{{Drew}} {{Pix}}

I'm so sorry about your uncle, Teppy.

I just want my damn dishwasher fixed, and the flappers in the toilets to stop leaking.

Can you hire a contractor and pay for the work yourself, and send in the bill along with your next month's rent minus the cost of repairs?

This is actually one of the things I *like* about owning my house. I'm responsible for repairs, but the shit gets done when I want it done. (Once I found a good handyman. The first one was ridiculous.)

Oh, ugh. I'm so sorry it has been such a wretched evening. Drew and Kristin, I'm so glad that the hiccups are gone; there was no hysteria in evidence, not even a bit; and I'm so glad you have each other and all the rest of the LAistas. And I'm vibing for maximum wisdom and competence for all the doctors caring for Drew.

And, Teppy, your poor uncle, your poor family. Much love to all of you.

I'm up with insomnia, puttering around (leaving from here to dwell in the land of Sudoku, the perfect can't sleep combination of thinky and totally abstract -- crosswords are bad, because words lead to stories and imaginary conversations and fretful what-ifs; numbers lead to more numbers).

The medical folk next door just got back from a late shift and now they're out on the porch drinking and discussing their folks and playing mix tapes of what sounds like old WPA interviews with Depression-era elderly men (or possibly Tom Waits) interspersed with Joni Mitchell and a younger generation of little girls with big guitars. It's oddly soothing.

Old man on the tape is definitely not Tom Waits; he is talking about a cousin who wanted to be a priest and went to a seminar, but then became a member of the Black Hand anyway, and about the Black Hand activity all over Italy and parts east, and what strands came to the US, with digressions into immigrants buying or renting homes on land owned by gas companies, with propane tanks buried all over the property and hot spots that could go up at any time, which made them cheap enough to be attractive to poor immigrants. Plus, houses built that long ago always had living rooms large enough for women to give birth in them. Newer houses don't have rogue propane tanks, which is good, but they lack decent sized living rooms, which is a problem for expectant mothers.

And now he's talking about the weird beauties of hopping the trains with his friends and his dad at age 8. This is much too interesting. It's no good for insomnia at all.

Pix and Drew I hope today brings less pain, good answers, and more better healing.

Steph, so sorry to hear about your uncle.

Stephanie - enjoy the hot air balloons! I hope work and neighbors get better soon.

IOmemeN: Dear lake Erie, I know we need to get along for the sake of the family. You, with your 3 seasons of allergens? Not really trying all that hard on your end. Though the sunrise was lovely. Wary and sniffly love, me

Also, my inlaws? Made of amazing stuff.

Teppy, I'm so sorry for your loss. Lots of peace and coping wishes for you and your whole family.

Good morning.

Sympathies to Steph and family. Jeez, it really has been a hell of a time for you all. Many warm thoughts for peace of heart to you.

And continued ~ma wending its way to the PixDesigns. Swift resolution to you.

Minor rant, with advice request ahoy.

I live in an old neighborhood, where the back gardens are all connected and quite close together. In fact, the back garden of the house two doors down is roughly about 20 feet from my kitchen and bathroom windows.

The weather yesterday was gorgeous and I could, for the first time in weeks, leave my windows open and my very loud a/c off. Hallelujah!

Only, the neighbors, two doors down, were having a dinner party. They have dinner parties every weekend, and sometimes during the week. They are entertaining people.

I have no problem with that as a rule. They get loud, they go late, I roll with it.

Last night, however, their gathering was a bit smaller than usual, but oddly, much, much louder. In fact, I could hear ever frikkin' word, including a shouted conversation about hemorrhoids and anal bleeding.

I kid you not.

At first, I sort of winced and tried to ignore it, but it went on, and on and on. Eventually, I leaned out my kitchen window and said, "I suppose it doesn't matter to you, but you are sharing your hemorrhoid conversation with the entire neighborhood." crickets "Could you please keep it down just a little, I'm trying to sleep over here." crickets

Now, it was only 11, so I guess that makes me an old fogey.

Still. The medical conditions of my neighbor's guests are none of my business and I'm appalled that they are so oblivious to their environment that they don't know how to use an inside voice.

I am contemplating knocking on the door this morning and talking to them about it. Given the state of their yard, I have to assume they are renters, though I do not know this for a fact. I just want to reinforce that I should not be the one reminding their guests that the backyard is not their living room.

What is a more clever way to handle this?

Ah, hell. Tons and oodles and scads of ~ma headed out to the PixDesigns.

Steph, I am so sorry about your uncle. The universe definitely needs to back the fuck off.

I am back in my house, after spending yesterday napping and slounging at my parents. This place seems ridiculously bucolic after Nola. Not sure how I feel about it all. Have a lot of cleaning up and follow up and processing to do. Very glad I still have today and tomorrow off from work.

bonny, sounds like you've been extremely forbearing. Knocking on their door seems a friendly way of handling it, though you never know how people are going to react.

I'm sorry, Steph. You've been having a tough couple of months.