I am mid-move and it makes my head hurt. Though truth be told, what really makes my head hurt could be the cup of coffee, cup of green tea, can of caffeinated root-beer and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I’ve consumed today, all of whose life-giving powers have now exited my system.

Also: lack of sleep due to a panicky kitty-cat who commences to wandering the house, meowing, at 4 in the morning, to notify me of acute changes in furniture and smells.

New people have started moving their things into the house in earnest. It’s a gay couple, and as they were moving things in a few days ago, one of them—whose name is Blake--cornered me and accused me of hoodwinking them into living there. Apparently, they’re now getting three calls a day from CrazyLandlady.
“You looked happy,” he informed me with a crazed glint in his eye, “when we told her we’d take it. Too happy.” I swore innocence. Really, before my married-couple-roommates left town, I had no idea how constant Landlady’s little phone-call communiqués really were. And I’m truly sorry.

Days before that, Blake and I developed a camaraderie -- I had thought -- by joking about Landlady’s continual chatter about her fondness for particular household items, such as that beautiful wallpaper in the dining room--you know: Textured, with metallic silver stripes.

Then I came home Wednesday to find that Blake and what’s-his-name had placed on the mantel, a gold-flecked wooden crucifix, complete with suffering, bleeding Christ. Flanked by twin orange and gold Victorian terra-cotta bouquets of some azalea-like flower. Since then, those items have been joined by not one, but numerous sketches of fox hunts, coppery-painted Roman cornices -- and my friend Marshall’s favorite: the three-foot wall-hanging of a disembodied hound’s-head presiding over a twin rabbit corpses. It’s somewhere between Spanish Cathedral and Remains of the Day. I’ve started thinking of it as “Jesus Goes a-hunting.”

Needs more cowbell.

Step RIGHT on up the Rad Monkey... if you dare.

Closing Time
My roommates have moved out of my house. I leave at the end of the month. As the House Married Couple, my roommates would always be in charge of all matters domestic. They liked it that way and it was fine with me, too, what with my insanely busy work schedule. It was even finer with me that included in this rubric of all matters household-y, were dealings with our landlady. Or Crazylandlady, as we called her. I’ve had crazy landfolk before, but they’ve always erred on the side of negligence. Crazylandlady errs on the side of extreme, punctilious interference along with unreasonable expectations.

She used to live in the house, you see. During her weekend visits to us, which would take place bimonthly or so, she liked to stand in various rooms sighing and pining for the days of her residence.

The first weekend I hosted one of these visits solo, was when my roommates were out of town. As misfortune would have it, Crazylandlady’s old bedroom happened to be mine, and she had me stand with her there for about five minutes while she gazed out the window, waxing nostalgic on the view of the tree in the backyard. She also noted aloud that the carpet used to look a lot better, and wasn’t that a lot of dust on the shutters! All without directly implicating me. This was a Saturday, by the way. A perfectly good Saturday afternoon.

My roommates both have dust allergies and cleaned frequently. They also took on extra tasks that renters—being, err, renters-- usually don’t handle, at her behest. Like cleaning the gutters. They also took it upon themselves to clean and unclog the fishpond out back, and then they planted a garden there. All of which took place without a single word of praise from CrazyLandLady.

Now that they’re gone and I’m her focal point of contact, however, subject to multiple daily phone-calls, here’s what I get to hear about, in 20-minute diatribes: The stovetop, it’s filthy; It needs to be replaced. I wander into the kitchen and look at the two or three foodstains which I wipe off with Simple Green while she continues to rant. My method of coping: I do not argue or agree. I do not defend or deny. I just maintain silence till she’s done. And I’m hoping I’ll be able to manage this when I return home tonight to face her in person, along with her army of painters and insect-sprayers. I will look her plain in the eye. Neutral. I will not be enmeshed; I paid no deposit to live here, and in two weeks I will be gone.

Streaming in the magnets
This morning, I have the New Pornographers song “Electric Version” lodged in my head. I keep singing it softly all over the office and now I know my coworkers think me mad, because ours is not the sort of place where anyone else hums pop songs. I remember when a good friend first told me about The New Pornographers; I thought it had to be some crazy metal or punk band from the 70s that I’d never heard of because I’m not a Class A Music Nerd, but then I learned that it was power pop of the most delicious, delicious variety.

Just a post to let you know I’m still here. A real post shall follow post haste. Te prometo -- and have I ever let you down, Mr. Imaginary Henshaw? I think not.
MWAH!