Brand New Moon

Poop wars are escalating in my neighborhood, even beyond the Asshole Bag. I don’t get it. Should I? I mean, I loathe strange dog crap as much as the next person, but I can’t say I would make it the cornerstone of a months-long vendetta that requires me to pick up another dog’s crap, dump it into a bag and leave it on their doorstep or spread it all over someone else’s lawn. And yet! Yet! It’s happening all over our neighborhood, and the rise of poop-related indignance is unprecedented, and has started to involve demands for fines, and even has one neighbor compiling paperwork to figure out how she can file a formal complaint and get a lien on her neighbor’s house until, for the love of all that is holy, he picks up the damn dog’s shit already.

And to answer -R-! It was -R-‘s question, she is my craziest neighbor, and believe me it was a tough choice, given that one of my neighbors is rumored to be a known sexual predator who followed a school bus to school last year, although I haven’t had the intestinal fortitude to actually look that one up. Truthfully, I doubt it, as this is a rumor started by children, not unlike the time the poor guy lifted up his pinky while working on his car outside while I was walking with my 7 year-old neighbor, who promptly ran away screaming, “HE JUST GAVE ME THE CHINESE MIDDLE FINGER! THE PINKY IS DIRTY IN CHINA!”

Anywho, this a woman who fell into a wailing puddle at the mere thought of not having enough mulch in her flower bed – as in, she actually got choked up and whimpered, “But we’re paying for fresh mulch! And I haven’t seen it! I HAVE NOT SEEN THE MULCH I PAID FOR, THERE IS ONLY PINE NEEDLE STUFF.” She also screamed with the yelling yelliness of a thousand banshees when she found out that the remote control at the gym was stolen, because, in her exact words, she hates Oprah and what if Oprah comes on while she’s on the treadmill and can’t get off to change the channel?

“I can’t handle Oprah. You don’t understand.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear her lower lip was trembling.

Anyway, happy New Year! Ours consisted of doing our best to mimic two tater tot-like lumps of flesh in our bed watching movies and eating really, really awful prepackaged food, as is our tradition. Last night we enjoyed frozen pirogies and Totino’s pizza rolls, along with a bottle of reasonably decent champagne I consumed almost entirely by myself, which made for a mildly unpleasant 4 a.m., when I awoke hungover and in desperate need of water, or preferably Kool-Aid, of which, sadly, there was none. Fatburger was a bit of a balm, although I have yet to fully grasp the cult-like rabidity that surrounds these greasy little burgers, for I remain a bit on the unimpressed side. Not to mention, I am a little ashamed that when I order a burger, it is immediately repeated in a loud Slavic accent by the clerk, “FEHT BURGHARRRR!” to the line cooks in the back, while they all clap their hands in glee, repeating, “FAT BURGHAR! WOOT!”. I hate it, and will likely never go back. Perhaps a California reader can enlighten me?

Also, I realized with a bit of chagrin that the last time I went anywhere other than my bed on New Year’s Eve was 7 years ago, and even that was spent at another couple’s house and I’m pretty sure I was wearing sweatpants for the duration. Last year we fell asleep at 11 p.m., and last night we were knee-deep in Lady in the Water (which draws a hell to the no from me, if you were wondering) and I happen to glance at the clock and steal a half-assed kiss and a whispered “Happy New Year!” before we turned our attention back to the really bad acting of M. Night Shyamalan and the simpering sound of nepotism in the form of Bryce Dallas Howard. Why didn’t I learn my lesson after The Village?

I hope you all had a great weekend, and I wish you a smooth transition back into work after a long break, because let’s face it: even if you had to work last week, wasn’t it nice not having anyone in the office?

*Gene Loves Jezabel

15 comments January 1st, 2007