I don't know why, but it's always seemed like a comfortable option for me. Likewise the pet supply store up the street ... So now my thoughts have gone from apocalyptic to optimistic.

See? No matter how bad the thing is, I make it awful to prove to myself I can handle it.

According to Buddha, what I'm doing is reinforcing that "tormenting thoughts are rooted in illusion."

OK. All I know it works.

Another example: If he leaves, I'll die. No, I won't. I'll cry a lot. Eat a lot. Maybe get yet another cat. I'll be lonely and I'll miss him. But I won't die.

You get the idea.

And I'm feeling good about myself right now. My coping skills are O-approved!

Good to know as we slide into August, this blog's designated Happiness Month.

Booing?

I've referenced this a time or two -- back in 2004, I worked on John Kerry's Presidential campaign. From February through November, I stuffed envelopes,* answered phones, wrote letters, attended rallies, made calls, checked and rechecked paperwork† and basically did whatever was asked of me.

How I believed in that man! (Still do.) How certain I was that he was a vastly superior choice to George W. Bush! (Still am.)

I brought more experience than the average volunteer because I'd worked on both Clinton-Gore campaigns. I didn't bring the same zeal to my days as a Clintonista as I did to the Kerry campaign, though. Because in 2004, we were at war and I knew deep in my marrow that John Kerry would be a wiser, more scrupulous commander in chief. The scandal of Abu Gharib rocked me to my core. John Kerry would not preside over human rights violations.

When that campaign didn't end as I wished, I was shattered. To this day, nothing -- no single event in my entire life -- has ever frightened and wounded me like that loss. Because it was so inexplicable and, I feared, catastrophic. How could my fellow Americans get it so wrong? What was wrong with us?

What was wrong with me? Could I have done more? Done better? Contributed more money? Put in more hours?

I helped let John Kerry down. I helped let my country down. I helped re-elect the man who went on to preside over the debacle of Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma. I realize now that was a silly and unproductive way to think. But that's the dark hole I was in. I literally cried every morning -- in the tub, with my tears mixing with the shower spray -- for two months. From November 3, 2004, all the way into the New Year.

It wasn't until I was in Key West with my dear friends that I started to heal. They introduced me, at every holiday party, as "The Gal who worked on the Kerry Campaign. We're so proud of her." Strangers instantly became friends who hugged me and thanked me. And made me feel a little proud of my contribution and less ashamed of my failure. Then I felt free to pray for George W. Bush and my country and get on with finding other ways to advance the liberal agenda.

So why I am resurrecting this old hurt? Because as I've been watching the DNC 2016, I am befuddled. Even offended.

Sanders supporters booed Bernie! 

They booed during the DNC opening prayer, they staged a walk out and did a handful of other childish, self-destructive things. Wah-wah. Get over yourselves. Am I really supposed to believe that Hillary Clinton is farther away from Bernie Sanders than George W. Bush is from John Kerry? Did Hillary Clinton do anything to Bernie Sanders as bad as the "swift boating" John Kerry endured? We haven't got time for this shit, you brats. The GOP nominated Donald Fucking Trump, for pity's sake!

So they reacted out of a shocking level of self involvement. Ok. They're young. Maybe they've never had their hearts broken before. That isn't what shocked me.

I still can't believe they booed Bernie! I now question the sincerity and degree of their belief in their man. Do they truly think this is harder on them than it is on him? He began a campaign that was regarded as an empty protest and ended up with over 40% of the delegates. Don't they get how hard it must be to come so far and so close and then have to endorse his opponent? How could they be so disrespectful of his sacrifice and his hurt?

I end this post with a quote from Bernie Sanders himself:

“It is easy to boo, but it is harder to look your kids in the face if we are living under a Trump presidency. Politics is not easy stuff. You don’t get everything you want tomorrow — ask the people who fought in the civil rights movement.”

*The internet was still rather young back then and snail-mail was the preferred method of communication.

†John Kerry was achingly scrupulous about campaign finance reporting.

Happy birthday!

Today my all-time idol -- and life-long animal lover -- Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis should be turning 87.

Holding Tom Kitten

Riding Sardar

That's Shannon on the right

South Side Girl

The White Sox swept my Cubs in two straight games. Yet it not only doesn't bother me, it feels fitting.

For this week, the DNC opened and the star of the first night was the pride of the South Side. They knew and loved her as Michelle Robinson. You may know her by her married name.

Here's her speech in support of Hillary Clinton. I want to keep it. It made me proud. It made me cry, and I'm not a cryer.

She was eloquent. She was elegant. She was smart. She was right. In Chicago parlance, 773 had 847's back.

Of course, Bernie Sanders supporters think she's wrong. They seem to believe this strong woman is the unwitting puppet of an evil, "rigged" system.

But I'd like to see them to try to say it to her face. This week, the South Side is kicking ass.

It's almost Happy Time

Every year I take the August Happiness Challenge. Here's a brief explanation of the Challenge: "Each day in August you are to post about something that makes *you* happy. Pretty simple. And, it doesn't even have to be every day if you don't want it to be. It's a great way to remind ourselves that there are positive things going on in our lives, our communities, and the world."

You're invited to join me. Visit me with a link to your daily August happy, and I'll come read it. I've found that experiencing other peoples' everyday pleasures is a great mood lifter.

It helps if your August Happiness Challenge posts are marked with an icon. Just something that means "happy" to you. Here are a trio of my past happys.

Sunday Stealling

Sunday Stealing: The Beach Boys' Meme 

1. SURFER GIRL : “I have watched you on the shore, standing by the ocean drawer, do you love me do you surfer girl” Were you ever interested in someone (other than a celebrity) who did not return your interest? Of course! Every boy I loved desperately in high school was a boy who didn't acknowledge my existence.

2. BE TRUE TO YOUR SCHOOL : “So be true to your school now, just like you would for your girl or guy…” Looking back, how do you feel about your high school days? Worst time in my life. It was the 1970s and despite what Donald Trump tries to tell you, America was not "great" then. Nationally we were reeling through Watergate and Vietnam. On the personal front, my immediate and extended family were both unraveling. God help us all, "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" and "You're Having My Baby" were popular. All this was going on, and I was somehow supposed to care about "pep" and homecoming floats? (Oh yeah, and to make it even worse, I was invisible to the older boys I worshipped.) In retrospect, I'm surprised I didn't drink even more.

3. FUN FUN FUN : “…and she’ll have fun fun fun till her daddy takes the T-Bird away…” What was the worst punishment you received as a teenager? Technically, I'm still grounded. But, since both my parents have since died, I'm pretty sure the sentences they imposed are unenforceable.

4. I GET AROUND : “Round round get around, I get around” Where did you go on your last long trip? My last long trip was Christmas 2015 in Key West. That's the concrete buoy that marks the southernmost spot in the continental United States, beside the the last Christmas tree before Cuba.

 5. HELP ME RHONDA : “You gotta help me Rhonda, help me get her off of my mind” What do you do to cheer up after a personal tragedy such as a lost job, power outage or broken relationship? I find that soaking in the tub -- where I allow myself a nice, long cry -- prepares me to face the world again after a setback.

 6. CALIFORNIA GIRLS : “I wish they all could be California girls. The west coast has the sunshine and the girls there get so tan, I dig a French bikini on Hawaiian island dolls, by a palm tree in the sand” Where are the best boys found? I'm not going to answer this. Instead I'm posting the astonishingly kitschy David Lee Roth "California Girls" video. Diamond Dave may have worked hard on the locations, costumes and choreography, but he never bothered to learn the lyrics. Really. Go to 2:35. He sings, "I dig a French bikini on Hawaiian Island coasts." Which is not to say I don't enjoy this video. 



7. SLOOP JOHN B : “I wanna go home, please let me go home, ya ya. Well this is the worst trip, I’ve ever been on…” What is the worst trip you’ve ever been on? My birthday trip to Tampa in 2013 was pretty bad. My cousin Rosemary was going through a tense time trying to sell her house and, in retrospect, probably should have either rescinded her invitation or suggested I stay in a hotel.

8. WOULDN’T IT BE NICE : “I guess the more we talk about it, it makes it harder just to live without it, but let’s talk about it…” What is your biggest wish? I'm counting on an AWESOME AUTUMN. It will begin with the Cubs in the World Series in October. Followed by November, when I get to see that orange misogynist Donald Trump get his ass handed to him by a postmenopausal woman with a big butt and cankles.

9. IN MY ROOM : “There’s a place where I can go and tell my secrets to. In my room. In my room.” What is your favorite thing about your own personal room or space in your home/office? I love reading in my bed, because I never keep anything about current affairs in my bedroom. Currently I've got an a book on my nightstand called Jackie: A Life in Pictures. I can wind down before I doze off by turning the pages and watching Miss Bouvier evolve into an icon. I believe it's important to keep up with what's going on in the world, just not at bedtime.

10. GOD ONLY KNOWS : “You never need to doubt it, I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I feel about you” When was the last time you told a significant other or close relative that you loved them? Hmmm .... the last person I said I loved was neither a significant other or a close relative. My friend Kathleen switched jobs this past week, going from a very secure position with an established company to a start up. I applauded her for following her heart and said, "You know I love and think you can do anything." Does this count?

11. GOOD VIBRATIONS : “My baby has good vibrations, she’s giving me excitations…” When do you get good vibrations? Every time I enter the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field! We just got our tickets for Cubs-Giants over Labor Day weekend. I'm so excited.

12. KOKOMO : “We’ll go to Kokomo. We’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow. That’s where I wanna go…” What is your favorite warm weather destination? I'll go with Key West because 1) I'm returning there this Christmas and 2) it's mentioned in the lyrics.

13. DO IT AGAIN : “Let’s get back together and do it again…” If you could go back in time and gather up your school friends, what would you do again? Fuck to the no. Please reread #2.

Buh-bye!

I just unfriended someone on Facebook. I don't have that many Facebook friends to begin with (65, to be exact). But when I think of it, I hardly consider all 65 of those people "friends" anyway. But at least now Mark isn't one of them.

On Tuesday morning I posted the side-by-side of Melania Trump delivering a portion of Michelle Obama's DNC speech. I didn't do it to slag Mrs. Trump -- in fact, I stated* that I was positive she didn't have anything to do with writing the speech and I felt very sorry for her. I posted it because, as one who writes for a living, I didn't believe it was an accident. Plagiarism is a serious matter for professionals, and we all know how to borrow without crossing that line. My point was, whoever did this crossed that line and knew what they were doing.

Enter Mark. I met him at the beginning of my career. Back in the 1980s, we were both writers. He moved from creative to production early on because he believed there was more money and more opportunity. So I don't think he's been a writer for decades.

First, he told me I was straight up "wrong." On my own page! He maintained it wasn't "stolen," that it was just "common sentiments arranged in a familiar way." No, it was verbatim.

Then he told me "everyone does it," and sited the Barack Obama/Deval Patrick incident (which, of course, wasn't the same thing at all). How intellectually dishonest is that? Um, how could Melania Trump's stealing be just like Barack Obama's stealing if she didn't steal? I told Mark that he had his own page and he really ought to post this stuff there, not on mine.

My cousin, a musician, chimed in TO ME (he's never met Mark) about how serious this was. In the past he and I have talked about how arrangers can't copyright their "charts," and how that's when honor comes into play. While my cousin said nothing negative about Melania Trump, he did call the Trump campaign "a garbage fire." This didn't offend me, and since it's my page, that's all that should matter. Mark, however, got mad and went after my cousin.

I reminded Mark, for the second time, that he has his own page and his own page is the place to post these thoughts. I told him he cannot argue with my family on my page. I said that, if my incendiary comments caused him to forget his manners, he should hide my feed.

No, Melania DID NOT wear Jerry's shirt to the RNC

The very next morning I posted this photo for my friend Tom. He's a massive Seinfeld fan and I was sure it would make him happy. I'm only vaguely aware of the "pirate shirt" episode of Seinfeld because I never liked the show. But I thought it would make Tom smile. Before I had the chance to tag Tom -- I was posting from my phone and it's just not as intuitive as my laptop -- Mark chimed in that the picture was photoshopped. I KNOW THAT! I do this for a living, remember? Besides, the day before, in my original Melania post, I included a photo of her in the dress she actually wore. Apparently, now Mark thinks I'm stupid.

And if I'm so stupid, why is he tracking my feed so closely? I don't think the photo was up five minutes before he "corrected" it.

And so Mark is gone.

It wasn't just about politics, though politics are what brought out the worst in him. Back in the 1980s, he used to flirt with me a lot. It made me uncomfortable because he was married -- you know how every group has that guy who married younger than everyone else -- and I was involved with someone. I thought perhaps I was imagining it, because I've never been that confident in my looks and Mark's wife is a cute little blonde.

However, when he moved to Texas, an incident happened that made me wary. In 1988, I was in Dallas on business and called him and his wife. They suggested I stay for the weekend and they'd show me the town. I had a motel room -- after all, I had flown down there for a meeting -- and extended my stay on my own dime.

Mark insisted I stay with them, in their home, for the weekend. The drive would be too onerous, it would give them a chance to show off their new house and two sons, and it would save me money. He was so adamant that I gave in.

We had a nice time. Mostly I remember touring Southfork and swimming in their pool. After his wife went to bed, Mark and I were alone in the living room. He told me about how they didn't have sex anymore, and how she refused to see a doctor or therapist. EEK! I'm a spinster! I know nothing about marriage! Get me out of here!

The next morning, we all made small talk about the big storm that crashed overnight. Mark said it would be fun for him and his wife to "adopt" me. Then he could cuddle me when it stormed and hey, maybe even wash my back in the tub. This was said in front of me to his wife! Clearly I was being used as some kind of catalyst for a his/her argument I wanted no part of. EEK! Get me to the airport!

I only ever saw him once after that. It was during the OJ trial. I met him for a drink when he was up in Chicago on business. One drink, 20 years ago.

Yet as soon as I joined Facebook, he wanted me to be his "friend."

We knew each other well 35 years ago. We saw each other for 90 minutes 20 years ago. We are not "friends."

And he's a RWNJ. And he follows me way too closely. And he picked on my cool and very creative cousin.

So I unfriended him. I very nearly shot him a final message: "I'm fat now, you know." I bet if he knew that, losing me wouldn't bother him at all.

*Erroneously, it turns out.

Surf City

Saturday 9: Surf City (1963)


1) When the song was written, "Surf City" was a fictitious town. Tell us a song that is set in a real place. How about my favorite city, which was immortalized not once but twice by Frank Sinatra? In The Joker's Wild he sang that Chicago was "a toddlin' town." Then in Robin and the Seven Hoods, he declared it "his kind of town." Here's the clip from the latter. I love his voice, and his ridiculous green jacket. (Oh, hell, I just love Frank.)


 
2) In the song, Jan and Dean sing about riding around in a 1934 station wagon, which means the car was 29 years old when the song was recorded. How old is your vehicle? No car

3) Are you good on a surf board? Never tried. Yet I know for sure I would suck.

4) When you spend time out in the sun, are you careful about applying sunscreen?  Not as careful as I should be.

5) Dean's original partner was Arnie Ginsburg. When Dean was drafted into the Army, Arnie didn't feel like waiting so he abandoned show business and went back to college. Today he holds several patents. What is something you wish someone would invent? I live on the top floor, and our building laundry room is on the first floor. I wish there a way I could tell whether machines are available before I tromp all the way down there, laden with dirty clothes and detergent and dryer sheets.

6) Jan was a perpetual student who juggled college with recording. He not only graduated from UCLA, he completed two years of medical school at the UC Irvine School of Medicine. Have you ever considered going back to school? Sure. I daydream about a lot of things. But I doubt I'll do it ... at least not while I'm still working full time. I can see myself going back after I retire.

7) In 1966, Jan was sidelined by a serious car accident. During the years that he was unable to perform, partner Dean became a graphic artist. He designed logos and album covers for Steve Martin, Diana Ross and others. Do you feel you respond most to words, pictures, or music? Words, then music.
 
8) In 1978, CBS made a TV movie about Jan and Dean. If they approached you about a made-for-TV movie of your life, who would you like to play you? Carrie Fisher. We have similar sensibilities and are the same vintage.

9) Random question:  Growing up, how did you learn about the birds and the bees? (From books/the web, from parents, from your friends...) Officially, from my mother. But I got more useful information -- and a lot of useless misinformation -- from my friends.

 

But now I know and I'm miserable about it

My condo building has been bedeviled by bedbugs since Memorial Day. I'm luckier than many of my neighbors. I was bitten, but it happened in the laundry room, or maybe one of the carpeted hallways, not in my actual home. This unit has been checked twice -- once visually, once by canines -- so I know I'm bug free.

It hasn't been all bad. No, really. Yes, it will cost us each about $1200, when all is said in done, to rid ourselves of the pests. Yes, I've been forced to haul my laundry to the washeteria every week, which is an expensive and time consuming pain in the ass. But the attendant inspections forced me to do much-needed housework and rid myself of some clutter.

Not everyone is faring as well as I am. At this week's condo association meeting, the exterminator took our questions and said one unit was having ongoing bug trouble. Unit 208. Flipping through his notes, the exterminator told us he was surprised the owner isn't the one who reported the problem because the infestation is so great. The mattress and box spring had to be disposed of, as did the sofa, which had so many bugs it "nearly moved."

Unit 208 has been treated twice -- first with heat and then with chemicals. In the vast majority of cases, bed bugs are eradicated by heat. Yet the bed bugs are reluctant to leave Unit 207. Seems the owner is cooperating with the exterminator, but only to an extent. There is still an issue of "clutter" in the unit, and the owner is reluctant or physically unable to fix this problem.

The owner of 208 is well-known to me. He's The Saddest Boy Ever. Now in his mid-40s, he spent many years caring for his debilitated mother, who died in 2012. The condo is paid for, but he still has to come up with the monthly assessments and property taxes. He works part-time at Macy's and probably makes less than $15,000/year. But he has health problems that prevent him from working full time.

And much of the "clutter" that's getting in the way of bug treatment belonged to his late mother. I was shocked to learn that he's been living with her "stuff" for four years. And now her clothes, etc., are infested.

The woman who lives across the hall in 207 is furious. A working mom, alone with her little boy, this condo is a major investment for her. Her young son has suffered bug bites. She wants this problem fixed, NOW! Her home has been treated twice, too, but the bugs are making their way across the hall. She put tape under door to catch them as evidence.

I understand her anger, I do. But the Saddest Boy's issues touch me deeply. Can you imagine living in an apartment overstuffed with your dead mother's stuff? It must be oppressive and depressing. And how horrible to see your mother's belongings taken over by creepy crawlers!

To make it worse, his unit has to be bug free by mid-August. The exterminator has been very liberal in how he interprets his warranty for service and promises to keep treating 208 as often as is feasible, at no extra cost to us, even though the treatments may not have been successful because of the Saddest Boy's lackluster cooperation. But it's a 60 day warranty, and come Day 61 he has to begin charging us again. He's running a business here, after all.

The Saddest Boy wasn't at the owner's meeting, so he didn't hear the conversation. He doesn't know that, if he doesn't up his performance, the Village might be called upon to intervene. He can be forced to dispose of his own furniture and belongings and have his carpeting removed because he poses a health hazard. He didn't hear that, after the warranty is up, there is talk of him having to pay for the treatments himself -- even though he can't afford them. And that would mean he'll lose his home.

After all, he has confessed to me that he has trouble making the $275/mo. assessments now. I don't know how he'll come up with the additional $1200 we now each owe on top of that. And, once the warranty is up, he'll be responsible for each treatment (up to $1000 a pop) that's required to kill the bugs.

This makes me beyond sad. I have toyed with offering to help The Saddest Boy go through his mother's stuff except:

1) I don't want to touch any of it. After all, I've been lucky to have avoided the bugs until now. I don't want to track them back into my unit.

2) Clearly there's some psychological pathology here. During my long and storied career as a slob, my messiness never reached these proportions. He must be experiencing bites! If the bugs weren't feeding on him, they wouldn't stay in the unit. So clearly, he's not cooperating because he can't. And I'm not equipped -- intellectually or emotionally -- to help him.

3) In the past he has expressed romantic interest in me, and I don't want to embarrass or mislead him.

But I'm miserable and I can't stop thinking about it. He's my neighbor and he's suffering.