Maybe you do have a cold. But also, you might have COVID. Let’s recap the Omicron symptoms:
Cough
Fatigue or tiredness
Congestion and runny nose
That’s right: Also symptoms of a cold.
So before you get around anyone, TAKE A COVID TEST. They are available in stores (you can use your FSA/HSA), and there are free testing sites all over the place.
If it’s positive, ISOLATE, FFS.
And let’s be clear: You shouldn’t be around anyone if you have a cold either.
It’s because of one of you that my son and sister in law had a lonely Christmas.
Gideon hung out with some friends. Two days later, he didn’t feel well. Typical cold symptoms. We sent him to his room. Tested him: positive. Then Eddie, Dominic and I tested ourselves: negative. We waited a day. Tested again. Negative. Waited. Tested. Negative.
Only then did we feel like we were safe to be around other people.
Even though we didn’t have any symptoms.
See how that works? Protecting others?
We just tested again to be safe.
Waiting for resultsStill negative
But Christmas 2021 is the one Gideon will remember as the one where we made him wear what amounted to a HazMat suit to open his gifts.
Poor Positive Gideon
I haven’t ever gotten Coronavirus [knocks wood], and I don’t plan to get it. I’m not taking chances.
The bottom line: If you think you have a cold, get tested anyway. Don’t be a Typhoid Mary.
I’m going to have to ask you to stay in your lane.
Spiders, please stay out of my basement.
Squirrels, please stop looking in my bedroom window.
Birds, please don’t come into my house.
I got home last night and opened my front door to get the mail. One of you flew in uninvited. Then had the nerve to fly upstairs.
My dustmop and I followed.
Luckily, your fowl emissary was smart. He (she?) settled on the floor. I gently placed the dustmop on top of him (her?) until I could grab a hand towel. I wrapped the scout in the hand towel, and we both went outside.
My niece said she thinks it’s a House Sparrow (which would be appropriate) or that I’m a Disney princess.
I had to make your rep skedaddle by flapping the towel.
But why? There’s nothing for any of you inside. No supply of worms. No room to fly high. No comfy nest.
Stay outside!
This is not the first time you outside critters have been lured by the great indoors, though. In my first apartment in Savannah, a rat came up from the dumpster outside. (I lived above a famous Southern restaurant. Loads of food waste.)
Luckily, my friend Brenon was on patrol with an ax handle. He went ham. Sorry, Remy.
That was the same night my immediate downstairs neighbor dealt with a bat from the chimney. And the neighbor below her had a random cat in heat show up.
Rat. Bat. Cat.
What’s up with that?
Anyway, you stay in your habitat, and I’ll stay in mine.
In my last post, I noted some, um, issues with my move — issues beyond those caused by the seller, my neighbor. Your moving company caused additional agita.
Let’s start with the fact that you were supposed to send three guys between 10:30 and 11:30 a.m.
I was there waiting at the storage unit by 10. I left just before noon to go sign the closing papers. My saintly realtor took my place while I was closing.
We had no way of knowing that you meant 10:30-11:30 Hawaii Time.
Your guys showed up just after 3. And there were only two of them. And these two had been on two other jobs previously. So they were tired. Moving SO SLOWLY. Great for you as you charge by the hour.
🙄
Footage of your movers “in action.”
For THREE HOURS, you promised me that two more guys were coming. When they finally showed up, one left immediately. Again, third job of the day. The other stayed, but complained the whole time, talked to his baby mama on the phone, and barely did anything. And he was wearing slides. SLIDES!
Night fell.
I was DYING.
I couldn’t stand it. I started helping.
Yes, you read that right: I was paying your company to move my stuff, but I put myself to work.
My bruises are proof.
You sent two more sloths workers. Around 8 (8!), the storage unit was finally empty.
Let me remind you that one man, one woman and four teenage boys loaded the same size truck in less time than your “professionals.” And for the price of Zaxby’s.
Then it was time to unload at my house. Angry man left. The others stayed. Actually stepped up the pace. They wanted to be done as much as I wanted them to be done.
Everything was in a bit after midnight. MIDNIGHT, MIKE!
But then I overheard the two original guys talking about how they were going to get home. They don’t have cars. Their buses weren’t running. You — their boss who had scheduled them for three jobs in one day — told them to figure it out themselves. An Uber would be very expensive.
Sigh.
I drove your employees home, Mike.
Josh was going to walk back to just outside the Central West End. He apparently walked to work — a three-hour journey.
I don’t know how Jeff was going to get back to Washington Park, ILLINOIS.
I got back home around 3 a.m.
I think you should have given me a massive discount, but you didn’t.
I think the money I spent should go to your employees, but it won’t.
You thrive because you pay them $14 an hour, no benefits.
I told Josh and Jeff that Target pays $15 an hour with benefits.
I hope they take my advice.
More advice to anyone who will listen: Don’t use your company.
You may be wondering where I’ve been. I’ve been in Hell. Specifically, I’ve been in the First Circle: Limbo.
I do not do well with uncertainty. And finding a place to live in St. Louis has come with SO MUCH UNCERTAINTY. And dealing with people who hang out in the Fourth Circle: Greed.
First, I was going to rent. Then I saw howexpensive rent is here. (It’s not as bad as Atlanta, but considering we are paying for two places to live, it’s bad.)
I decided to buy a cute condo downtown. Until I saw how much HOA fees are. (Hint: They are not cute.)
My brother said, “For that amount, you can buy a nice house.”
But I didn’t want a house. A house comes with upkeep.
My realtor said, “For that amount, you can hire someone to do the upkeep.”
So I found a house and decided to buy it. It’s adorable. It’s on a street that reminds me of Savannah, and the neighborhood brewery is a one-minute-and-20-second walk away. (For real. I timed it.)
But.
BUT.
The inspection found a few issues in this 1891 gem. We negotiated like mad to work it out.
But then, a new problem:
The seller got a divorce. Never took the ex off the deed.
Uh oh.
That delayed closing a week. Meanwhile, we had to get out of the place in Atlanta. No problem: Seller was going to grant possession prior to closing (as she should: It was her fault). But she wanted to charge $83 per day.
Excuse me?
As my stuff was in a moving truck and ready to go to St. Louis, I was in a tight spot.
Sigh. FINE.
Then — as Eddie and I were driving separate UHauls to Missouri (another terrible story), the seller changed her mind.
SHE CHANGED HER MIND.
Now, I need you to know this: I discovered (because I did spend many years as a reporter) that the seller would be my next-door neighbor. SHARING A WALL, as it is a row house.
So this woman fully knew she would be royally screwing over her soon-to-be-close neighbor. And she did it anyway.
(This is not even the climax of the story, in case you are wondering. We have a ways to go to the denouement.)
My GOD.
Now entering Fifth Circle: Anger. Please keep hands and arms inside the vehicle.
As the owner, it was her prerogative. For sure. But also a dick move.
So.
I’m nothing if not resilient. While driving the truck, I booked a storage unit in St. Louis and hired some folks for the next day to help us move my stuff into it.
Recalculating. This route avoids the Seventh Circle: Violence.
On the day I was supposed to move in, we ended up staying with my mother. Thankfully! And made the best of it.
I did close on the house a week later. Her decision cost me a week and SO MUCH MONEY because I had to hire actual movers, instead of abusing my family.
That experience was atrocious on its own. (Hence my comment about the climax.)
The good news is that the house is mine. I’ve been here two weeks. And my neighbor hasn’t dared to show her face.
Are you surprised? I’m not. She knows what she did.
But I have a place to live. And a forwarding address. Finally.
“Fake” ones rely on jump scares, which are too much like pranks for me.
However, when your children — whom you haven’t seen in almost two weeks — want you to go with them someplace, you say, “Yes.” Or at least I do.
Our group consisted of three moms and five teenage boys, ages 15-16.
Someone needs to shave.
Here are the things that I found scary upon arrival:
The ticket price. It was $30 each. Yikes!
The porta potties outside didn’t have lights inside them.
The lack of masks indoors. COVID isn’t gone, y’all!
Once inside, there were other things to scare me:
Just as I started to walk in, the dude pulling back the curtain stuck his hand in front of my face. I screamed from shock. Then giggled because HOW DUMB?!?
A huge animatronic demon face bum-rushed me and shoved me into a wall.
The floors were designed to match the “rooms.” Squishy flooring to represent grass in a cemetery, for example. What’s scary about that? The broken-ankle potential. I don’t need that again.
There was a corridor of clowns. HORRIFYING. I loathe clowns.
Each of the two haunted houses ends with a chainsaw-wielding madman. Or three. I loathe chainsaw-wielding madmen. (That comes from a certain movie seen at an impressionable age.)
One of the boys’ friends putting on a badass act. “What? I can’t help it if I’m not scared.” OK, then, Buzzkill.
I did have a good time, though. One of the best things was the boy banter.
Dominic: Gideon, be careful they don’t put you in one of the exhibits. Gideon: What? Dominic: “Oh, here’s another skeleton.” Dylan: More bones, all Fernbank style. Gideon (laughing): My superhero name can be Bones. Dominic: I feel like this right here is a villain origin story.
I hate you like a high-school boyfriend hated shirts with sleeves (much to my father’s chagrin).
(I hate you so much, but I still don’t hate you as much as I hate Mitch McConnell.)
You installed “smart locks” a few months ago. Ours has never worked properly. Your maintenance folks have been out to fix it more than four times.
Last night, it wouldn’t open. Period.
I called the emergency line. Twice. Eddie called too.
Someone will be right over.
Someone did not come over.
Someone called.
The someone: We don’t do lockouts. We only do emergencies. Me: This is an emergency. Our lock isn’t working. We need to get into our place. Don’t you have the special key to get into the garage? Him: No. You’ll have to check with the leasing office. Me: They don’t open until Monday. Him: I guess you’ll have to wait until Monday. Me: How are we supposed to get into our apartment? Him: I don’t know. We only handle emergencies. Me: This is an emergency. Him: We don’t consider this an emergency. Don’t you have the garage door opener? Me: If we had that, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I?
I hung up on him.
I mean … WHAT the ACTUAL F?!
So we borrowed an extension ladder from a friend. I hummed the “Mission Impossible” theme while Dominic shimmied up and saved the day.
I was TERRIFIED of what bad things could happen here.
We should not have had to do this. Your emergency line people should actually have the capacity to help.
And you should have installed locks that actually work.
I can’t wait until our lease is up. I will NEVER recommend your company/complexes.
All is well here in the heartland of America. I explored downtown Rolla on foot in about an hour last weekend. I made it to much of the rest of the town throughout the week.
Plenty to amuse me here.
I’ve found that people are super chatty. It goes way beyond the Southern hospitality that I know.
I had LONG conversations with a woman next to me at the nail salon (she is from Salem, has four kids, back issues, etc.), a guy in the beer aisle at Walmart (his mom cooks with beer) and a couple at the farmer’s market (she is surprised I know how to cook turnip greens and he runs their produce mailing list).
My haul from yesterday. Am I a Southern girl or what?
Really lovely people. True embodiment of the phrase “salt of the earth.”
I’ve been all over campus this week and now know my way around very well. Same thing: such nice people!
I’m not sure if I mentioned this, but my new employer is putting me up in university housing for two months so I can acclimate to the university and get to know people before I start spending all my time in St. Louis.
University housing = residence hall
(No, I didn’t bring my futon, neon beer sign and bookcase made with plywood and milk crates. 😉)
I’m on what appears to be the men’s floor. Though I have a private outside entrance, the interior door opens onto the hallway.
I share my bedroom wall with the guys next door: Paul, Conor and Owen. They had a particularly rowdy night Tuesday night. I have no idea what they were doing, but now to me they are collectively the Noisy Nerds.*
I live for the day I’m invited to a hall party. (You know I’m not kidding.)
Anyway, I’m still fine. A little bored at night after work, but fine. I’ll make friends. Find things to do. As I do. Don’t worry.
Love, Beth
*Not a pejorative term. I too am a nerd about a variety of things. As you all know.
I thought you were in the business of helping people. Immediately. I mean, IT’S IN THE TITLE of the place.
So when Gideon was attacked by a can of diced tomatoes, we naturally thought of you.
It was deep.
We showed up moments after the attack.
You said there were two other lacerations ahead of us, and that you wouldn’t be able to get to him before closing time.
IN TWO HOURS.
What the eff? For real?!
I don’t understand.
So we went to Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta Urgent Care. They sent us to the emergency room because the gash was three centimeters long — the cutoff for urgent care treatment, apparently.
The ER doctor rolled his eyes when he heard about our adventure. He said:
Just come here first. Don’t even bother with those urgent care places.
Observe and report 