South of Sunnyside

A couple of weeks ago, as I returned from an evening bike ride to Starbucks, I noticed a car parked several houses down. It’s a fairly new Honda Accord, which alone isn’t noteworthy; inside, however, a man sat, in the dark, just looking at his cell phone. I rode by several times, taking note of the license plate.

The car has returned almost daily, but not to the same spot—in fact, most evenings it’s just outside of our bedroom, along the west-side curb. I had come to the conclusion that it must belong to one of the neighbors, and then one day I noticed a pile of sunflower seeds under the driver’s side window. Neighbors simply don’t sit in their car with a bag of sunflower seeds.

Tonight, as Kim left for youth group, she noticed a man walking from the direction of the car (she didn’t see him at the car) towards one of the houses further down; he jumped as if to look into the garage, and by the time she turned around he could no longer be found.

We’re likely being paranoid, but it’s possible that this person has set up camp inside the latest home to be abandoned. I hope to ask the police officer that routinely stops in at Starbucks what we should do.

I finally broke down. I just can’t take it any longer.

On Saturday morning, a man by the name of Jose will come to look at our yard. He comes highly recommended, and we have hopes that he’ll transform our back yard from a weed-infested, patchy jungle, into a paradise. Or at least something more than what it is (which shouldn’t take much).

The machismo inside of me holds strong; it’s taken me three years to give in/up, but I know that the decision to outsource will ultimately benefit the marriage. Yeah, that’s it—I’m doing it for Kim.

A friend recently forwarded a Craigslist post advertising an amateur, but comical website: Things My Dog Ate. With three dogs, I can relate, though ours have never chewed $300 shoes (we’ve never owned $300 shoes…).

The site reminded me of Kim’s most recent attempts to “test” Darla’s behavior while we were away from the house. Past experience has taught us to confine her to a kennel if we’re going to be gone for more than 15-20 minutes, but every three months or so, Kim decides to give the dog another chance, despite my objections.

Darla has completely destroyed books, including Kim’s favorite Bible, shoes, remotes, food containers, etc. Most items have been easy to either replace or forget, but, as a dog, she has no ability to discern value.

Anyway, back to the most recent experience: we weren’t gone for long, and Kim scoured the house, picking up anything within reasonable reach (though Darla has proved to be part mountain goat, part cat) save the furniture. Kim did a good job, too; she just forgot the stack of magazines under the side table.

I came home, hesitantly opened the door, and then dropped my jaw.

Darla had destroyed each of the magazines, scattering their pages from the front door to the back. Honestly, I wasn’t upset, as it was quite humorous—and we have no attachment to the magazines. The total collection filled a garbage bag to the seams.

I feel we should talk about what just happened. I almost grazed you, and yes, that was intentional. Sure, I could have moved another six inches to the right; likewise, you could have moved another six feet to your right. You might be bigger, but I’m not going to bow down to your bearded ego.

I’m not quite certain as to the laws of the road when it comes to riding a bike, but my personal preference is to avoid riding down major thoroughfares that don’t have designated cycle lanes, especially when an eight-ten foot sidewalk is available. On said sidewalk, I kindly oblige to protocol, staying to right.

As to why I didn’t turn around once you started yelling; you were behind me (literally). It was cowardly to wait for me to pass you, and I could foresee nothing positive from any sort of dialog. Besides, I was moving at a good speed, and it’s still over 100° outside.

If you were sleepwalking, I retract any sarcasm and offer my apologies. One cannot clearly decipher sidewalk “lanes” when sleepwalking.