For the past several days, every time one of us opens the door leading to the basement, a little brown mouse scurries down from the top step, cuts right into the bathroom, and then disappears under the door into the garage. I usually chase him with whatever’s in my hand (trying to trap him with a glass or swat him with a stack of clients’ medical records), but the little brown bastard is too agile to even come close.

Yesterday, Pretty Bride decided that, since it was the one night of the week we’d both be home, it was time to take the fight to the mice. We pulled the cars out of the garage and started looking for their home, which appeared to be near a giant bag of grass seed with a corner nibbled open. Piles and piles of grass seed in the corner of the garage, mixed with stacks of mouse turds (think grains of rice, colored black).

Then I pulled back the insulation from the wall and nearly vomited at the smell:  mouse urine, mouse birthing secretions, mouse fornication residue, more mouse turds.

A fat one scurried up the wall as I was vacuuming up the turds and grass seed; I aimed the nozzle at it and frantically tried to suck its well-girthed body into the flexible chord.  Fail.  He did a u-turn and bolted back to the concrete before sliding under the door to the bathroom.

We put glue traps along all four walls of the garage, catching another baby within 5 minutes of putting them out.  Stupid baby.

I walked over to it and watched it squirm and squeak as it wrestled against the adhesive gripping its little bastard mouse feet and its little bastard mouse side.

Me:  Does that feel good, little vermin?
Mouse:  *squeak*
Me:  How do you think it feels to be trapped in an unsellable house full of you and your little fucker mouse friends, huh?
Mouse:  *squeak!*
Me:  I got glue traps all over this garage.  I’m gonna catch your momma, your papa, and all your little mouse siblings.  All y’all are going to spend the rest of your sorry, short lives on trays of glue in this hot ass garage.  Thirsty.  Hungry.  And pissing all over yourself.  You excited about the next few days?
Mouse:

This morning, I barreled downstairs to check out all the traps.

Nothing.

Just the baby from last night, lying motionless on its side in the trap next to my car.  I trudged back upstairs to get ready for work.

I was about 2 miles down the road when my phone rang.

Me:  Hello?
Pretty Bride:  Did you look at the traps?  I’m afraid to look.
Me:  Yeah.  Nothing but the baby from last night.
PB:  Do you think they’re laughing at you from their new mouse home?  I bet they are.
Me:  I don’t know… let me know next time you drive your Odyssey.
PB:  Ass.

Filed under: Neighborhood, mice | 9 Comments

Actual emails from the past 10 minutes (I didn’t bother correcting typos and errors):

Me:  We had a couple showings the past couple weekends.  Any feedback?

My Realtor:  Hi, I spoke to Debbie already and she let me know your place was too small for her clients. They make independent films and needed a bigger space to do green screen work. The agent thought it showed well and said it was a nice little house. She also liked the sewing area. In have not heard from the other agent yet. Mike
Sent from my iPhone

Me:  That’s okay…pornographers probably have shitty credit anyway, since they never report their income and have raging coke habits.  And where the hell do they get off calling it a “nice little house”?  It’s not made of gingerbread.  Fuckers (pun intended).  What about the other showing?

My Realtor:  The house was #4 on their list of the ones they liked. They buyers need to sell their house in Lagrange before they can do anything. They are also looking at newer construction further out where they can get more house for the money. They liked the privacy of the backyard and felt that they carpet needed to be replaced and the walls painted. Especially because of the crayons. They liked the space. The agent thought the price was still too high.

We really should look at bringing it down to get more traffic. Let me know your thoughts.  Thanks, Mike
Sent from my iPhone

Me:  My thoughts are that that sucks balls.  I like the crayon marks on the walls–it’s why I won’t paint over them.  You know, those walls are going to worth HUNDREDS of dollars one day when Maddie’s teaching art somewhere where all the kids smoke weed and the all the professors ride bikes to work.  Lower the price again?  We move it another $5k and we’re $100k from where we started.  Can’t you reach deeper into your magic realtor hat and come up with something besides ‘bringing it (the price) down?’ Because that doesn’t appeal to me.  Maybe we offer lease purchase?  When does your contract end, anyway?

I’m still awaiting a response.

Filed under: Neighborhood, Rants, housing market, moving | 40 Comments

Maddie: Why did you say “shit,” Daddy?
Me: I didn’t…I said “shoot.”
Maddie: Shit!
Me: Shoot! It was shoot! We don’t say the other word.
Maddie: Then why did you say shoot?
Me: Because I parked in the wrong place…somewhere I wasn’t supposed to park.
Maddie: Daddy can’t park!
Me: Yeah, I’m a shitty parker. I mean. Shooty? Hell.  Don’t tell anyone about this conversation, ok?

Filed under: Baby, i can't park for shit, profanity | 26 Comments

Only the elite, high speed, squared away freedom fighters get to choose locations like Honolulu and Seattle for their Reserves/Guard active duty days. And since I finagled my way into just such an arrangement, someone in Washington must think me an elite, high speed, squared away freedom fighter. I can’t argue.

After flying from NYC to Atlanta at the conclusion of BlogHer, I came home for 3 hours before flying from Atlanta to Seattle for a week of training at the joint Army/Air Force installation about 30 minutes south of the airport.  After the first day of what service members call “death by powerpoint,” I headed north to pick up Dave from Blogography and meet Whit Honea at Pike’s Place Market in Seattle.  Having missed Whit at BlogHer this year, I was happy to see him again.  As for Dave?  I just saw him in Atlanta, but hey, he’s good company regardless.

Seattle isn’t very touristy, but we did ride the monorail to the Space Needle, and we stopped in at Starbucks’ “alpha chapter” for a drink after dinner at Ivar’s and before drinks at Von’s.

Dinner was a bit scary.  Apparently, the local fowl don’t take too kindly to strangers or children.

Whit and Dave seemed to think this amusing, but I didn’t particularly enjoy having this white warrior staring at my neck during the entire meal.  Look at his friend divebombing the ducking, running child.  Is this what y’all call entertaining?  Sick sons of bitches.

The Needle was cool…good views and a military discount.  Need I request more?

And who wouldn’t be excited about seeing the first Starbucks (which I can now add to my list of “first of the chains” along with KFC and Chick-fil-A)?

The second night, Dave and I went to Ray’s for a bromantic dinner and stroll along Alki beach.

One would have to be made of lead to not feel the love that night.  ‘Cause it was strong.  Strong like the smell inside my black 325i that July day in 1998 when I left a bag of garbage in the trunk all day, and it sat in an uncovered blacktop parking lot outside IBM for 8 hours.

On Wednesday night, I decided I should take advantage of our close proximity to Oregon and visit Portland, so that I could drop then number of states I haven’t visited to 5 (MN, NH, VT, RI, CT).  I made the mistake of mentioning my plan to drive 2.5 hours south to the Lieutenant from my base who’d flown out there with me, and he invited himself along.

Dinner was at Salty’s.  It was not bromantic.  In fact, it was annoying. The loquacious Lieutenant did not shut the fuck up for more than 30 seconds from the time we left base through the time we sat down to eat.  His soliloquies included such scintillating monologues as this:

Lt:  Look at that orange truck, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Uh huh.
Lt:  Look at that convertible, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Yep.
Lt:  Look at that bridge, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  I reckon.
Lt:  Look at that sign for Mount St. Helens–that’s the tallest mountain in North America, right?  Let’s pull over and see it!
Me:  I think losing its top pretty much nullified whatever its height used to be, don’t you think?
Lt:  What?  Oh look at that motorcycle, man.  That’s crazy!

Over and over I thought to myself, “Why didn’t I lie and just say I had more client meetings in Seattle tonight.  Why?”

We pulled over to see Mt St Helens, only to learn that one has to drive another 40-something miles to get close enough to really see it.

Can you see the blood dripping out of my ears?  It’s there.

I actually captured on film a few seconds of silence.  See?  Here it is …

“Have another drink!” I kept saying.

After dinner and beers from an Irish pub, we got some Voodoo Doughnuts.  I chose a doughnut with crushed Oreos and peanut butter on top.  It was awesome like freedom is awesome to a recent parolee.

Someone in line told the Lt that Portland leads the country in strip clubs, so the next hour went like this:

Lt:  Hey look, a strip club–let’s go in there!
Me:  No.
Lt:  C’mon…most in the nation!  That’s crazy.
Me:  Atlanta has strip clubs.  Why don’t you just go when we’re home?
Lt:  Look at that one–it’s upstairs and says ‘exotic’.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Go in, then.  I’ll wait for you.
Lt:  Man, I’m from Barnesville, Georgia.  I can’t go into a strip club in Portland by myself.  That’s crazy!
Me:  I think you can.  Go.
Lt:  Oh man.
Me:  Go.

He wouldn’t go.  Finally, around 12:30am, we headed north.  I spent most of the drive slapping myself so I’d stay awake.  At one point, I pulled over at a state-sponsored rest stop advertising free coffee.  Thank you, State of Washington.  You saved my life.

Thursday evening, the group who was up for military classes went out together for dinner.  On the way back to base, a few of us pulled into a casino.  In two hours of playing $5 per hand blackjack, I won over $200.  I won 12 hands in a row at one point.  At least 15 folks gathered around to watch me play the last 30 minutes or so.  It was glorious.

Under the “surreal” category, I met–again–the guy who replaced me in July 2003 in Iraq:  i.e., his arrival meant my going home.  At that point in my life, I’d never been happier to see someone get off a plane as I was when he arrived.  When we realized whom we were staring at, he said,

Him:  Wow.  You look really different.
Me:  When you last saw me, I was in my 20s, had a shaved head, had no children, exercised every day, tanned every day, and had yet to start practicing law.  I was a completely different person.

I enjoyed hearing about how his 4-month rotation went after my team left.

Finally, Friday came, and I went to the airport.  I breezed through returning my rental car, went up to the baggage drop (after checking in online), and begged to go out on an earlier flight…and sit next to occupied seats.  I got it–front row in coach on a plane leaving an hour before my scheduled one.

I texted the Lt: lucky me!  got bumped to an earlier flight.  see you next month.
He wrote back: that’s crazy!

No, not crazy.  Smart and proactive.  See how a week of military powerpoint slides made me a better officer?

Filed under: Military, Travels, portland, seattle | 21 Comments

I think I love New York more for what it represents than what it is.  It’s where I went for spring break in law school.  It’s where I landed within hours of taking the bar exam.  It’s where I went AWOL while deployed to Andrews AFB, MD to get away from a jackass supervisor.  So when the opportunity to go back for BlogHer came up, I was all over it.

My first objective was to see my friend since the 3rd grade, Jeremy.  While entering his building, we ran into his downstairs neighbor.

Jeremy:  “Mr Thompkins, this is Michael.  I’ve known him since I was 8.”

I love that I know people who can say that.  More than chicken wings.

My next objective was to replace the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned:  the black Campers I bought in SoHo in 2004.

Done.

Then, it was dinner near Jeremy’s place in the West Village and off to his friend’s art exhibit.

It was naked chicks with bloody faces and bloody girlie parts.  I think the message was that the forced nudity of women is like violence against women.  Or that chicks who get naked bleed a lot, since they don’t have layers between their skin and the rough edges one encounters when doing womanly things.  Yes, that’s it.

An exhibit about women and art was a great preface to a conference I was slated to attend a couple days later.  Inspired, I made my own art.  See how artsy I am?

Jeremy had to shoot at 8 the next morning, so we returned to his apartment around midnight.  I decided I must go back out.  And out I went.

My work wife was in town that day, and I figured some of the nocturnal BlogHer attenders would be, too.  Within the hour, five of us were at a bar somewhere near the Hilton.  We stayed out til sunrise.

The next day I went by the MOMA for some more questionable art, like this boat of purple penises:

I had to twitpic this thing and ask for an explanation.  The best response was “Barney’s pubes?”  Yes.  Barney’s pubes.

That night, I attended a small party at the Ralph Lauren headquarters and met Ralph’s son, who’s an executive in charge of some stuff and told interesting stories about how his father started this company that sells lots of great clothes, a few of which I purchased just a few days prior!

See how sophisticated I look?

Afterward, I went to the Peoples Party, where, just like last year, I spent the bulk of the evening in the ladies’ room with Jenny and friends (after finally meeting this lady’s husband).

A bunch of us went out to a nearby Irish pub, where feelings of affection for the female blogging community further blossomed.

The next day, I attended a session or two, received a nice poem from a woman at a pink typewriter, attended the Aiming Low party, and then had drinks in SoHo with a few old and new Twitter friends.

Then a bunch of us ended up at a karaoke bar where I lost my voice for the next 4 days.  There are videos.  I’m not going to link to them.  Ah, screw it…yes, I will.

At some point, I finally met Faiqa, whom I greatly enjoyed getting to know, until she declared all over Twitter that I have “serial killer glasses.”

I met my attorney blogging friend, and I actually had a couple kind folks seek ME out to say “hi!”

I spoke to a couple Atlanta blogging friends whom I never seem to see except when we’re out of town.

I attended more sessions Friday (sitting by one of my favorite persons online), met a couple dad bloggers (the latter taking a tremendous amount of coaxing to come up to the Hilton, as he wasn’t attending the conference but lives in town) I’ve wanted to meet for a while, had dinner with my childhood friend and his sister, and then attended Sparklecorn, where the pictures indicate I danced during a song or two.

After the Cheeseburgher party that followed, a bunch of us hung out in somebody’s hotel room until my usual bedtime of 4.

I caught up with my favorite resident of the United Kingdom.

And most importantly, I spoke at length with a young boy’s mom named Chrissie who inspired a run and a fundraiser.

And she tearfully thanked me for supporting BHJ’s run for her son.  At which point I realized:  maybe the blogging thing is more than silly stories, sleepless nights, and shitty iphone pictures.  Maybe…just maybe…it’s changing lives.

Filed under: Blogging, Travels, blogher 2010, new york city, tutus for tanner | 31 Comments