Not at all suspicious

 So, here we are, three weeks post-FBI raid.The BMW is still gone.  The Camero? Still poorly parked, although I hear that the Board wants to tow it (apparently private roads are different than city streets, so that's not easy to do).  

By the end of Week One, he'd replaced the lock on his front door.  It took another week for the lock on his mailbox to be replaced.  Yes, he's still there... music thud thud thudding away.  Haven't heard him and his girlfriend, though.  So that's good.

Early this morning (like, 4:40am early) when my bladder was making itself known to my brain, I heard his door open.  Footsteps down the hall.  Elevator doors opening/closing, elevator descending and the doors opening/closing again.  The front door to the building opening and closing.  Then... nothing.

But (you knew this was coming) on my way back to bed, as I opened the window shade for The Herd's Early Morning Patrol, I saw a car with lights on down the street.  And there, standing at the driver's window, was our neighbor.  Talking.  In the cold misty rain.  For over 20 min.  Loudly enough that Thing One heard voices through his window.  

Then the process reversed itself, he returned to his apartment.  And by 7:15 his music was back on.  

Nope.  Not at all suspicious.


Chapter Three

 In which Our Heroine procrastinates...

Instead of weeding and packing, I did my taxes.  And wrote notes to friends.  And read.  Why?  Because there's just so much stuff in this apartment.

Oh, yeah.  And searching for this video.  

Next week I'm working in the afternoon, so my mornings will be spent determining what is moving and what can go to the local charity shop.  Stay tuned for how that goes - I'll even take photos!

To be continued...



 In November 2018 my mother had fainting incident and fell while at "day care".  Since we couldn't find my father, I left work and went speeding to their home.  Eventually, over halfway there, we found him and I was reassured by my sister that Mom had also recovered and was going home.  Too late, I was still on my way.

Rather than worrying her more, I said that I'd come home to celebrate her birthday—I'd even brought her gift with me, a t-shirt celebrating the Red Sox World Championship.  She was happy to see me and to get the gift.  Dad brought over her stack of birthday cards and together they opened them, with Dad reading the comments.  One card was from some local friends and had been sent back and forth on her birthday and Fran's birthday for years.  Sadly, that was the last time the card would be mailed.

Then I read this in the Globe & Mail: One card, 50 years of greetings: the ultimate green Christmas tradition 🔒

In 1970 – that same year we received Arlene and Moe’s card – I was just beginning to think about conservation and recycling. Arlene and I were both pregnant that year, and my husband was just finishing graduate school. We had little money for non-essentials, and it bothered me to throw out the beautiful Christmas cards we received. I saved them all. In 1971, I handwrote our Christmas letters, including an invitation to join us in recycling cards. And then I popped the letter into everyone’s seasonal card that they’d sent us last year. I wrote our names – including our new baby’s name – and the current date just below our friends’ signatures from the Christmas before.

Some people thought this was tacky; they never returned their card. Some exchanged theirs for a few years, but found it difficult to find an envelope the right size, and heaven forbid using one that wasn’t a perfect fit, or worse, homemade.

Arlene and Moe embraced the program wholeheartedly and lovingly returned their card to us in 1972, adding their new son to the list. Names of second children eventually appeared for each family. When the children were old enough to bring in the mail and recognize return addresses they’d gleefully holler, “THE CARD has arrived!”

After I got rid of the moisture the mysteriously ran down my cheeks, I thought about my friends and who I could start this sort of tradition with.  It wouldn't be over 50 years, but any years of tradition would feel good. 

Happy birthday to someone... again and again and again.


Family Matters

I'm adopted.  I've known that all my life.  Family lore has it that my parents were told that they needed to let me know early, so at five days old, bringing me home from the Boston Lying-In, my mother informed me that I was her baby girl and I was adopted (family lore also has it that I then spit at her, cementing our future troubled relationship).  In other words, I've never not known.

I've also always been comfortable with belonging to the family I've lived with since then.  

However.... there's one thing I've always wondered: what is my ethnic background?  Beyond "Ashkenazi Jew", I mean.  People not knowing my religious background, seeing my (as Thing One calls it) vampiricly pale skin and dark hair have questioned whether if I'm Welsh, Irish, Spanish or Russian, among others.  So a couple of years ago, I did that Ancestry DNA test.

Results?  Mostly "Eastern European Jew" with some "Spanish".  Ok, that makes sense, because in 1492 Ferdinand and Isabella expelled the Jews from Spain and many migrated to Eastern Europe.  Then, I got an update: I'm 100% "Eastern European Jew" (they can't get more specific).  Two weeks ago, another update: 99% "Eastern European Jew" and 1% "Swedish" (sadly, I missed out on the blond hair/blue eyed genes).  

My sister has found her biological family, and my father has always been interested in doing that research.  He's also exploring his family tree with the help of my cousin D. D. actually manages my father's DNA, and in doing some poking around, he discovered links between my father and sister.  We were speaking last week and I made him manager of my DNA... and lo and behold, Dad and I are also cousins.  Distant cousins, I should stress.  Like, fifth cousins or more distant. 

I don't know how we're related, exactly.  And I'm not eager to truly explore it.  It's just good to know that we're related... we're family.  Of course, I knew that 58 years ago.


Chapter Two

 In which Our Heroine needs to get her act together.

So, we have an apartment.  And a date on which we're picking up the keys and remote for the garage.  Now we need to get movers scheduled and find another, closer, storage unit for things like my Very Well Stocked Workbench.

Oh, yeah.  And pack.  And before packing, weeding the closet and organizing/throwing away all the various papers and deciding if any books will not make the move with me.  You know, the important pre-moving/pre-packing stuff.

And yet.

It's a four day weekend.  And I'm here, blogging.  And watching the impeachment trial.  And reading.  And streaming a theatre performance.  And thinking "I really could get my bedroom stuff organized for the move."


Not actually doing.

To be continued...


A Little Too Exciting

 The past two mornings have been a little more exciting than I'm used to and have me dreading tomorrow!

Wednesday at 3:10am, my Big Girl ran into my room, chattering up a storm.  I tried to get her to cuddle with me, but she jumped down and ran back to the living room/kitchen.  Then she ran back, jumped up into bed and began bouncing around.  Slowly becoming alert, I opened my eyes to see something black fly up to the pillow end--she pounced on it and tossed it back down the bed.  

Ok, time to turn on the light and Oh.My.God. There's A Newly Dead Mouse In My Bed (well, most of a newly dead mouse).  I raced into Thing One's room and woke him up asking him to please, please take care of it.  Meanwhile, lounging on the living room couches are the other members of the Herd, looking pissed that we'd woken them up.  

This is the third mouse she's caught in our apartment.  They've only been around since our next door neighbor moved in so...

Speaking of that neighbor, he's been a bit of an odd duck.  We hear the constant thud of EDM (specifically Russian EDM), and he can often be heard yelling in Russian (or some such language) on the phone.  He owns a pit bull-type dog, but is pretty good about keeping him on a short leash when anyone else is around.  A few months ago he moved his prize Camero from our garage parking to street parking (and parked about 1' from the curb, making plowing the street a pain, plus it's in a prime spot for moving vans, delivery trucks, ambulances [we get a lot of those] so even more of a pain) to make way for a tricked out BMW with no plates.  Hmmmm....

This morning, at 5:45am, a thud woke me up, followed swiftly by my Baby Girl running into my room and burrowing under my blankets.  Then Thing One walked in, saying that he'd heard noise in the hall, a thud and the immortal words: Lie down, hands above your head.  FBI. Looking outside, there were five (or so) Escalades with flashing lights parked on our very short street.  More thuds. Sounds of moving and shifting. Oddly, nothing from the dog.  

90 min later, when I left for work, there were no Escalades on the street, but his door looked as though it wasn't fully closed.  

Stay tuned for tomorrow morning's antics!

ETA: they're still in the apartment, drilling and using a crowbar to remove the paneling and cabinets he installed.