Ohhhhhhh, I’m all creeped out. I mean, I was getting home past 1 am so maybe I have no case for being Grumpy Old Lady, but there were seven of them hanging out on the porch (I’d seen at least three others on the back balcony as I drove up) when I got home.
They are, as I suspected, about nineteen. One greeted me with “hey beautiful,” which honestly? I’m closer to your mom’s age than yours. Don’t pull that. My response was “try to keep it down this time, you guys have been keeping me up all night.” I didn’t make eye contact. I have no balls. They all muttered “sorry.”
For some reason, I then locked my door, came upstairs, and cried into my cat for a minute. I have no idea why I was so shaken by seeing and speaking to these people I’ve been wishing violence upon for two weeks.
They are not, for the record, keeping it down at all.
I wonder how many of them actually live there.
WHY DO THEY HAVE A PARTY EVERY NIGHT*
*I know the ironic answer to this question. It’s because they have the good apartment.

New neighbors moved in on Wednesday the 15th. They play BASSBASSBASSBASSBASSBASS type music. I can’t even discern the melody or words, so I have no idea what it is. It could be rap. It could be badly equalizered pop. It could be speed metal. All I hear is BASSBASSBASSBASSBASSBASS.

I called the rental office today to complain. Pounding music at two in the afternoon on a Monday is just too much, after they were up having a party until four in the morning Saturday night while Linda [and, perhaps more importantly, Max] was trying to sleep. Seriously, do they work? Are they college students? They’re home in the middle of weekdays with friends over, there were five people on their tiny balcony Friday night … there is no college close enough to here for them to commute to! That is at least a $1400 apartment. Whose job is paying for it?

Anyway, I had to put the complaint in writing (strangely satisfying) and they’ll get a lease violation notice. Five days into the lease.

The rear window on the driver’s side of my car has broken. It won’t stay up. I held it up with duct tape on Friday and Saturday, but the sun melted the tape and the window fell down. At least it doesn’t fall fast enough to shatter. I rigged up a better duct tape solution Sunday night, and of course it thunderstormed all last night. No rain in ages, but when my car window is likely to be open, sure, split the heavens.

When the storm started last night, Max had just gone to bed. The first crash of thunder was really close, and just as Lin was saying “please don’t wake up Max, please don’t wake up Max,” someone’s goddamn car alarm started going off. He didn’t wake up, but honestly, who can blame him if he had?

Arriving home from Jo’s party yesterday I found two—not one, two—sets of yellow pages and white pages in Verizon bags on my doorstep. TWO. Who needs two? Also? I don’t have a phone line.

Then I discovered ANOTHER SET by my back door. They’re all going straight to the trash. What a complete environmental travesty. Who the hell uses a phone book anymore? Who the hell needs six of them ever?

I need a tiny little bag to hold … personal items … in my purse. I have a tiny Crown Royal bag I usually use, but the drawstring broke like two years ago, and it just doesn’t work, and I can’t find anything else. Tonight I was in the process of moving between purses, because most of the beads have come off that Old Navy one and over the last two weekends of outdoor activities I was using my new Coke backpack, and neither of those is really suited to things like going out to dinner at Corduroy on Friday, which we are totally doing.

So I decided to go back to my square brown purse, which I love, because it’s bigger inside than it is outside, and I started looking through my bags for something to replace the Crown Royal bag. And I discovered I have a problem.

In the front hall, waiting to be unpacked from the COF-a-Que, are the Coke backpack, a big orange beach bag, and the shockingly useful blue velvet bag I got for nearly free from Dove.

Upstairs in the hall closet are two Strand bags, the blue beaded purse I bought at the Chelsea flea market in June, the giant teal bag I also bought that day, the black Coach wristlet that was my bridesmaid gift, the brown leather drawstring purse I barely use except for the renaissance festival, a ridiculous safari print camera bag, my old black leather computer bag, much actual luggage, and nothing useful to me just now.

Downstairs in the closet under the stairs are my Ecuadorian bag, the blue fake-alligator bag I won at Timber’s baby shower, the black clutch I bought for Cindy’s wedding, the rainbow bag containing my bowling shoes, several plastic bags from the Apple store, my beautiful red leather Levenger briefcase, my beautiful orange Levenger totebag that smells kind of funny, my computer bag, my computer sleeve, my keyboard case, a craft-store totebag containing a long-idle cross-stitch project, and goodness knows what else.

Out in the storage closet on the deck are an ancient reversible cloth bag, a green Perry Ellis America wallet I thought was great when I was about 19, a tiny totebag from a 1980s visit to Harborplace that would do fine if it closed, my canvas beach bag with the bamboo handles that I got for free, more actual luggage, and a milk crate containing my first Coach purse, a terrible suede wallet from the 70s with mushrooms painted on it, a pebbled plastic totebag with a map print on it that I loved so much I repaired the strap with staples, and a computer backpack I don’t remember obtaining.

And probably more, because I did all that from memory.

I don’t quite know what to do. Every one of those purses and bags has a usefulness to it, except maybe the ones out in that milk crate, and almost every one of them has some associated memories.

But not one of them fits my needs today. So I think—and I hate this—I need yet another bag. At least I have options to replace the one that broke.

In related news, while I was reaching into each one of these bags looking for a smaller bag, I kept finding stuff. I found a quarter. I found the shoulder strap to my favorite suitcase. And I found a receipt.

From Disneyland.

When Lisa and I were on our way to Bethany Memorial Day weekend we stopped at a really good yard sale in Bridgeville, Delaware. Had we had the van we probably would have left with some wood and glass storage furniture (all of which, by the way, looked brand new), but all I bought was a small Lodge cast iron skillet for $3.

Today I finally got around to seasoning it!

I followed the instructions found here:
http://www.curbly.com/Chrisjob/posts/1673-Salvage-and-Season-Cast-Iron-Cookware

with a few exceptions. For instance, I used a trash bag, not a grocery bag, to soak it in the sun (and overnight) outside covered in oven cleaner. I couldn’t find any fine sandpaper in the house and I’m out of Brillo pads, so I used my trusty brass wire brush to get the minimal rust out. I coated the pan with butter instead of the other solid fats listed; I refuse to buy a whole tub of shortening for such a tiny job, and I couldn’t find lard in the store.

Here are some things I learned from this process.

• A cast iron pan left in the sun all morning will be hot to the touch. Wear oven mitts.
• Oven cleaner kind of stings a little. Wash your hands thoroughly and try not to think about lye. You’re scared of lye ever since you saw Fight Club.
• When they say “put the exhaust fan on high” before you burn a bunch of salt and oil on the stove, they really mean “turn off the smoke detectors, open windows, bring the air cleaner downstairs, turn on the air conditioner, and put the exhaust fan on high.” You and your cat will freak out otherwise, as the house will fill with smoke and there will be a lot of beeping.
• Kosher salt soaked in canola oil can, in fact, catch on fire, and will do so spectacularly.
• I want more cast iron pans.

I just realized I haven’t even defrosted anything to cook in the damn skillet for dinner, so when it comes out of the oven in a couple of hours I won’t even be able to use it right away. Maybe Sunday.