When I’m dining out, one of my most favorite things is to watch someone have a birthday. The candles, the ice cream, the singing wait staff. It’s nice to see people having a good time, pretending to be embarrassed as they revel in their 33 seconds of “happy birthday” eatery fame. At least, it used to be one of my favorite things.
It very rapidly ceased being so a few days ago, when our family was eating out at a family restaurant. My husband had taken my stepson to the bathroom, and my stepdaughter and I were perusing the menu. Suddenly, six faux-cheerful servers bounced out of the kitchen clapping and singing while handing a teenaged girl an ice cream sundae. As I smiled on, glad for her happiness, my stepdaughter screeched:
“Well, it’s the BIG GIRL’S birthday!”
Now, if you’re thinking “big girl” along the “not a kid” lines, you probably would have been the only person in that restaurant that did not shoot me a look of sheer, withering hate. Very clearly, I explained to her that all things do not need to be voiced. Even then, to my dismay, no amount of wishinghopingpraying was going to prod the seat cushion to open up and swallow me whole. It rapidly became clear that our dinner was going to consist of being glared at by an entire red boothed room full of people. Which (in my defense) was just dumb, as I wear a size sixteen. Seriously, I'm a fat ass. So it’s not as though I’m teaching my children to voice disapproval over appearances. Rather than ignore my stepdaughter’s “out of the mouth of babes” snafu, repeated disdain for our general existence was made clear by all those sitting within earshot.
I could hear the whispers, ranging from my inability to teach my stepdaughter appropriate public place conversation to my ten month old son’s shrill excitement over my husband’s return from the restroom. Then came the stares of inconceivability as my stepdaughter handed me her flip flop to fix and my stepson asked the waitress for French fries for dinner (like we’d have actually let him eat just those. Shut up.) After the food arrived, we were met with open hostility from tables two through thirty six as I cut up the youngest a hot dog and an apple.
Now, I’m an assertive individual, and I happen to pride myself on cheerfully waving at the people (ahem…big stupidheads) that are rudely condemnatory of my less than perfect parenting. But on this particular occasion, for some reason, I became so uncomfortable that I asked for to go boxes and retreated to the safety of my car. Why was I so uncomfortable? What did we do that was so wrong? How do I avoid this situation in the future?
And, if any of you horrible, mean, judgmental people are reading this now, if that hot dog and apple dinner for my baby made you think I was a bad parent...well, you should have seen the entire can of fruit cocktail he ate yesterday. So there. Fuck off.
25 July 2009
26 June 2009
Welcome Home-ish
The Move has happened.
And I didn’t capitalize the “t” in the just because it was at the beginning of the sentence. It is truly that important. It is capitalized for normal reasons, but also in an A.A. Milne word of significance sense.
Here is a list of things this week that made me want to become a cutter:
1. I drove from Richmond, VA to an hour past Baltimore, MD with a six year old with a toothache, a pissy (bored and teething) nine month old, two cats, various must have living items, a dying Zune, and a flat Amp energy drink.
2. I was the follower rather than the leader, even though I had the GPS. Man, testosterone rocks my socks off.
3. My four year old and six year old will not, under any circumstances, quit bitching at each other.
4. The basement in this house covers the same space as the top level of the house, so it sounds like we’re walking around in a mobile home that is teetering perilously over the (very echo-y) cavernous hole to hell. (Which I didn't even belive in until I found out that it was under my house.)
5. I found out what it’s like to try and pass a tractor on a country road. I also found out what it’s like to have a tractor driver think it’s funny to make you try and pee your pants while you’re in your car on the country road.
6. It took twenty minutes to explain to my stepdaughter how horses can be so pretty to look at, and so foul to smell.
7. It took another ten minutes to explain why cows and horses smell the same. And to explain why they live near us.
8. Everything out here costs five dollars more than anything in the south.
9. I have boxes all over my house, PMS, a dishwasher that takes 16.7 hours to cycle, and a kid who’s learned how to make his Johnny Jump Up into a swing.
10. I have no booze anywhere in this house. I’m thisclose to drinking Listerine and taking a Zanax.
And I didn’t capitalize the “t” in the just because it was at the beginning of the sentence. It is truly that important. It is capitalized for normal reasons, but also in an A.A. Milne word of significance sense.
Here is a list of things this week that made me want to become a cutter:
1. I drove from Richmond, VA to an hour past Baltimore, MD with a six year old with a toothache, a pissy (bored and teething) nine month old, two cats, various must have living items, a dying Zune, and a flat Amp energy drink.
2. I was the follower rather than the leader, even though I had the GPS. Man, testosterone rocks my socks off.
3. My four year old and six year old will not, under any circumstances, quit bitching at each other.
4. The basement in this house covers the same space as the top level of the house, so it sounds like we’re walking around in a mobile home that is teetering perilously over the (very echo-y) cavernous hole to hell. (Which I didn't even belive in until I found out that it was under my house.)
5. I found out what it’s like to try and pass a tractor on a country road. I also found out what it’s like to have a tractor driver think it’s funny to make you try and pee your pants while you’re in your car on the country road.
6. It took twenty minutes to explain to my stepdaughter how horses can be so pretty to look at, and so foul to smell.
7. It took another ten minutes to explain why cows and horses smell the same. And to explain why they live near us.
8. Everything out here costs five dollars more than anything in the south.
9. I have boxes all over my house, PMS, a dishwasher that takes 16.7 hours to cycle, and a kid who’s learned how to make his Johnny Jump Up into a swing.
10. I have no booze anywhere in this house. I’m thisclose to drinking Listerine and taking a Zanax.
Parental Supervision Recommended.
Not to be eaten. Not for use by children under the age of eight.
So states the label of the Bubble Yum Chap stick my four year old ate yesterday morning.
Shit. I really screwed that one up, huh?
Everyone raises an eyebrow at labels on products that warn us away from doing things that those endowed with common sense would never do. Not once have I had a yen to blow dry my hair while showering, inhale the contents of a can of Raid, or put KY Jelly on my toast. And I always wonder “who on earth would do these things”? But I suppose that there is always that guy, the one person that makes it necessary for corporations to waste ink on a tag we’re going to remove immediately upon purchasing the object it’s attached to. Turns out that in this case, my stepson was that guy.
The first morning in our new house, I was awakened by the sound of our middle child vomiting.
Awesome.
As any parent would, I rushed to comfort him. I was stopped mid backrub, however, by the large pink chunks that he had projected forth. When I asked him what he’d eaten that was pink, he replied with:
“I don’t know, Sanny, I was sleeping.”
Hmmm.
Shortly afterward, my stepdaughter did an irate Tom Cruise-esque slide into the bathroom with her brand new tube of lip accessory eaten all the way down to the little plastic stick. With her lip shaking and all the rage a six year old is capable of mustering, she handed it to me.
Needless to say, the watermelon Jolly Rancher tube was considered a very sorry replacement.
So states the label of the Bubble Yum Chap stick my four year old ate yesterday morning.
Shit. I really screwed that one up, huh?
Everyone raises an eyebrow at labels on products that warn us away from doing things that those endowed with common sense would never do. Not once have I had a yen to blow dry my hair while showering, inhale the contents of a can of Raid, or put KY Jelly on my toast. And I always wonder “who on earth would do these things”? But I suppose that there is always that guy, the one person that makes it necessary for corporations to waste ink on a tag we’re going to remove immediately upon purchasing the object it’s attached to. Turns out that in this case, my stepson was that guy.
The first morning in our new house, I was awakened by the sound of our middle child vomiting.
Awesome.
As any parent would, I rushed to comfort him. I was stopped mid backrub, however, by the large pink chunks that he had projected forth. When I asked him what he’d eaten that was pink, he replied with:
“I don’t know, Sanny, I was sleeping.”
Hmmm.
Shortly afterward, my stepdaughter did an irate Tom Cruise-esque slide into the bathroom with her brand new tube of lip accessory eaten all the way down to the little plastic stick. With her lip shaking and all the rage a six year old is capable of mustering, she handed it to me.
Needless to say, the watermelon Jolly Rancher tube was considered a very sorry replacement.
29 May 2009
Just Wait A Minute... (Written by my Stepmommy-in-Crime)
A good friend of mine (who doesn't normally write) brought this up. I'd hate for her awesome opinion to go unheard, because I agree with it wholeheartedly. Yes, I'm a bit unilateral when it comes to the stepmommy front, but dammit, it's cuz I am one. So There.
"I'd like to clear things up here. I run into people on the street everyday who look at me with disgust because I'm a step mom. I recognize this look, it's the same look I gave National Guard or Reserve members when I was in the Army. It is the "You only have the kids on the weekend, you're not their real mom, so why are you whining." That is all fine and dandy if you're into being a stuck up snob that doesn't want to get to know the real person. That's cool. But first let me bring you up to speed before you spew your judgemental crapola all over me. I will make a list for better understanding. Maybe after this I will make a sign to wear out and about.
1.) I have my kids full time, that's right, seven days a week 365 days a year. How did this happen? No, the mother did not die, in fact she is fully alive and kicking in Illinois, she just has no interest in raising her own kids.
2.) I AM mommy, please do not correct my children when they call me that. Their bio-mom ditched them over a year ago and I was left to clean up the pieces and mend the broken hearts.
3.) Just because I'm a step mom please don't look at me like I'm a home wreaking tramp, I did not break up their marriage, they did.
4.) Give the weekend warrior step mom's a break. My best friend (what up sandra) is one and they have it just as hard, if not harder, with their step kids, because unlike my situation their step kids will probably never consider them a permanent addition and therefore never share their love as much as their step mom does.
5.) Just because I'm a step mom doesn't automatically mean I'm evil or secretly plot my step kids' demise. I love them no less than I would if I squeezed them out myself.
6.) Don't tell me I can't discipline them because they are not "my kids." Please refer to point number two and remember that they are.
7.) Please do not try and give me motherhood tips. I had a mother my self and gosh darn it if I didn't learn a thing or two from watching her growing up. Thank you for your concern but I know when my kid scraps his knee that I am in fact supposed to clean it before I put the band-aid on.
8.) Here's some other things I know: children's Tylenol is a fever reducer, boys will be boys, kisses don't always fix everything, one day they will tell me I'm not their mom (please stop reminding me...for real, I hate hearing that) baths should not be scalding hot, they need three square meals a day, a yes I do know how to do laundry I've been doing it since I was twelve.
9.) Stop thinking that since they are in fact my step kids that they don't cost as much money. Please see number one again and as for weekend step moms they still have to buy extra foods, bedroom furniture and clothes for them too.
10.) Just because you are a bio-mom please don't think that you know what I'm going through. You don't. You had nine months to get ready to be a mom I have about 4.5 seconds. You're kids will never tell you that you're not their mom, their loyalty will always lay with you and you will never have to deal with crying children because another mother doesn't try and be involved in their lives. You do not know what I am going through and your lucky one family johnny will never know what my kids have to go through.
Well that's all I have right now, I hope you have all learned something from this and that you will think next time you want to be judgemental to a step mother try and put yourself in our shoes and maybe realize that it's not as easy and la de da as you think it is."
"I'd like to clear things up here. I run into people on the street everyday who look at me with disgust because I'm a step mom. I recognize this look, it's the same look I gave National Guard or Reserve members when I was in the Army. It is the "You only have the kids on the weekend, you're not their real mom, so why are you whining." That is all fine and dandy if you're into being a stuck up snob that doesn't want to get to know the real person. That's cool. But first let me bring you up to speed before you spew your judgemental crapola all over me. I will make a list for better understanding. Maybe after this I will make a sign to wear out and about.
1.) I have my kids full time, that's right, seven days a week 365 days a year. How did this happen? No, the mother did not die, in fact she is fully alive and kicking in Illinois, she just has no interest in raising her own kids.
2.) I AM mommy, please do not correct my children when they call me that. Their bio-mom ditched them over a year ago and I was left to clean up the pieces and mend the broken hearts.
3.) Just because I'm a step mom please don't look at me like I'm a home wreaking tramp, I did not break up their marriage, they did.
4.) Give the weekend warrior step mom's a break. My best friend (what up sandra) is one and they have it just as hard, if not harder, with their step kids, because unlike my situation their step kids will probably never consider them a permanent addition and therefore never share their love as much as their step mom does.
5.) Just because I'm a step mom doesn't automatically mean I'm evil or secretly plot my step kids' demise. I love them no less than I would if I squeezed them out myself.
6.) Don't tell me I can't discipline them because they are not "my kids." Please refer to point number two and remember that they are.
7.) Please do not try and give me motherhood tips. I had a mother my self and gosh darn it if I didn't learn a thing or two from watching her growing up. Thank you for your concern but I know when my kid scraps his knee that I am in fact supposed to clean it before I put the band-aid on.
8.) Here's some other things I know: children's Tylenol is a fever reducer, boys will be boys, kisses don't always fix everything, one day they will tell me I'm not their mom (please stop reminding me...for real, I hate hearing that) baths should not be scalding hot, they need three square meals a day, a yes I do know how to do laundry I've been doing it since I was twelve.
9.) Stop thinking that since they are in fact my step kids that they don't cost as much money. Please see number one again and as for weekend step moms they still have to buy extra foods, bedroom furniture and clothes for them too.
10.) Just because you are a bio-mom please don't think that you know what I'm going through. You don't. You had nine months to get ready to be a mom I have about 4.5 seconds. You're kids will never tell you that you're not their mom, their loyalty will always lay with you and you will never have to deal with crying children because another mother doesn't try and be involved in their lives. You do not know what I am going through and your lucky one family johnny will never know what my kids have to go through.
Well that's all I have right now, I hope you have all learned something from this and that you will think next time you want to be judgemental to a step mother try and put yourself in our shoes and maybe realize that it's not as easy and la de da as you think it is."
19 May 2009
Tick, Tock...
They were all three feet tall, and in white tutus. The edge of the tulle glittered with sequins, and their tiny crowns sparkled in the light. With tears I shouldn’t have had in my eyes, I watched the three year old ballet class dance bashfully to the “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies”. I dared not share the knot in my stomach with my husband. Instead, I waited patiently for it to be the six year old class’s turn, and watched proudly as my stepdaughter jazz-rocked it out to Hannah Montana.
“I think my clock is ticking again”, my friend said to me as she folded the third shirt in a six foot tall pile of laundry. “When I was still pregnant, I even told my husband to remind me of the way I felt right then should I want another kid. But now, I’m just not sure.”
I dropped my cappuccino. Could someone else feel the same way I do?
Baby Einstein babbled in the background in languages I don’t speak. Her eldest son slamming the swing seat up and down, my son screaming while gleefully flinging Cheerios, her youngest son bobble-heading in his exersaucer. We constantly discuss the rigors of pregnancy, the pain of childbirth, and the monotony of milk and finger paint stained child rearing. We feel the relief in being the producers of boys, the lack of slutty children’s clothing, the problems that excessive estrogen in a household can bring, and the fear of teenage pregnancy.
Suddenly, there is an unspoken understanding that those things need not be discussed right now. It’d be much more interesting to toy with the idea of another child, maybe one bringing a bit of femininity into our homes.
My son is still learning to remain in a sitting position by himself, and hasn’t yet started on third foods. My three year old stepson loves princesses, and my six year old stepdaughter beams from ear to ear when you give her something pink. Somehow, the void isn’t filled. I remind myself that in addition to my son, I have been blessed with stepmotherhood. It would be selfish to want more, wouldn’t it? It would be irresponsible to bring another child into the world with the economic uncertainties that plague the nation, and the unfamiliar territory we will be charting after my husband leaves the Army, right? Raising kids is the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced, and I’m not even 9 months into it! The heavy feelings of fear and self doubt fill my chest and shoulders.
But, somehow, I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that a tiny pink bow or twelve would be nice….
“I think my clock is ticking again”, my friend said to me as she folded the third shirt in a six foot tall pile of laundry. “When I was still pregnant, I even told my husband to remind me of the way I felt right then should I want another kid. But now, I’m just not sure.”
I dropped my cappuccino. Could someone else feel the same way I do?
Baby Einstein babbled in the background in languages I don’t speak. Her eldest son slamming the swing seat up and down, my son screaming while gleefully flinging Cheerios, her youngest son bobble-heading in his exersaucer. We constantly discuss the rigors of pregnancy, the pain of childbirth, and the monotony of milk and finger paint stained child rearing. We feel the relief in being the producers of boys, the lack of slutty children’s clothing, the problems that excessive estrogen in a household can bring, and the fear of teenage pregnancy.
Suddenly, there is an unspoken understanding that those things need not be discussed right now. It’d be much more interesting to toy with the idea of another child, maybe one bringing a bit of femininity into our homes.
My son is still learning to remain in a sitting position by himself, and hasn’t yet started on third foods. My three year old stepson loves princesses, and my six year old stepdaughter beams from ear to ear when you give her something pink. Somehow, the void isn’t filled. I remind myself that in addition to my son, I have been blessed with stepmotherhood. It would be selfish to want more, wouldn’t it? It would be irresponsible to bring another child into the world with the economic uncertainties that plague the nation, and the unfamiliar territory we will be charting after my husband leaves the Army, right? Raising kids is the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced, and I’m not even 9 months into it! The heavy feelings of fear and self doubt fill my chest and shoulders.
But, somehow, I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that a tiny pink bow or twelve would be nice….
16 May 2009
Damn, Who's Saturday Did I Stumble Into?
Do you know what it’s like to wake up to someone screaming the phrase:
“Yes, you DO have to poop!”?
I do.
I seem to be woken up by random phrases lately, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it’s far more interesting than waking up to an alarm, or to the baby crying. On the other hand, I feel a bit like screeched phrases of that nature aren’t fun AT ANY HOUR.
Let’s retro a bit…my husband called me yesterday, casually asking if I would mind picking up the kids a day early. I was fine with this, as I am now a woman of leisure (loosely translated: SAHM with a car). Turns out, I get more bored by 9 a.m. than most people get all day. Spring break is here, and the weather has been rainy. Their mother was more than happy to relinquish the wall climbers, and we met in the afternoon.
Now, I am enjoying the (albeit exhausted) calm that seems to be reigning over my living room. Which is nice, because so many weekend mornings lately have been…well, just bad. My alarm clock doesn’t beep, because no one needs an alarm when their wake up call is kids bouncing off the walls, baby screaming, husband grumpily stomping around (because the kids are bouncing off the walls and the baby is screaming), and a torn up, jacked up, cheerio and random toy covered house. Usually, by two solid days of this, I’m soooo ready to buy stock in Gillette so that when I become a cutter, it‘s beneficial to me in more than one way.
‘Kay, done whining, just wanted to reiterate my chillness.
It was supposed to start raining last night. It was supposed to start last night, and then continue through until, like, June. Yes, I’m exaggerating, but it was supposed to be until late Sunday night. The weather channel, weather.com, and about sixteen other information giving locations all said that was the case. Then it wasn’t the case at all (insert my smiley face here).
The baby woke up around six thirty (by talking, not by crying), and my husband and I woke up at the same time. He fed the baby, I made some coffee, and we had our weekend morning ritual of watching the new music videos. Now, my husband is sitting on the floor, playing his guitar. The baby is staring at him in awe, occasionally screaming erratically (which I’m pretty sure means he’s singing along happily), my stepdaughter is dancing with him, and my stepson is spinning on one foot.
Hmm…this might just be an okay day.
“Yes, you DO have to poop!”?
I do.
I seem to be woken up by random phrases lately, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it’s far more interesting than waking up to an alarm, or to the baby crying. On the other hand, I feel a bit like screeched phrases of that nature aren’t fun AT ANY HOUR.
Let’s retro a bit…my husband called me yesterday, casually asking if I would mind picking up the kids a day early. I was fine with this, as I am now a woman of leisure (loosely translated: SAHM with a car). Turns out, I get more bored by 9 a.m. than most people get all day. Spring break is here, and the weather has been rainy. Their mother was more than happy to relinquish the wall climbers, and we met in the afternoon.
Now, I am enjoying the (albeit exhausted) calm that seems to be reigning over my living room. Which is nice, because so many weekend mornings lately have been…well, just bad. My alarm clock doesn’t beep, because no one needs an alarm when their wake up call is kids bouncing off the walls, baby screaming, husband grumpily stomping around (because the kids are bouncing off the walls and the baby is screaming), and a torn up, jacked up, cheerio and random toy covered house. Usually, by two solid days of this, I’m soooo ready to buy stock in Gillette so that when I become a cutter, it‘s beneficial to me in more than one way.
‘Kay, done whining, just wanted to reiterate my chillness.
It was supposed to start raining last night. It was supposed to start last night, and then continue through until, like, June. Yes, I’m exaggerating, but it was supposed to be until late Sunday night. The weather channel, weather.com, and about sixteen other information giving locations all said that was the case. Then it wasn’t the case at all (insert my smiley face here).
The baby woke up around six thirty (by talking, not by crying), and my husband and I woke up at the same time. He fed the baby, I made some coffee, and we had our weekend morning ritual of watching the new music videos. Now, my husband is sitting on the floor, playing his guitar. The baby is staring at him in awe, occasionally screaming erratically (which I’m pretty sure means he’s singing along happily), my stepdaughter is dancing with him, and my stepson is spinning on one foot.
Hmm…this might just be an okay day.
13 May 2009
A New Home, Courtesy of the U.S. Army
In the last few years, I’ve become used to leaving, and having those that I love leave also. My address book reads like Rand Mcnally should have autographed the front, and my driver’s license was issued by a state I haven’t been a resident of since 2000.
And it's time to move. Again.
That's one of the things about signing your married soul to the Green Meanie, this constant relocation nonsense.
As of about a decade ago, I'd never been away from home for any serious period of time. I am and always will be a California girl at heart, which means that I don't like humidity, I hate cold, and I tend not to be a fan of uncontrolled wildlife. And after living in Alaska, Hawaii, Afghanistan, Iraq, and finally (anticlimactically) Kansas City and Fort Lee, Virginia, I feel like I’ve pretty much gotten used to the various political, religious, and social climates that the US and the occasional foreign country have to offer. And it seems that every time I become accustomed to a specific region’s perks and atrocities, the proverbial rug is pulled out from under me, and I become the new, weird person in a new, weird place. Now we’re moving to Maryland.
So my husband, the happy schmappy U Haul poster boy, asks me to call the post housing office for relocation information. I’m totally going to give you the down and dirty of the discussion, because I want other people to feel my (completely unwarranted) pain. She waited three weeks to return my phone call, and then told me she waited that long because on her message pad, there was half a checkmark next to my name and she wasn’t sure whether or not she’d already contacted me. She did not find it amusing when I asked if she was alright after debating so long over calling. And she must not be a mother, as she was not in the least empathetic about my having to move a full house, two cars, a baby, two cats and two stepchildren. She didn’t even make a partridge joke, which (to be honest) would have eased my mind just a bit as to her mental state.
Prompted by the apparent lack of assistance, we began searching the area outside the post for civilian rental opportunities. Although I mean no offense to their local law enforcement agencies, it appears we have the choice of: a) beautiful grounds occupied by mice; b) beautiful grounds run by skeezy landlords who skim off of the security deposits and sky high rent, or c) beautiful grounds where your windows will be bashed in courtesy of the local methadone failures.
Anybody want to come help load the truck?
And it's time to move. Again.
That's one of the things about signing your married soul to the Green Meanie, this constant relocation nonsense.
As of about a decade ago, I'd never been away from home for any serious period of time. I am and always will be a California girl at heart, which means that I don't like humidity, I hate cold, and I tend not to be a fan of uncontrolled wildlife. And after living in Alaska, Hawaii, Afghanistan, Iraq, and finally (anticlimactically) Kansas City and Fort Lee, Virginia, I feel like I’ve pretty much gotten used to the various political, religious, and social climates that the US and the occasional foreign country have to offer. And it seems that every time I become accustomed to a specific region’s perks and atrocities, the proverbial rug is pulled out from under me, and I become the new, weird person in a new, weird place. Now we’re moving to Maryland.
So my husband, the happy schmappy U Haul poster boy, asks me to call the post housing office for relocation information. I’m totally going to give you the down and dirty of the discussion, because I want other people to feel my (completely unwarranted) pain. She waited three weeks to return my phone call, and then told me she waited that long because on her message pad, there was half a checkmark next to my name and she wasn’t sure whether or not she’d already contacted me. She did not find it amusing when I asked if she was alright after debating so long over calling. And she must not be a mother, as she was not in the least empathetic about my having to move a full house, two cars, a baby, two cats and two stepchildren. She didn’t even make a partridge joke, which (to be honest) would have eased my mind just a bit as to her mental state.
Prompted by the apparent lack of assistance, we began searching the area outside the post for civilian rental opportunities. Although I mean no offense to their local law enforcement agencies, it appears we have the choice of: a) beautiful grounds occupied by mice; b) beautiful grounds run by skeezy landlords who skim off of the security deposits and sky high rent, or c) beautiful grounds where your windows will be bashed in courtesy of the local methadone failures.
Anybody want to come help load the truck?
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