Ugh. Are we done yet?

I know that I’ve complained a lot about my previous property owners.  I do feel justified in part of my behavior, because they do things like hold themselves out to have ALL of this experience renting ALL of these properties and then I have to spend a morning redrafting the lease so that I can have roommates. 

With this particular house we paid a total of $3,000 in refundable deposits - one month’s rent of $2,400 and a pet deposit of $600.  I’ve been keyed up since April when the sister in Hawaii (who hasn’t seen the house in two or three years) hinted in a few e-mails that they planned to keep the pet deposit.  After asking the pointed question of whether we could expect the $600 back and then not hearing back from her for two days, the response I received was along the lines of “You’ll get the $600 back if it doesn’t smell like cats.”

Well, there were four cats in the house.  Not to mention Crazy Pants who kept her room so that it smelled like a diaper.  As well as a garbage disposal that didn’t like things like water.  A washing machine that had a note when we moved in that instructed us not to keep it closed when it wasn’t in use, because there was a known mold problem.  There was also the basement wall that started leaking at the end of last fall and resulted in most of the carpet in the basement being ripped out and the cement floor being painted a speckled flesh tone.  And, then when we started moving stuff out of storage (and the reason why I originally e-mailed one of the property owners in April) we discovered that the rest of the carpet in the basement needed to be ripped out, because there was water damage that we didn’t even know about.

So, the good news is that we received the entire $2,400 back, but I haven’t heard a damned thing about the $600 since the letter supposedly signed by the sister in Hawaii, with a return address to her mother, and accompanied by a check signed by the sister who supposedly moved to California (which was the reason they needed us to deposit the rent directly into their bank account).  The one thing I’m still confused about is why the $2,400 check was for an account in Colorado.

Anyway, I spent all day today drafting a letter that I may or may not actually get to send to them.  Since I have spent the last month biding my time until I could slap them with my big trained to be a lawyer fist, I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time combing through the Oregon Revised Statutes.  And, assuming that I don’t hear anything from them over the next two days I will get to mail them my strongly worded letter.*  Knowing my luck, I’ll probably get a check for $2.50 and receipts for them paying neighbor Jane $78 per hour to cleanse the chakra’s in the house.

I know everything that we did to clean that house.  A professional carpet cleaner spent the entire day cleaning the rugs, even though they had a dirt runner since we moved in.  A professional cleaning team spent an entire morning cleaning the bathrooms, floors, and whatnot.  And, three of us spent an additional seven and a half hours cleaning that place.  The property owners left it to their 70-something-year-old mother to clean the house alone, and I can promise you that it was cleaner when we left it than it ever was since this particular family bought it.

You know what?  I just feel better having drafted my faux lawyer letter.  I imagine this is similar to the feeling that abuse survivors get when they write letters to their abusers, but never send them.  Okay, abuse survivors have a lot more to deal with than a whole mess of crazy.  At least I ended up with mildly entertaining stories, right?  Well, they might not be “entertaining,” but that’s not going to stop me from telling them!

Sigh.  Now that I’m not a giant ball of anger and anxiety, I don’t know what to do with myself. 

Huh.  I guess I could choose to get offended about the transients who commented on my physical features…  Should I be more upset about the guy who pointed out how large my breasts are, and then followed it up by pointing out that my ass was equally large?  Or, should I be confused by the guy who ignored those prominent assets, and decided to say that he liked my legs?  No, wait, I got it.  I’m going to be upset at the third wino that didn’t have anything to say about me.

Meh.  I think I’m done now.

*Uno Properties

c/o Dos Rentals LLC

attn: Him and Her Owner

d/b/a Tres Properties

123 Fancy Pants Road

Sunny, HI

Via Registered Receipt Mail

Re: Withheld $600 deposit from 2134 Crap Pit Ave., Portland, OR

Mr. and Mrs. Owner:

Uno Properties has failed to return or account for the remaining $600 deposit within the statutorily allotted 31 days.  Therefore this is a written demand for the entire $600.

Oregon Revised Statute 90.300 deals with residential landlord and tenant fees and deposits, specifically security deposits.  ORS 90.100(37) defines a “security deposit” as “a refundable payment or deposit of money, however designated…”  Additionally, ORS 90.300(4) permits a landlord to require an additional deposit to modify a lease to permit pets.  Therefore, what has previously been referred to as a “pet deposit” falls within the scope of ORS 90.300.

Waldvogel v. Jones, 103 P. 3d 124 (Or. App. 2004), elaborates on the other pertinent sections of the statute:

ORS 90.300(2) provides that a landlord may require a tenant to pay a security deposit. ORS 90.300(5) then provides that the landlord may claim from the security deposit amounts reasonably necessary to repair damages to the premises or defray unpaid rent. Upon termination of the tenancy, the landlord is required to refund any unused balance. ORS 90.300(9). The landlord may, however, claim all or part of the remaining balance if, within 31 days after the termination of the tenancy, the landlord provides a written accounting that specifies the bases of the claim. ORS 90.300(10). If the landlord fails to provide such a written accounting within 31 days, "the tenant may recover the money due in an amount equal to twice the amount" of the portion of the deposit wrongfully withheld. ORS 90.300(14).

                                                            

Id. at 125-6.

Delivery of possession occurred by May 31, 2011.  On May 29, 2011, the keys to 2134 Crap Pit Ave., Portland, OR were delivered to the next door neighbor, Jane, who similarly acted as an agent of Uno Properties when she delivered the property keys to the tenants at the beginning of the lease term.  Additionally, Sister Owner was made aware of Jane’s possession of the keys by an e-mail that same day.  Further, the lease term concluded on May 31, 2011.

If Uno Properties does not tender the entire remaining $600 deposit by July 21, 2011, we will pursue all legal remedies available – including but not limited to twice the amount of the deposit allowed under ORS 90.300(14) and attorney fees allowed under ORS 90.255.

Thank you in advance for your help to quickly resolve this matter.

Sincerely,

Me, JD

1426 Not Crap Pit Lane

Portland, OR

Cc: Robyn via veganlady@hoopla.com

Crazy Pants via Crazy@pants.com

Jaimee via MizJ@orvcard.com

Uno Properties, LLC (of Colorado) Registered Agent Sister Owner, PO Box 7854, Some Springs, CO

You Know You’re Getting Old When…

5.   You start you day before dawn.

4.   The friends you make at the gym are more likely to be retirees than hot bodies.

3.   Sure, it’s 7:30 p.m. on a Saturday that also happens to be your 30th birthday and you’d rather go home and watch Veronica Mars, but when it comes right down to it – you’re indifferent about staying out late at a bar.

2.   The $100 you received as a birthday gift is spent on: copayments for doctors’ visits, a case of cat food, and you “splurge” on day old bagels and schmears.

1.   You remember when your hometown used to be smaller/different/before it had a gas station.

It's been a month and I still don’t know if my neck ate my twin!

After seeing my primary care provider (PCP) and a dermatologist, the word is still out on my leaky neck syndrome.  All I know for sure is that my weird leaky neck thing really is weird.

Sure, it all started out as just an odd thing about me.  It wasn’t as cool as a third nipple or a vestigial tail.  I mean, it’s just a leaky neck.  For the most part, I assumed that it was either a hyperactive sweat gland or a nasal passage that took a wrong turn (hence, the idea that my neck ate an unknown/unborn twin). 

Usually, my weird neck thing goes unnoticed.  However, there are times when the usually trickle turns into a full on downpour, and a big ass drop snakes its way down my chest.  These rare occasions, when my leak kicks into overdrive, is when someone else notices it.  Of course, these other people are all convinced that I missed my mouth while taking a sip of water or that I simply drool a lot.  To cut down on all of this, I’ve even developed a subconscious habit of drying my neck with my fingertips.

Ever since an ex coworker started obsessing about it, I kind of just brush off the questions. And, when I say obsess – I mean, Melissa, the tiny 90-pound beauty school student who worked with me part-time at 7-Eleven threatened to bring in outside force to hold me down while she swabbed my neck to test the fluid.

The question about what exactly is going on with my neck has been percolating for the last 10 or 15 years.  Since it didn’t hurt and was more of an annoyance than anything else, I kept forgetting to ask about it whenever I would see the doctor.  So, when I went to see my PCP last month, I made a point to ask about it.  I even wrote it down on my wrist, so that I’d remember.

My PCP had never seen anything like it before.  To say that he was “weirded out” after he used an ungloved hand to examine my neck would be an understatement.  He pointed out that since he couldn’t identify it, I really should visit a dermatologist to have it examined.

I mentioned all of this to my youngest sister, who is in chiropractic college, in passing.  After going through “Stab Lab” to learn how to draw blood and other classes that joining a world littered with x-rays that have boners and model skeletons that get stuck in her hair, she suggested that it was a fistula.  (I strongly encourage you NOT to do a Google image search for that one.)

This afternoon I had an appointment at the dermatologist office.  I had scheduled my appointment with a physician’s assistant (PA), because I still didn’t think it was anything special.  Well, after the PA couldn’t identify it, she got the dermatologist who couldn’t identify it either.  So, with head tilted toward the ceiling and the top of my shirt pulled open to better expose the source of my leaky neck, they took photo after photo to present to a group of dermatologists that meet weekly at the medical school.  Right now, their best guess is a branchial cleft cyst, which is also known as a pharyngeal fistula.  So, Halley’s guess is right on par with two medical professionals – I’m so proud!

But, if Halley and the medical professionals are right, then my leaky neck is a type of birth defect.  I know it’s not an absorbed twin and I probably shouldn’t look the birth defect fairy in the mouth (it could totally be way, way worse), but if I had to have a birth defect I still kind of wish that it was a either a third nipple or a vestigial tail.

The Five Worst Things About Living Alone

5. The only person around to hear my really good burps is me.  And, I totally laugh at them.

4. I’m quickly realizing how disgusting I am, and that was before I became less motivated to clean up after myself.

3. Finding stuff that isn’t yours.*

2. Realizing that your laundry has a more active social life than you do.**

1. Talking to my cats more often than not.

* I moved about six weeks ago, and I still have several boxes to unpack.  One of the boxes that I finally finished up this morning (because I finished selling off my CD collection as of 1:40 p.m. today) had items that don’t belong to me. 

**Seriously, what’s up with the random tagalongs I find after using the building’s laundry facilities?  Stupid fancy looking underwear, I should never have bought you.  You’re just asking for it with your bright colors and bold patterns…

Ten Things I will not miss about the Northeast side of Portland

10.   Waking up at 5 a.m. to the sound of a transient pushing a shopping cart full of empty Pabst cans.

9.     Having to cut through packs of roaming teenagers on my way to the grocery store, because the fastest way to get to the grocery store after work was to cut through the Lloyd Center Mall.

8.    Memories of the six months my youngest sister spent living with me and Robyn in The Original Crap Pit, and that she spent most of the time in a consistent power struggle with my cat.

7.    The 48 minutes it took me to travel 2 miles (one way) to work on TriMet.

6.    Crazy Neighbor Jane@

5.    The Original Crap Pit*

4.    The crazy ex-roommate’s sex noises

3.    Crap Pit Part Deux^

2.    The Crazy ex-roommate

1.    The property owners of Crap Pit Part Deux.%

@ Jaimee swears that she caught 60-year-old Jane sunbathing in the nude (complete with ‘70s bush) the first month we moved into the house.  Plus, every time Jane would take a vacation, she would give us a business card with her contact information and a different business listed (pilates instructor, opera concert organizer, author of an organic ice cream cookbook, etc.), who never seemed to work but always had time to tell the property owners with whatever new ways she thought we were breaking the terms of our lease (e.g., having a black roommate, having one or more men repeatedly stay the night, or having a 4th of July barbeque).

* Think: Moving in to a broken window that took the entire summer to fix, and was only fixed after calling the property management company every other day; black mold – in the closets; discovering that the only thing that had kept the black mold at bay was the drafty windows, which were sealed up with window insulation kits for the winter; a bubbling floor under the second floor toilet (conveniently located right about the kitchen stove), which turned out to be a pipe that had rusted years ago; basement walls leaking combining with an overflowing floor drain to create a kiddy pool in the basement.  This place had it ALL!

^ After moving out of The Original Crap Pit, I made sure to move into a house that had been renovated within the last three years and a place where I wouldn’t have to deal with a property management company.  So, I moved two blocks down the street and into Crap Pit Part Deux where the walls made of sheetrock and the bathroom caulking in two of the three bathrooms was “decorative.”  Luckily, I no longer had a property management company to deal with.  Instead, I had a whole family to deal with.  And, this particular family included a mother, her three grown daughters, and one of the daughter’s husbands.  

% The cherry on the top was that these five individuals contradicted each other, and sent me e-mails and mail signed with each other’s names.  Even when I would be dealing with what I assumed was my primary contact, her e-mail signature rotated through to include at least three different limited liability companies in the one year that I communicated with her.  The piece of mail containing one part of the returned deposits was especially interesting, given that the envelope had the mother’s return address in Hood River, Ore., a check with a company address in Carbondale, Colo., the fact that the check was signed by the sister who had supposedly moved to California, and a letter signed by a second sister who was allegedly in Hawaii. 

I’ve seen United States of Tara.  I know what’s up.  And, I can’t help but imagine that all of these people are really just one person with dissociative identity disorder, a compulsive liar and an old lady with alzheimer's disease.  After all, I’ve only really met three of them, and they all seemed off to me. 

But, really, the reason why I want to believe that the ex-property owners are one big crazy person is because that’s a half way reasonable explanation for all of their behavior (e.g., holding themselves out to have years of experience renting a variety of properties and then asking me to sign a lease that I had to redraft because simply having roommates would have violated the terms of the lease; contradicting each other when it came to simple things like how they wanted to reimburse me for paying the city leaf removal bill that was more than 30 days overdue because they would not come to a decision; not making sure that when the mother moved out of the house she did things like remove her series of Balzac books from the shelves or pack up her silver penguin candle holders; not believe me when I told you that the basement carpet was SOAKED to the point where I spent a month wearing rain boots in the house, and when you finally did believe me – each of you had a different way that you wanted to deal with it; and hint at the fact that you planned to keep our $600 refundable pet deposit two months before the lease was over and before any of the owners had seen the rental property or evaluated any “damage”).

An Open Letter to my Crazy ex-Roommate

Dear Crazy Pants:

I cannot put into words how frustrated I am when it comes to dealing with you.  Part of me is concerned that your inappropriate and overly emotional reactions* are an indication of a deeper and more worrisome problem and I would encourage you to seek professional help.  The other part of me can’t get your loud sex noises out of my head, and can’t – for the life of me – figure out why you would bring men back to a house that you share with three other women, especially since your attic bedroom had a curtain where a door should be, and it’s like you specifically sought out loudest and least hygienic men. 

Of course, they’d have to a casual approach to hygiene to throw things into sexy gear when your room smelled (and felt) like warm ass, your shower floor was covered in clumps of hair, your bathroom smelled like a diaper and was covered in a not so fine layer of cat litter, and out of the 250 square feet of carpeting – on a good day – one or two square feet would show through the clothing, dirty bowls with stale popcorn topped with the remnants of congealed Ben & Jerry’s, Tupperware with leftover work lunches, stained coffee mugs that I had never ever seen before, and hair – SO much hair – there was your hair, there was cat hair, and then there was what I had hoped to be tuffs of hair from past craft projects (but what I’m pretty sure was mold) all intermingling on your floor.

Yes, I went into your room when you weren’t home.  I’m sorry you had to find out like this.  But, when you would leave for a “weekend trip” and not return for ten days, I know we weren’t talking at this point^ but I took it upon myself to feed your cat.  The other two times were when I realized that half of my paternal grandmother’s flatware was missing and I wanted to reclaim them before your floor got hungry (similar to what happened when you borrow BOTH of my flea combs and the sheer curtains I loaned you when you moved in but I didn’t find until a week after I moved out when they magically reappeared in Robyn’s old room).

Despite your housekeeping and personal conflicts, I thought it was more than reasonable to return your deposit.  No more.  No less.+  Yes, I know that we were going to receive more than the four of us actually paid.~  But, considering how little you did to help clean the house for the final walkthrough, I thought it was unreasonable of you to ask for more.#  It was probably a bad idea for me to read your e-mail while I was waiting for Jaimee to show up for happy hour, but I couldn’t help myself.  The worst part is that I couldn’t focus on a word she was saying, because I spent the entire time figuring out how I wanted to respond to you.  Of course, I was kind of drunk when I got home and responded, but I just went with it.  Sure, what came out was word vomit= but, obviously, I was not the only one thinking it.%

Seriously, it’s taking every fiber of what I consider “fair” NOT to slap you with a $50 disposal fee for getting rid of the items you left behind.  And, we won’t even get into the fact that there were many, many comments made while we were doing the final cleaning on May 30 about how we should come up with an hourly charge that we could deduct from your deposit for not helping us clean.  I know that you had left the state earlier that week, but you didn’t bother to help us during the three hours we spent pre-cleaning while you were hording garbage bags in your room and your mom was fighting with Robyn over the broom.  So, consider the return of your full deposit a gift, and never EVER look a gift horse in the mouth.

Finally, Crazy Pants, I just wanted to remind you to feed your cat.  He’s really fluffy, but the last time I saw him he had lost a decent amount of weight.  You may not realize it, but if a cat looses weight too quickly he could experience liver failure.  Although I’m moments away from wishing my greatest fear on you,** I wouldn’t wish it on your cat.

Sincerely,

Me

                                                                                                                                                

* For example, when your cell phone charger quit working several days before you were to fly back to Kentucky to visit family.  You didn’t make the time to deal with the problem until two or three hours before your flight was scheduled to depart.  You asked (see: Told) me to come with you so you could abandon your car if you couldn’t find parking at Lloyd Center (as Chris Rock would put it Lloyd Center is a mall that “white people used to go to” where there is always, ALWAYS parking).  You left me in the parking lot for over 45 minutes.  And, after the sales associate kept the store open 30 minutes late to help you, the nicest thing you could say about him was how he “did know what he was talking about.” 

I’m sorry, but you were looking for a phone charger.  What was there to understand?  If one part fit into an outlet and another part fit into your phone – BAM! – you have a working cell phone charger.  So, I really must ask, what did you think you were going to buy?  A hamster?  A grass skirt?  A fully charged replacement battery for your cell phone?  Did you use your big girl words to describe what you were looking for?  Did you accidently wander into the food court?

^ I know you were upset when I sent you a text at 8 a.m. on a Saturday.  And, I know it was early for a day off even though I was offering to treat your cat for tapeworm, because the night before I had noticed that one of my cats had worms.  So, after you barged into my room and yelled at me, you proceeded to give me the silent treatment for the next three days.  Of course, the silent treatment ended when you made plans to go out of town the following weekend and needed someone to feed your cat.

I’m sorry, but that was the final straw.  I couldn’t handle it anymore.  You had pushed me to my breaking point.  I realized that it was more polite for me not to talk to you than to blow up on you, which is what I really, REALLY wanted to do.

+ Good morning,

You may have already read the e-mail I sent back to the property owners.  Since at the very least we're going to get back $2,400 (this does not include the pet deposit) here is what I'm thinking to reimburse everyone if the property owners end up keeping the other $600, but I would like your feedback:

[Crazy Pants] - deposit paid $520 = to receive $520

[Me] - deposit paid $470 + LivingSocials paid $244 ($120 for carpet cleaning + $45 for heavy soiling paid after the fact + $79 for general house cleaning) + $40 for final cleaning + $36 for dealing with property owners and handymen = to receive $790

Robyn - deposit paid $470 + carpet cleaning paid on site $50 + $40 for final cleaning + $20 for dealing with property owners and handymen = to receive $580

Jaimee - deposit paid $470 + $40 for final cleaning = to receive $510

~ We briefly had a man staying with us who had paid toward our move in costs.  As soon as he realized he wouldn’t be taking Jaimee’s West Coast virginity, he used our house as a storage unit until I threatened to sell all of his stuff.

# How are you "defining" final cleaning? If you're referring to cleaning the common areas I also participated inthis. I swept the laundry room, emptied the fridge, cleaned cupboards, ect.  In addition to this, I removed the crap Jake left in the shed and storage area underneath the house. Given this, I think it's fair to evenly distribute this sum among all of us.

[Crazy Pants]

= Hi [Crazy Pants],

Of course we can factor in the fact that YOU swept the laundry room after YOU moved YOUR cat box down there, emptied the fridge of YOUR food, and cleaned the cupboards of YOUR dishes. 

By "final cleaning," I meant the three hours Robyn, Jaimee, and I spent cleaning the common areas on May 22nd while you were cleaning your room, and the four and half hours we spent going back through the house on May 29th.  Our time was spent doing things like wiping down window sills in YOUR room and cleaning out the crap YOU left behind in the storage shed (or did YOU forget about the rotting herbs and other shit that YOU left behind?), sweeping and moping the laundry room and the rest of the basement, wiping down the rest of the shelves in the laundry room, cleaning and wiping down the fridge, mini-fridge, and freezer, as well as all of the many, many things that YOU didn't find the time to do during the two weeks YOU had the house to YOURSELF before YOUR mother arrived.  Oh yes, this does not include the fact that Robyn and I wiped down the inside and tops of the cupboards and cleaned under the stove - and everything else we did before we moved out at the end of April. 

In factoring all of this, we'll also need to consider the disposal we had to do of the random drawer you left behind in the storage area behind your stairs as well as the bathroom storage unit you left on the sidewalk (I've attached a photo I took the week after you moved out to help you remember).

Also, how much did YOU get for selling Jake's bike?  We should also factor that in to this equation to make things totally "fair."

[Me]

P.S.  I would completely understand if YOU wanted to give Robyn part (or all) of YOUR deposit for all of the many, many nights (and mornings) YOU woke her up with YOUR loud sex noises.  (Also, despite what Robyn says, YOU are the reason she switched rooms.)  I heard YOU in action a few times, and it was more than I could handle, so Robyn is a saint for putting up with it as long as she did.

% Jaimee – lawlz

Robyn - I FUCKING LOVE YOU!!!!!

I'm bat shit giddy after reading your email to [Crazy Pants]. In fact, I may go read it AGAIN!

And then save it so I can continue to read it over and over and over again. I can tell already that it's going to brighten many future shitty days. :D

** My greatest fear is dying while living alone and my body isn’t discovered until after my cats have eaten my face.

Does that mean I don’t like Pina Coladas?

I’m only five classes in, so I don’t know if I’d say that I was into yoga.  Since I don’t plan to stop anytime soon, maybe I am into yoga.  However, I would argue that I do have at least half a brain.  Although, I enjoy making love at midnight, the thought of doing it in dunes on a cape makes my little lady cringe.  And, I do live in Oregon, so getting caught in the rain is something that happens because it’s a Thursday.  (Yes, that means that I was caught in the rain last night while heading home from yoga.)

When I moved back to Portland in 2009, my ex- co-workers from Barnes & Noble paired me up with Robyn.  She was (and still is) super into yoga, organic food, and wearing neon yellow short-shorts while biking across town.  Robyn is also the same vegan who raved about things like chickpea cutlets and sheppardess pies.  She was the first roommate I knew wouldn’t touch any one of the five different kinds of cheese I had in the fridge that week or even look twice at my frosting covered sugar cookies.  In short, it was pretty much perfect.

I greeted her with two bitchy cats that had just spent the week in a car.  And, she welcomed me with a yoga mat.

Over the last two years, I’ve pulled the mat out a couple of times.  Once it was to follow along with yoga YouTube videos.  But, it was usually just to stretch in the most unorganized way possible, which is the only way I know how.

Back in October, I had an initial visit with my new Primary Care Provider (PCP).  My deepest and darkest fear was that the pain in my lower back was somehow associated with Multiple Sclerosis (MS).*  It was an irrational thought, but it was still a thought that I couldn’t shake every time I woke up and was in so much pain that I couldn’t stand up.  My PCP did a few resistance tests and determined that I didn’t have MS, but offered to refer me to a neurologist if I wanted to be 100 percent sure.  I reserved the right to change my mind, but declined the referral.  And then the worst thing happened – I started crying uncontrollably.  I was just so…so…relieved.

My PCP was concerned about the pain the hip and shoulder pain I had complained about, and had suggested that I go to physical therapy.  Honestly, I didn’t really think twice about going for the physical therapy.  I was just pumped not to have MS, and I figured that the pain was the result of many years spent sleeping on one bad mattress after another.  So, May rolled around and I went back to my PCP for a physical.

When he followed up on the pain I had mentioned at my previous visit, I tried to shrug it off.  I was much more interested in finding out what was causing my leaky neck.^  My PCP kept me on subject, and then I decided to show him how little it hurt by raising my arm above my head until I heard the all too familiar – POP!  POP!  POP!  POP! – coming from the soft tissue in my shoulder.  This is about the time that he pointed out that he’s concerned I might have trochanteric bursitis~ and since I’m only 29-years-old this is just going to get worse, which is why I should really go to physical therapy three times a week for six weeks.  We then went on to have the most awkward conversation ever.

He stumbled over his words as he said, “There’s one more thing we have to talk about.”

My PCP took the time to sensitively broach the subject.  His concern over how I may react to this matter told me that this was something I had never heard before.  Obviously, I had cancer.  Maybe it was a heart murmur.  Please, oh please, don’t let me be pregnant.  It couldn’t be the gay cancer.  I mean when I applied for life insurance through work last September, I had a blood test that checked for HIV/AIDS and drugs and I hadn’t engaged in any risky behavior since. 

So, I said a silent prayer, “Dear lord, I can barely handle my two cats.  Please, oh, please don’t let there be a mini me growing in my lady parts.”

And, then he said it – the one thing that my overactive imagination hadn’t even considered.

“Some of my patients have found great success with… Jenny Craig.”

OH!  That’s what all of the pussyfooting around was for – I was out of my target weight range and he didn’t want come right out and call me fat.  This is also about the time that I remembered I hadn’t gotten down and dirty with anyone in over seven months.

Son.  Of.  A.  Biscuit. 

I couldn’t figure out whether I should be more upset about my weight or my social life.  And then I realized that I was way, WAY not pregnant – so, things really weren’t so bad.

I knew I had to start hitting the gym with more regularity.  After a phone call to my insurance company, I knew that I couldn’t afford the $450 in co-pays that it would take to get the recommended physical therapy.  I also knew that the physical therapy I would have received would have included a lot of stretching. 

So, I did the math (Gym - $450 + stretching = yoga), and I attended a yoga class the following week. 

I’ve been averaging two or three classes a week for the last couple of weeks.  And, I’ll tell you what – this “active yoga” thing is kicking my ass.  Plus, I end up in some really unflattering positions.  Seriously, the Revolved Triangle Pose does wonders for my hips, but is not a position that I will be adding to my enticement dance anytime soon.

However, I am glad to say that the popping in my shoulders has been greatly reduced and my hips don’t feel as angry all of the time, which is all the motivation I need to continue heading to yoga classes.  And, if Jimmy Buffett doesn’t like it then he can suck it.

* My mom has MS.  She first started showing signs in the early ‘90s.  I was 10 or 11-years-old at the time, so I didn’t really understand what was going on.  One of the first things that I can remember about her illness is that she started having troubles with her back and with walking.  Within a year or so, it got to the point where my mom was wearing a not so sexy white lace up back support under her clothing and using crutches to get around.

^ He had never seen something similar to my leaky neck, and couldn’t tell me if it was a hyperactive sweat gland or a nasal passage that had taken a wrong turn somewhere.  So, I have an appointment with at a dermatologist’s office in two weeks.  Hopefully, that appointment will clear up the mystery that has perplexed the few people who have noticed my little fountain where my right clavicle and sternum meet.

~ Which is just a fancy way to say, “Inflammation of the fluid filled sac (bursa) that goes over the hip bones to reduce friction between the bones and allows free movement.”

Dude doesn't eat meat, but has a bone of his own...

Okay, so taking my younger sister’s advice, I’m going to try and “share more.”  For example – let’s talk about dating after the advent of Al Gore’s internet. 

I have had my share of web-based relationships.  And, in this day and age, I’m kind of weirded out about the premise of meeting someone out and about in my daily life.  Maybe it’s just that I’m socially awkward, or maybe it’s that I’m especially awkward around guys that I’m interested in.  Plus!  The glorious part of meeting someone on-line is that you both know why you’re there.  There’s no question about if you’re both open to the possibility of hooking up, the real question is whether you’ll want to go through with it after actually seeing them and finding out that the dude’s a vegetarian.  Short answer – no.

There’s something about guys who don’t eat meat that kind of freak me out.  Here’s the thing, I haven’t eaten red meat in close to 17 years (my mom quit eating it for heath reasons and I still wanted to be just like her at the time) and I’m allergic to pork (yes, it’s a real thing).  Vegan chicks are just annoying with their Shepardess Pies, and blah, blah, blah with chickpeas.  I know it’s irrational and unfair to make this sweeping statement, but I can’t help but question the guys who give up meat.  In my mind, guys are supposed to eat meat and potatoes and have an unnatural love affair with ketchup.  Maybe I’m closed minded.  Or, maybe it’s just that I live in Portland, Oregon…

Why, Technology? Why?!?!?!

Yesterday my personal e-mail was hacked.  I’m assuming that it happened when I clicked on a SPAM message from an ex-boyfriend a month or so ago that promised to show me aerial photos of the current conflict in the Middle East.  Of course, he was a recent ex and we had gone on a talking hiatus a few weeks before that, so I really, really wanted to know what was so important that he’d break the silence. 

                                                                                                                                                                                         

You may need a little back story.  The problem was that I really, really liked this guy.  I liked him more than I had liked anyone in six years.  He broke down all my barriers.  Something about him made me feel vulnerable, but protected.  It was him and me against the world, and I couldn’t have been happier.  As it turns out, I may have been the only one who felt that way.

Eventually, I was able to piece together bits and pieces from our conversations to get a feel of what happened with his previous relationship.  He liked her more than she liked him.  Things between them turned into a fiery ball of bitter and resentment, and I was the rebound girl.  When we weren’t “official” (and this happened a few times), he couldn’t keep his hands off of me.  We’d walk around town holding hands and carrying on intimate conversations.  However, when were “official,” he was emotionally and physically distant.  So much so that when I spent a long weekend at his house – as his girlfriend – I stayed in the guest room.  After running hot and cold for close to a year, he knew that he liked me, but he wasn’t sure if it was just as a friend or as a romantic interest.    We broke up on the way back to the airport.  Within two hours of breaking up, he sent me an e-mail suggesting that we may have made a mistake.

During my visit, he received an offered his dream job.  He had not so patiently been waiting to hear back about a gig as a crew chief with a contractor in the Middle East for close to six weeks.  At one point, he had even received a rejection letter for this position, and before that he was told that he had falsified paperwork and would never be considered for a position with the company.  Given that he had two weeks to wrap up his loose ends before heading to Florida for several weeks worth of training and then onto three months on site, he was on the verge of a lot of life changes.  With so many life changes in the works I didn’t want to compound it with my girl crazy, or prolong the eventual if things were coming to a close.  So, I encouraged him to take some time and really think about what he wanted and needed.  I told him that he knew how to reach me if he wanted to give us another try, but if he realized that he wasn’t romantically interested in me then we needed to put an end to it.  So, I picked an arbitrary date to be the deciding point.  I figured that he’d need several months to ponder, adjust into the new job, ponder some more.  (But, seriously, since I’m a girl, I had hoped that it’d take a few months for him to realize how fabulous and awesome I was, and how much he wanted me in his life.)  This all happened back in March and with my birthday in June, my arbitrary date was July 1^st.

I haven’t heard anything from him since March 22^nd.  So, when I received the SPAM with his name on it, I was more than curious.  As soon as I saw the e-mail link forward onto website associated with pharmaceuticals, I knew I had been fooled. 

Fast forward to yesterday.  While out enjoying happy hour with Allie and Nicole, Nicole used her smart phone to check her e-mail.  She had received an e-mail from me with a promise of how to make $200 to $300 per day.  Great, so my e-mail address had been hacked.  I figured that I’d deal with it when I got home.  But, when I got home, I was locked out of my G-Mail account.  I didn’t get access to it until today.  And, I won’t be able to send e-mails until tomorrow.  In addition to spamming my best friends, ex-roommates, my boss, current and ex- co-workers, random people I had e-mailed about apartments and furniture, the property owners of the house I just officially moved out of yesterday, ex-boyfriends – including the July 1^st guy – were all spammed. 

Oh, and for all of you who don’t know, I’ve posted personal ads on Craig’s List before.  I wouldn’t say that I’m a habitual poster, but when I’ve got nothing else going on sometimes I just can’t help myself.  When I do post a personal ad, (if I do respond to someone) I usually only respond to one person, so all of the random guys who have ever responded to one of my ads – you guessed it – they were spammed too.  So, I’m sorry Mr. Jazzmanjuice, I will try to never, ever send you SPAM again.  And, while I’m at it, I’ll try to never SPAM myself again, because – yeah – that happened too.