Things have gone pretty quiet next door, which is a blessing because we're trying to show the townhouse to renters.
Hubbie got the full story from our neighbor (the husband) the other day and his wife did indeed cheat on him after 20 years of marriage. Hubbie said he looked gutted (understandable) and started crying while talking to him (the husband, not Joss - he's sensitive but not that sensitive.)
Despite the fact that we have not particularly enjoyed unavoidably eavesdropping on their drama, we do feel really sorry for him. He's not the most subtle or sophisticated of human beings, it doesn't change the fact that he's beligerant and very angry man at heart, but despite all this nobody deserves to be lied to by someone they love.
It sounded like he was trying to find it in his heart to stay with her... he was trying to try, so to speak. After 20 years I can't even imagine how it would feel; probably like the floor has just fallen out from beneath you.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
We have too much stuff
It's not a new realization but it's one that definitely makes me groan at moving time.
As I open cupboards to pack, I see two, three, four, versions of the same thing... the one at the back forgotten about and a new one(s) purchased... none of them touched in months, if not years.
Once I'm into the new place I am going to have a brutal throwing out session. This is just plain ridiculous... nobody needs this much crap.
ARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!
I seriously hope that one day I am rich enough to pay someone else to do this part of the moving process. I've moved 8 times now in 12 years and I'm soooo over it.
As I open cupboards to pack, I see two, three, four, versions of the same thing... the one at the back forgotten about and a new one(s) purchased... none of them touched in months, if not years.
Once I'm into the new place I am going to have a brutal throwing out session. This is just plain ridiculous... nobody needs this much crap.
ARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!
I seriously hope that one day I am rich enough to pay someone else to do this part of the moving process. I've moved 8 times now in 12 years and I'm soooo over it.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Dominoes
We started to move into the house this past weekend... bit by bit. Since everything came together within a matter of 2-3 days, we hadn't really packed anything, so we're trying to pack-and-move at the same time, getting the smaller stuff out before Saturday which will be the big move date.
And, as my hubbie says, I have to make things harder.
I was determined not to move my desk into a yucky gray-cream room and so I took it upon myself to paint my future office this past Sunday while hubbie was working. Heck, I'm an independent woman, I thought, I can do this on my own!
Ummm.... yep.
My ambitious plan was to have a two-tone room; a darker color on the bottom third of all the walls and a lighter color on the top two thirds.
I went over to the new house with all my supplies (which, I'll admit, hubbie staged at the back door for me - hey, he knew where all this stuff was!), my energy-infused Jamba Juice, and a stack of boppy CDs. I taped-off the baseboards (which are actually chair rails; don't ask me what they were thinking) and put down the drop-cloths.
I'm was feeling pretty smart. Who needed a man?
Then I set to taping-off the door frame.... only then did I realize I didn't have the step-ladder. Being five foot one and three quarters, the step ladder is not negotiable. Cripes. Ok, I thought, I'll just do whatever I can reach for now and then go home to get the step-ladder afterward.
So I continued taping, crawling on my hands and knees into the closet cubby. But as I taped, the chair-rail-base-board started to come away in my hands.
Who needs baseboard - especially chair-rail-baseboard - in the closet? I'll just pull it.
This got me looking a little harder at the makeshift baseboard and 'crown moulding' (pah!) throughout the room. Poor cuts, located half-way along the wall and shoddy nailing left it a few millimeters away from the wall in several spots.
I think we need new baseboard; how much can it be for a small room like this?
Resolved to spend the money on new baseboard, I continued on my merry way around the wall, painting the top two thirds of the room in my pretty, buttery yellow, as high as my five-foot frame would carry me - and a little higher with a nifty little jump-and-roll maneuvre I think I'm going to patent.
With Janet Jackson's Black Cat blasting away on my Bose stereo (how great to not worry about neighbors with a common wall!) I danced and painted my way three quarters of the way around the room, finally getting to the doorway.
This is going waaaaay good, I thought with renewed vigor. Hubbie is going to be soooo proud of me.
And then I closed the door to reach the wall behind.
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
In our fervor to purchase the house with all it's aesthetic defects, we had neglected to actually turn over every rock (or door, to be specific.) So, it was only then that I saw the nasty pinky-browny color on the back of the door. It is beyond hideous and there is no way it can stay. I think it actually made me nauseous.
The realization hit me as I looked around the room with new eyes.... the door trim was white, the 'baseboards' were cream, the chair-rail-come-crown-moulding was cream, and the door was poopy brown.
My list was going to have to grow:
And, as my hubbie says, I have to make things harder.
I was determined not to move my desk into a yucky gray-cream room and so I took it upon myself to paint my future office this past Sunday while hubbie was working. Heck, I'm an independent woman, I thought, I can do this on my own!
Ummm.... yep.
My ambitious plan was to have a two-tone room; a darker color on the bottom third of all the walls and a lighter color on the top two thirds.
I went over to the new house with all my supplies (which, I'll admit, hubbie staged at the back door for me - hey, he knew where all this stuff was!), my energy-infused Jamba Juice, and a stack of boppy CDs. I taped-off the baseboards (which are actually chair rails; don't ask me what they were thinking) and put down the drop-cloths.
I'm was feeling pretty smart. Who needed a man?
Then I set to taping-off the door frame.... only then did I realize I didn't have the step-ladder. Being five foot one and three quarters, the step ladder is not negotiable. Cripes. Ok, I thought, I'll just do whatever I can reach for now and then go home to get the step-ladder afterward.
So I continued taping, crawling on my hands and knees into the closet cubby. But as I taped, the chair-rail-base-board started to come away in my hands.
Who needs baseboard - especially chair-rail-baseboard - in the closet? I'll just pull it.
This got me looking a little harder at the makeshift baseboard and 'crown moulding' (pah!) throughout the room. Poor cuts, located half-way along the wall and shoddy nailing left it a few millimeters away from the wall in several spots.
I think we need new baseboard; how much can it be for a small room like this?
Resolved to spend the money on new baseboard, I continued on my merry way around the wall, painting the top two thirds of the room in my pretty, buttery yellow, as high as my five-foot frame would carry me - and a little higher with a nifty little jump-and-roll maneuvre I think I'm going to patent.
With Janet Jackson's Black Cat blasting away on my Bose stereo (how great to not worry about neighbors with a common wall!) I danced and painted my way three quarters of the way around the room, finally getting to the doorway.
This is going waaaaay good, I thought with renewed vigor. Hubbie is going to be soooo proud of me.
And then I closed the door to reach the wall behind.
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
In our fervor to purchase the house with all it's aesthetic defects, we had neglected to actually turn over every rock (or door, to be specific.) So, it was only then that I saw the nasty pinky-browny color on the back of the door. It is beyond hideous and there is no way it can stay. I think it actually made me nauseous.
The realization hit me as I looked around the room with new eyes.... the door trim was white, the 'baseboards' were cream, the chair-rail-come-crown-moulding was cream, and the door was poopy brown.
My list was going to have to grow:
- The baseboards needed replacing.
- The door needed re-painting.
- The chair-rail-come-crown-moulding needed pulling
And thus began the domino effect.
I looked at the two tins of differently colored paint sitting side-by-side on the drop-cloth and asked the hard questions: How much do I really want a two-tone room?
To help me make up my mind, I decided to paint the darker beige color (which was to be the bottom of the wall) in one area, just to ensure that I liked it on the wall as much as I did in the swatches.
Oh boy, am I glad I did that!
Set against the bright-and-buttery yellow, the beige paint looked like smeared poop. Not good. A change of plan was definitely necessary.
So now all the walls are buttery except one. The wall by the window (which is a small area) I am going to paint a yummy bright tangerine orange. For those of you who saw my cube at work, you know the color I mean - the color of my chair. Since I brought all my work stuff home from the office this past week, I decided to take a cue from my bright yellow, orange, and red accessories and fit the room to the stuff. It's going to be bold but I'm pretty confident it will also be beautiful. (Although the guy at the paint counter at Home Depot raised his eyebrows and did a double-take when he saw the swatch I handed to him.)
I'll take pictures when it all comes together, so you'll be able to decide for yourself.
The other knock-on effect of this process was that we started opening and closing doors throughout the house and discovered similarly poopy colors on the back-side of the doors in other rooms.
Hubbie is kind of excited, however. My mum bought us a paint sprayer several years ago and we have never had the room to use it. He's now planning to luxuriate in all his new-found space by spray-painting all the trim and the doors in either the yard or the garage. Bless him. This is why I married him.
Friday, August 10, 2007
We HAVE a house!!!!
We closed yesterday at aroiund 4pm. We're really excited but there is just so much to do. Since everything really just came together on Tuesday of this week, we hadn't even started packing! Our goal is to be out of the townhouse a week from Saturday.
One of the cool things about moving is that we've been able to do some research on some new utilities, most importantly our satellite tv. Right now we have DirecTV, which we've been very happy with. However, in researching, we found that AT&T (our telephone and internet provider) has a relationship with Dish Network and they are practically giving away something called "iHome" (I think that's the name.) It's basically a central computer system for your house that links your satellite tv with your telephone with your internet access and home network. For those of you that are scratching your head about why the heck anyone would want to do that, the possibilities are literally endless. We'll be able to listen to our voicemails through email, read email on the tv, see CallerID on the tv etc... Their plans also include to link things like doorbells, garage doors, and mailboxes so you can control your whole hosue from one central hub. All of this at an overall cost reduction for packaging all the services.
Of course, we're doing it. Talk to us in a year and we may resemble the modern-day Jetsons.
This is just one of many things we need to set-up and achieve in the next week but it's an unexpected and unforeseen benefit
In addition to packing, I'll be painting this weekend. The first room I want to set-up is my office (since I work from home this room needs to be operational right away.) Painting is the most important first step since the walls are cream right now and, if you know anything about me at all, you know that cream walls give me an anxiety attack. (They're drab, unimaginative, and they make me feel like I'm in a rental.) I picked Ralph Lauren Cottonwood and Wicker Mat (if you've never used Ralph Lauren paint before you should - it goes on so easily and the coverage is amazing... only one coat needed!) and of course I will be decorating with my signature orange, yellow, and red accessories.
So, with that all said, I need to get to work (the money-making vs. spending type).
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
We MAY have a house...
So, it looks like we have a new house by week's end.
YIKES!
I guess the sellers found the extra cash to make-up the difference on their loan and want to close by Friday. I signed loan docs this afternoon and, assuming they come up with the money they say they will be, we'll be proud owners of this property by the end of the week: www.5471plantain.com
Of course we haven't even started packing and we don't have the condo rented yet, so there's a LOT to do.
Again... YIKES!
YIKES!
I guess the sellers found the extra cash to make-up the difference on their loan and want to close by Friday. I signed loan docs this afternoon and, assuming they come up with the money they say they will be, we'll be proud owners of this property by the end of the week: www.5471plantain.com
Of course we haven't even started packing and we don't have the condo rented yet, so there's a LOT to do.
Again... YIKES!
Trailer trash wars: Installment 2
And so it continues....
I just never knew that one person could yell this much without having a nervous breakdown. So much venom just can't be good for one person. Oh the horrid names he is calling her!
What's worse is that their argument is an unending circle... it's going nowhere. She claims she's done nothing, he doesn't believe her. He says it's over, she begs and pleads with him to see reason. He yells some more. And loop...
Personally, the whole thing is so alien to me. Firstly, I NEVER call names in an argument. I am a logical arguer, not an emotional one. Calling names gets you nowhere - those who sling mud lose ground and all that. Secondly, while I'm not immune to screaming once in a while when I'm frustrated and feeling like I'm not getting heard, I can't continue to scream about the same thing over-and-over-and-over again. I just don't have the patience. If I feel like I'm not getting anywhere I change tactics or I walk away to get some space and perspective. Arguments, while serving as an emotional release, also need to be productive and forward moving.
Not so for my next-door neighbors. Aparently they both took the day off work to have these pointless screaming matches with one another. Lucky me!
I just never knew that one person could yell this much without having a nervous breakdown. So much venom just can't be good for one person. Oh the horrid names he is calling her!
What's worse is that their argument is an unending circle... it's going nowhere. She claims she's done nothing, he doesn't believe her. He says it's over, she begs and pleads with him to see reason. He yells some more. And loop...
Personally, the whole thing is so alien to me. Firstly, I NEVER call names in an argument. I am a logical arguer, not an emotional one. Calling names gets you nowhere - those who sling mud lose ground and all that. Secondly, while I'm not immune to screaming once in a while when I'm frustrated and feeling like I'm not getting heard, I can't continue to scream about the same thing over-and-over-and-over again. I just don't have the patience. If I feel like I'm not getting anywhere I change tactics or I walk away to get some space and perspective. Arguments, while serving as an emotional release, also need to be productive and forward moving.
Not so for my next-door neighbors. Aparently they both took the day off work to have these pointless screaming matches with one another. Lucky me!
Trailer trash wars
Last night all hell erupted next door.
The yelling, banging, and cussing through the night seemed to be about the mother's aparant dalliance with another man. Between screamed insults we've managed to hear enough to form a theory that mom has been sharing sexy emails with another man, emails that have now been discovered by dad. Dad is now convinced - and won't hear otherwise - that mom has stepped out on him.
Thus, our evening (and even morning as I headed out to the gym) has been punctuated by the continual volley of
"Don't you tell me you didn't **ck him!"
"I didn't **ck him!"
"Don't you **cking tell me that!"
...or versions thereof.
Being as there was nothing worth watching on the tv last night, we turned it down and gained our free entertainment from the soap opera next door.
The yelling, banging, and cussing through the night seemed to be about the mother's aparant dalliance with another man. Between screamed insults we've managed to hear enough to form a theory that mom has been sharing sexy emails with another man, emails that have now been discovered by dad. Dad is now convinced - and won't hear otherwise - that mom has stepped out on him.
Thus, our evening (and even morning as I headed out to the gym) has been punctuated by the continual volley of
"Don't you tell me you didn't **ck him!"
"I didn't **ck him!"
"Don't you **cking tell me that!"
...or versions thereof.
Being as there was nothing worth watching on the tv last night, we turned it down and gained our free entertainment from the soap opera next door.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Looking this cute is thirsty work!
Sunday Hubbie's sister, husband, and daughter came to visit. Adah is now ten months old and almost walking. She's also teething, hence the stuck-out tongue in the picture. Cute summer dress courtesy of her proud Aunty.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Mr. Buggy goes to the Doctor
And you know what the Doctor says?
Tough it out. It's a virus and there's nothing you can do.
See... I knew it all along. Pffft.
Tough it out. It's a virus and there's nothing you can do.
See... I knew it all along. Pffft.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Mr. Buggy and Hubbie's altercation
So, I finally succumbed yesterday and tried to make a doctor's appointment, much to Hubbie's elation. If it was up to Hubbie I would dash off to the doctor's office every time I had a sniffle; clearly this is not my M.O.
Have I ever mentioned before how utterly rude and surly my doctor's receptionists are? Well, they are. From the moment they pick up the phone you feel like you're a problem patient. The unsaid undertone in their voice is "Dear God, another patient. What the hell do you want?" Maybe it's the fact that they're Russion or Ukranian or whatever - it's kind of stereotypical of me but I can't imagine that doctor's offices in Russia are bastions of cheer and helpful customer service.
So, as a result, I pretty much take a deep breath whenever I call the doctor. Patience and humility are needed, qualities that are often in short supply when you're anxious, grouchy, iritable, or just plain tired as a result of whatever ailment you're calling them to try and fix.
The good news was that they actually picked up yesterday. It's pretty hit or miss with them as to whether they're actually open. (I did, in my defense, have Hubbie try to call them last Friday at 3pm but they were closed.) I've never quite been able to figure out my doctor's hours are. You can call at 1pm and an answering service picks up (and WTF with that? Who has an answering service any more? They're totally and utterly worthless. It's just a human telling you they're closed, they can't make an appointment, and you should call 911 if you need urgent care. I'd be less insulted if it was an answering machine.) Or you can try to make an appointment on a specific day of the week only to turn up and find out that you've been passed-off to the nurse practitioner (she who tells me with every pap-smear that I'm almost too late to have kids, provides helpful baby-making advice like "lay on your back with your legs against a wall after sex." and, when I requested malaria pills, pulls out an aging dictionary of medicines and flips to 'M' for malaria while asking me which pills I would like. )
After the usual "Doctor XXX's office, can you hold?", I finally get Helga (sorry, stereotypes again but I can't resist.) "Yes?" "I'd like to make an appointment to see the doctor." "Ok, please hold." Seriously? Why are you answering the phone if you're not able or prepared to take appointments? Now I get Ingrid. "Why are you coming in?" "I've had a cold for more than a week that won't go away, along with headaches and a preety bad cough." "Let me see, the earliest appointment we have is Thursday at 10am." "THURSDAY!?"
Ok, by Thursday I'm going to be better all by myself. At that point, I'm hardly going to subject myself to antibiotics that give me a bladder infection.
When I told Hubbie this, he went into action behind my back. He called Helga and Ingrid and tried to appeall to their "better" nature to squeeze me in a little earlier. Obviously, he was fighting a losing battle there. They didn't call it the iron curtain for nothing. He was told that if I wanted to see someone today I would need to go to the urgent care facility at the end of my road. Ok, now why would I sit for 2-3 hours in an urgent care facility with a bunch of people who sliced off their finger, or have a nail in their foot (ie: people with need for actual URGENT care) just to get some antibiotics? I'd feel like a real imposter and plus it's a colossal waste of my time.
So, I'm getting a new doctor. I did some research online and found a nice looking lady in a medical practice with more than one doctor on-hand and opening hours that resemble full-time. I have to wait until September 1st to see her because the HMO can't switch me before then. Ironic of course that I have to switch before I actually meet her. I hope she's as nice as she looks online. It occurs to me that this is just as sketchy as online dating.
Have I ever mentioned before how utterly rude and surly my doctor's receptionists are? Well, they are. From the moment they pick up the phone you feel like you're a problem patient. The unsaid undertone in their voice is "Dear God, another patient. What the hell do you want?" Maybe it's the fact that they're Russion or Ukranian or whatever - it's kind of stereotypical of me but I can't imagine that doctor's offices in Russia are bastions of cheer and helpful customer service.
So, as a result, I pretty much take a deep breath whenever I call the doctor. Patience and humility are needed, qualities that are often in short supply when you're anxious, grouchy, iritable, or just plain tired as a result of whatever ailment you're calling them to try and fix.
The good news was that they actually picked up yesterday. It's pretty hit or miss with them as to whether they're actually open. (I did, in my defense, have Hubbie try to call them last Friday at 3pm but they were closed.) I've never quite been able to figure out my doctor's hours are. You can call at 1pm and an answering service picks up (and WTF with that? Who has an answering service any more? They're totally and utterly worthless. It's just a human telling you they're closed, they can't make an appointment, and you should call 911 if you need urgent care. I'd be less insulted if it was an answering machine.) Or you can try to make an appointment on a specific day of the week only to turn up and find out that you've been passed-off to the nurse practitioner (she who tells me with every pap-smear that I'm almost too late to have kids, provides helpful baby-making advice like "lay on your back with your legs against a wall after sex." and, when I requested malaria pills, pulls out an aging dictionary of medicines and flips to 'M' for malaria while asking me which pills I would like. )
After the usual "Doctor XXX's office, can you hold?", I finally get Helga (sorry, stereotypes again but I can't resist.) "Yes?" "I'd like to make an appointment to see the doctor." "Ok, please hold." Seriously? Why are you answering the phone if you're not able or prepared to take appointments? Now I get Ingrid. "Why are you coming in?" "I've had a cold for more than a week that won't go away, along with headaches and a preety bad cough." "Let me see, the earliest appointment we have is Thursday at 10am." "THURSDAY!?"
Ok, by Thursday I'm going to be better all by myself. At that point, I'm hardly going to subject myself to antibiotics that give me a bladder infection.
When I told Hubbie this, he went into action behind my back. He called Helga and Ingrid and tried to appeall to their "better" nature to squeeze me in a little earlier. Obviously, he was fighting a losing battle there. They didn't call it the iron curtain for nothing. He was told that if I wanted to see someone today I would need to go to the urgent care facility at the end of my road. Ok, now why would I sit for 2-3 hours in an urgent care facility with a bunch of people who sliced off their finger, or have a nail in their foot (ie: people with need for actual URGENT care) just to get some antibiotics? I'd feel like a real imposter and plus it's a colossal waste of my time.
So, I'm getting a new doctor. I did some research online and found a nice looking lady in a medical practice with more than one doctor on-hand and opening hours that resemble full-time. I have to wait until September 1st to see her because the HMO can't switch me before then. Ironic of course that I have to switch before I actually meet her. I hope she's as nice as she looks online. It occurs to me that this is just as sketchy as online dating.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Trailer park update
It's 7:15 in the morning and it sounds like my wall is going to cave in. Today the activity next door has progressed to mind-numbing banging. Meanwhile, our neighbor is standing out front on his bluetooth, smoking a cigarette, and coughing his heart out. How do I get a non-smoking ordinance in front of my condo? You know, like the ones you have in front of Starbucks?
Monday, July 30, 2007
I live in a trailer park
Ok, well, you're right... I don't actually live in a trailer park, I live in a fairly decent neighborhood in a row of townhouses, but I'm beginning not to know the difference.
My next door neighbors are GHETTO.
There, I've said it. God knows, at some point in the near future California Real Estate Law is going to require that sellers disclose all blog entries pertaining to annoying neighbors and I'm going to seriously regret this rant. (Hubbie is cringing as I write this, I can predict.)
About a year ago Hubbie sold the next door townhouse to a family with three teenage daughters. Hubbie was the listing agent so he didn't represent the buyers only the desperate seller, in dire straits having lost her job and facing foreclosure on her property. So, my point is, we can't blame Hubbie for the new neighbor.
Right after they moved in, we knew it was going to be a bad deal.
The father immediately started accosting poor Hubbie out front whenever he was out there watering our potted plants or over the fence in the back yard while we were bbq'ing. The man is a heart attack waiting to happen... well, actually he already had one, but he's headed straight for a second and possibly third.
He's one of those people who spend all his time finding fault with others in this world and asserting his superiority over them without once looking in the mirror at himself. (Although if I were him I wouldn't be looking either.) His preferred method of communication with his wife and daughters is shouting, cussing, and insults, most famously done in front of the house on the street.
You can imagine the scene: 300lbs of man meets 200lbs of teenager, pointing fingers, tears, yelling, hurling insults while walking up to the front door, dodging insults while walking away, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Mom gets involved in order to "calm everyone down" but soon becomes part of the melee. Second teenage daughter appears to support sister, dragging her away, sobbing and cussing, into the pick-up truck.
It's great entertainment when there's nothing on the tv but not so wonderful if you're trying to get your place rented. (God help us if we try to bring someone by to view the place.)
What's worse is that Dad immediately waltzed-in and got himself on the board of directors for our HOA. Now he's changing all the rules to meet his angry whim. For instance, before he arrived the pet size limit was 35lbs. About a month after he moved in, they bought a black lab mix (yes, in a 1400 sq ft townhome) that clearly had no intention of remaining under 35lbs. This week we find, coincidentally, the pet size limit has been increased to 70lbs. Totally impractical for a townhome community but then I'm sure black labbie next door comes in at a clean 69.9lbs.
The latest installment in the next-door saga is the flooring. I guess he ripped out the carpet which, while not being top-quality, was new when they moved in. Unfortunately, he didn't bother to check what the pricing of new carpeting is these days and when he couldn't afford to pay for it up front, got turned d0wn for credit at almost every place in town. (Probably something to do with his 100% financing and two brand-new car payments.) In the interim his house boasted cement flooring... painted blue... with red walls. With no carpet, the dolcet tones of the entire family's volly of continual insults echoes around their rooms and booms through our common walls.
This weekend was the time for the new flooring to be laid. We're not exactly sure what he's been trying to lay or where, but there's been much sawing, banging, and cussing, accompanied by toing-and-froing in front of the house in wife-beater shirts.
All of which is VERY condusive to working from home.
In other news... still nothing from the seller's bank on the place we're trying to buy.
My next door neighbors are GHETTO.
There, I've said it. God knows, at some point in the near future California Real Estate Law is going to require that sellers disclose all blog entries pertaining to annoying neighbors and I'm going to seriously regret this rant. (Hubbie is cringing as I write this, I can predict.)
About a year ago Hubbie sold the next door townhouse to a family with three teenage daughters. Hubbie was the listing agent so he didn't represent the buyers only the desperate seller, in dire straits having lost her job and facing foreclosure on her property. So, my point is, we can't blame Hubbie for the new neighbor.
Right after they moved in, we knew it was going to be a bad deal.
The father immediately started accosting poor Hubbie out front whenever he was out there watering our potted plants or over the fence in the back yard while we were bbq'ing. The man is a heart attack waiting to happen... well, actually he already had one, but he's headed straight for a second and possibly third.
He's one of those people who spend all his time finding fault with others in this world and asserting his superiority over them without once looking in the mirror at himself. (Although if I were him I wouldn't be looking either.) His preferred method of communication with his wife and daughters is shouting, cussing, and insults, most famously done in front of the house on the street.
You can imagine the scene: 300lbs of man meets 200lbs of teenager, pointing fingers, tears, yelling, hurling insults while walking up to the front door, dodging insults while walking away, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Mom gets involved in order to "calm everyone down" but soon becomes part of the melee. Second teenage daughter appears to support sister, dragging her away, sobbing and cussing, into the pick-up truck.
It's great entertainment when there's nothing on the tv but not so wonderful if you're trying to get your place rented. (God help us if we try to bring someone by to view the place.)
What's worse is that Dad immediately waltzed-in and got himself on the board of directors for our HOA. Now he's changing all the rules to meet his angry whim. For instance, before he arrived the pet size limit was 35lbs. About a month after he moved in, they bought a black lab mix (yes, in a 1400 sq ft townhome) that clearly had no intention of remaining under 35lbs. This week we find, coincidentally, the pet size limit has been increased to 70lbs. Totally impractical for a townhome community but then I'm sure black labbie next door comes in at a clean 69.9lbs.
The latest installment in the next-door saga is the flooring. I guess he ripped out the carpet which, while not being top-quality, was new when they moved in. Unfortunately, he didn't bother to check what the pricing of new carpeting is these days and when he couldn't afford to pay for it up front, got turned d0wn for credit at almost every place in town. (Probably something to do with his 100% financing and two brand-new car payments.) In the interim his house boasted cement flooring... painted blue... with red walls. With no carpet, the dolcet tones of the entire family's volly of continual insults echoes around their rooms and booms through our common walls.
This weekend was the time for the new flooring to be laid. We're not exactly sure what he's been trying to lay or where, but there's been much sawing, banging, and cussing, accompanied by toing-and-froing in front of the house in wife-beater shirts.
All of which is VERY condusive to working from home.
In other news... still nothing from the seller's bank on the place we're trying to buy.
Uggghhh! Blech! Arggghhh!
I'm sick. I feel like I've been sick since... well, forever. Okay, I'm exaggerating it's actually since last Tuesday but seriously, that's almost a week!!!!
If you know me well, you'll know that I have no patience for anything that slows me down and stops me from doing what I want to do - sickness included. And most of the time I'm pretty good at powering through whatever bug or injury has been kind enough to grace me with it's presence. Every now and then, however, something comes along that decides this whole 'mind over matter' thing is a load of rubbish and kicks me right back on my ass.
This is one such nasty buggy and it has an evil sense of humor.
It started with a sore throat on Tuesday afternoon, closely followed by an all-encompassing sense of exhaustion that had me sleeping twelve hours. After giving in to Mr. Buggy with all that sleep, I felt certain I'd sent him packing.
Not so fast, he said. Wednesday's menu included a sore throat, swollen glands, stubborn headache, and again the urge to nap after every activity more energetic than lifting the remote control. Refusing to admit defeat, I grabbed hubbie for a latte and an evening drive through the countryside to see a house he had just sold, thinking I just needed some fresh air. This has to be the worst of it, I thought, dragging myself up the stairs to bed as if I had shackles on my ankles.
By Thursday, the sore throat had turned into a little cough but overall I was feeling better. Off to the office I went, thinking 'I sure showed Mr. Buggy.' That afternoon I began to lose my voice. Mr. Buggy, I was learning, likes to fake you out. But, no mind, off I went to a football game, yelling and screaming (well, ok more like squeaking and squarking) for England. By the time I got home I felt like someone had poured acid down my throat. All I needed, I thought in my naivety, was a good night's sleep.
On Friday I opened my mouth and pretty much nothing but an "eeek" came out. I continued to work, apologizing to my potential and current clients as I let all calls go to voicemail and replied to everyone via email. Still, I ignored the buzzing in my head and the need to nap, thinking I could just tune out Mr. Buggy.
Saturday had me feeling like I'd got it licked. While my voice was only little more than an "eeek" (now almost an "eeeeek"), overall I felt good. Hubbie and I jumped back in the car and headed out to Jackson Rancheria, an Indian Gaming Casino in the boonies of Amador County. We feasted in the buffet, gambled, and then headed home $10 richer. Yep, last of the great winners here. I went to bed Saturday night dreaming of waking up on Sunday with boundless energy, and the urge to do laundry and housework. (Hey, who said dreams had to have anything to do with reality.)
Mr. Buggy had other ideas.
Back came the headache, the utter exhaustion, the buzzing in my head, the coughing - all now coupled with the inability to breath through my nose. I managed to get some laundry done, inbetween laying on the sofa and groaning in defeat. If I'd had a white flag, honestly, I would have been waving it.
Mr. Buggy had won. I spent almost the entire day on the sofa, unable to move, barely able to keep my eyes open, and propped-up by pillows to ward-off the coughing fits. I didn't leave the 1400 square feet of my house all day, except to pick up hubbie whose car broke down.
It's now Monday and I'm still not 100%. Buzzing, coughing, a little tired still (although lord knows how.) But I didn't wake up at 4:30 to go to the gym this morning; I let myself sleep in. My white flag is quite firmly in the air.
I HATE being sick.
If you know me well, you'll know that I have no patience for anything that slows me down and stops me from doing what I want to do - sickness included. And most of the time I'm pretty good at powering through whatever bug or injury has been kind enough to grace me with it's presence. Every now and then, however, something comes along that decides this whole 'mind over matter' thing is a load of rubbish and kicks me right back on my ass.
This is one such nasty buggy and it has an evil sense of humor.
It started with a sore throat on Tuesday afternoon, closely followed by an all-encompassing sense of exhaustion that had me sleeping twelve hours. After giving in to Mr. Buggy with all that sleep, I felt certain I'd sent him packing.
Not so fast, he said. Wednesday's menu included a sore throat, swollen glands, stubborn headache, and again the urge to nap after every activity more energetic than lifting the remote control. Refusing to admit defeat, I grabbed hubbie for a latte and an evening drive through the countryside to see a house he had just sold, thinking I just needed some fresh air. This has to be the worst of it, I thought, dragging myself up the stairs to bed as if I had shackles on my ankles.
By Thursday, the sore throat had turned into a little cough but overall I was feeling better. Off to the office I went, thinking 'I sure showed Mr. Buggy.' That afternoon I began to lose my voice. Mr. Buggy, I was learning, likes to fake you out. But, no mind, off I went to a football game, yelling and screaming (well, ok more like squeaking and squarking) for England. By the time I got home I felt like someone had poured acid down my throat. All I needed, I thought in my naivety, was a good night's sleep.
On Friday I opened my mouth and pretty much nothing but an "eeek" came out. I continued to work, apologizing to my potential and current clients as I let all calls go to voicemail and replied to everyone via email. Still, I ignored the buzzing in my head and the need to nap, thinking I could just tune out Mr. Buggy.
Saturday had me feeling like I'd got it licked. While my voice was only little more than an "eeek" (now almost an "eeeeek"), overall I felt good. Hubbie and I jumped back in the car and headed out to Jackson Rancheria, an Indian Gaming Casino in the boonies of Amador County. We feasted in the buffet, gambled, and then headed home $10 richer. Yep, last of the great winners here. I went to bed Saturday night dreaming of waking up on Sunday with boundless energy, and the urge to do laundry and housework. (Hey, who said dreams had to have anything to do with reality.)
Mr. Buggy had other ideas.
Back came the headache, the utter exhaustion, the buzzing in my head, the coughing - all now coupled with the inability to breath through my nose. I managed to get some laundry done, inbetween laying on the sofa and groaning in defeat. If I'd had a white flag, honestly, I would have been waving it.
Mr. Buggy had won. I spent almost the entire day on the sofa, unable to move, barely able to keep my eyes open, and propped-up by pillows to ward-off the coughing fits. I didn't leave the 1400 square feet of my house all day, except to pick up hubbie whose car broke down.
It's now Monday and I'm still not 100%. Buzzing, coughing, a little tired still (although lord knows how.) But I didn't wake up at 4:30 to go to the gym this morning; I let myself sleep in. My white flag is quite firmly in the air.
I HATE being sick.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thoroughly flummoxed
That's me with this whole Roberto Gonzales maelstrom right now.
HOW IS THIS MAN STILL IN OFFICE?
It never ceases to amaze me how the Bush administration manages to weazle itself out of these things. Sometimes I feel like I'm part of a Harry Potter novel, with everybody going about their business as if nothing is wrong while an entire undercurrent of evil and corruption bubbles under the surface - everyone knows it's there but nobody will call it by name. Well, VOLDEMORT, I mean BUSH, I say!
HOW IS THIS MAN STILL IN OFFICE?
It never ceases to amaze me how the Bush administration manages to weazle itself out of these things. Sometimes I feel like I'm part of a Harry Potter novel, with everybody going about their business as if nothing is wrong while an entire undercurrent of evil and corruption bubbles under the surface - everyone knows it's there but nobody will call it by name. Well, VOLDEMORT, I mean BUSH, I say!
Finding memories in unexpected places
Last night Hubbie and I went to a football game (and by football I mean the real kind, not the rugby-for-pussies kind). The game was a "friendly" between Preston, a small British football club, and a Mexican team from Monterrey.
I dragged hubbie there to cheer the Brits on, something which I never would have dreamed of doing while living in the UK. Growing up in England, I avoided football matches - televised and live - like the plague. My main exposure to the sport was from my Grandad - my Mum's Dad - who loved the sport and would tune into "Match of the Day" which is akin to Monday Night Football in the U.S., except it's on a Sunday. My Grandad loved football and my uncle, my Mum's brother Frankie, was football mad. Frankie's kids, my cousins Darren and Paul, all played professionally, Darren even playing for the England Youth Team. My Uncle, Frankie, was a scout for Tottenham for a while during it's heyday with Terry Venabales (a previous England coach and a friend of my Uncle's), Gary Linnekar and Gazza. My Mum, as a girl, even has great stories about sitting on Terry Venabales knee.
Of course, to those of you who know nothing at all about "soccer" I'm sounding very knowledgeable right now. Really my shameless name-dropping is pathetic at best to the average Brit. Even if you don't watch football in England, it's hard for the national sport not to drift into your consciousness - kind of like, as an American, it's hard not to know that Barry Bonds is going for the home-run record right now. Basically, you would need to turn off all forms of media and put your head in the sand.
Where I'm going with this (and I am going somewhere) is that the likelihood of me dragging my husband to a football game had I of continued living in the UK, was slim to none. But it's amazing what you grasp desperately onto from your home country once you leave.
So, there I was, sitting in a converted minor-league baseball field in Sacramento, a stadium packed with Mexican immigrants, watching a little-known team from northern England play a Mexican football team. What's more, I was even enjoying it.
We had great seats, close to mid-field and only eight rows back from the pitch, and the sight of a big, round football soaring high and long down the pitch, almost brought tears to my eyes. As the teams moved up and down the pitch, tackling, fowling, even fighting, I realized how much I had missed this game that had lived on the peripheral of my consciousness throughout my entire childhood. The atmosphere was electric, people straining to watch the game as it moved closer to either end of the pitch, then rising to their feet to cheer or express disappointment when someone went for the goal. How could anyone love the snail's pace of baseball, or the constant stoppages and littany of rules of American Football better than this?
What's more, I couldn't help thinking: My Grandad would be so proud. And at the same time Why didn't I give this game a chance before? All those years I complained and rolled my eyes as the music to "Match of the Day" filled our living room, and I should have been sitting side-by-side with my Grandad, sharing in his passion. Throughout the game images popped in and out of my head, images of Grandad sitting in his armchair, legs crossed, with one of his knitted cardigans on, grumbling at the tv set as his team, West Ham, inevitably lost. He's been gone for sixteen years, half my life, but yesterday I really missed him.
We left 10 minutes before the end of the game. Preston was down 0-1 and even through my rose-tinted glasses I could tell they weren't playing all that well. I hear Monterrey won 2-0 in the end.
I dragged hubbie there to cheer the Brits on, something which I never would have dreamed of doing while living in the UK. Growing up in England, I avoided football matches - televised and live - like the plague. My main exposure to the sport was from my Grandad - my Mum's Dad - who loved the sport and would tune into "Match of the Day" which is akin to Monday Night Football in the U.S., except it's on a Sunday. My Grandad loved football and my uncle, my Mum's brother Frankie, was football mad. Frankie's kids, my cousins Darren and Paul, all played professionally, Darren even playing for the England Youth Team. My Uncle, Frankie, was a scout for Tottenham for a while during it's heyday with Terry Venabales (a previous England coach and a friend of my Uncle's), Gary Linnekar and Gazza. My Mum, as a girl, even has great stories about sitting on Terry Venabales knee.
Of course, to those of you who know nothing at all about "soccer" I'm sounding very knowledgeable right now. Really my shameless name-dropping is pathetic at best to the average Brit. Even if you don't watch football in England, it's hard for the national sport not to drift into your consciousness - kind of like, as an American, it's hard not to know that Barry Bonds is going for the home-run record right now. Basically, you would need to turn off all forms of media and put your head in the sand.
Where I'm going with this (and I am going somewhere) is that the likelihood of me dragging my husband to a football game had I of continued living in the UK, was slim to none. But it's amazing what you grasp desperately onto from your home country once you leave.
So, there I was, sitting in a converted minor-league baseball field in Sacramento, a stadium packed with Mexican immigrants, watching a little-known team from northern England play a Mexican football team. What's more, I was even enjoying it.
We had great seats, close to mid-field and only eight rows back from the pitch, and the sight of a big, round football soaring high and long down the pitch, almost brought tears to my eyes. As the teams moved up and down the pitch, tackling, fowling, even fighting, I realized how much I had missed this game that had lived on the peripheral of my consciousness throughout my entire childhood. The atmosphere was electric, people straining to watch the game as it moved closer to either end of the pitch, then rising to their feet to cheer or express disappointment when someone went for the goal. How could anyone love the snail's pace of baseball, or the constant stoppages and littany of rules of American Football better than this?
What's more, I couldn't help thinking: My Grandad would be so proud. And at the same time Why didn't I give this game a chance before? All those years I complained and rolled my eyes as the music to "Match of the Day" filled our living room, and I should have been sitting side-by-side with my Grandad, sharing in his passion. Throughout the game images popped in and out of my head, images of Grandad sitting in his armchair, legs crossed, with one of his knitted cardigans on, grumbling at the tv set as his team, West Ham, inevitably lost. He's been gone for sixteen years, half my life, but yesterday I really missed him.
We left 10 minutes before the end of the game. Preston was down 0-1 and even through my rose-tinted glasses I could tell they weren't playing all that well. I hear Monterrey won 2-0 in the end.
Monday, July 23, 2007
JOKE OF THE DAY
A husband and wife are vacationing out at a remote lake.
One morning the husband returns after several hours of fishing and decidesto take a nap. Although not familiar with the lake, the wife decidesto take the boat out. She motors out a short distance, anchors, and reads her book.
Along comes a Game Warden in his boat. He pulls up alongside the woman andsays, "Good morning, Ma'am. What are you doing?"
"Reading a book," she replies, (thinking, "Isn't that obvious?")
"You're in a Restricted Fishing Area," he informs her.
"I'm sorry, officer, but I'm not fishing. I'm reading."
"Yes, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could startat any moment. I'll have to take you in and write you up."
"If you do that, I'll have to charge you with sexual assault," says the woman.
"But I haven't even touched you," says the game warden.
"That's true, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment."
"Have a nice day ma'am," and he left.
MORAL: Never argue with a woman who reads. It's likely she can also think.
One morning the husband returns after several hours of fishing and decidesto take a nap. Although not familiar with the lake, the wife decidesto take the boat out. She motors out a short distance, anchors, and reads her book.
Along comes a Game Warden in his boat. He pulls up alongside the woman andsays, "Good morning, Ma'am. What are you doing?"
"Reading a book," she replies, (thinking, "Isn't that obvious?")
"You're in a Restricted Fishing Area," he informs her.
"I'm sorry, officer, but I'm not fishing. I'm reading."
"Yes, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could startat any moment. I'll have to take you in and write you up."
"If you do that, I'll have to charge you with sexual assault," says the woman.
"But I haven't even touched you," says the game warden.
"That's true, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment."
"Have a nice day ma'am," and he left.
MORAL: Never argue with a woman who reads. It's likely she can also think.
Vote in my poll...
See right-hand column... down in the "white" area. I would have put it at the top but the writing doesn't show up on the dark blue column.
Thanks to The Gerli Life for the blogaddition.
Thanks to The Gerli Life for the blogaddition.
Britrant... Simpsonized!
Hot on the heels of the "Southparkme" tool comes "Simpsonize Yourself."
Here is me, Simpsonized and hanging out at a bar with Homer himself.
In other news, a tin of incense fell onto one of my toes and it's either broken or has a hairline fracture. Either way.... OUCH!
Monday, July 16, 2007
Back from blogiatus
Ok, so I've been really slack at posting lately. In my defense, I have good reason.
First, my Mum was out the week of July 4th...
Second, Hubbie and I are in the throws of trying to buy a house. Yes, we finally found one that fits all our criteria and, if all goes according to plan, we're getting a killer deal.
We have the seller's signature but, because it's a short-sale, we have to wait for their bank to approve the purchase price. So, until we get approval I'm not going to jinx us by providing any more information. If/when we do, you bet I will!
The domino effect of all of this is that we're also trying to rent our townhouse. Since the market is so down here in Sac, there's little point in trying to sell it. Right now we're painting and taking care of some latent home-maintenance issues with the goal of getting a tennant asap, to avoid a gap between the purchase of the new place (if/when we get it) and the vacating of the townhouse.
Last night we painted 1/2 of the living room with a more neutral golden brown, replacing my much beloved Ralph Lauren Chamois yellow (which is not everyone's cup of tea.) We still have 1/2 a living room, the stairwell, upstairs hallway, downstairs bathroom, and master bedroom left. That's without mentioning cleaning the tile grout and replacing the water heater. Phew!
First, my Mum was out the week of July 4th...
Second, Hubbie and I are in the throws of trying to buy a house. Yes, we finally found one that fits all our criteria and, if all goes according to plan, we're getting a killer deal.
We have the seller's signature but, because it's a short-sale, we have to wait for their bank to approve the purchase price. So, until we get approval I'm not going to jinx us by providing any more information. If/when we do, you bet I will!
The domino effect of all of this is that we're also trying to rent our townhouse. Since the market is so down here in Sac, there's little point in trying to sell it. Right now we're painting and taking care of some latent home-maintenance issues with the goal of getting a tennant asap, to avoid a gap between the purchase of the new place (if/when we get it) and the vacating of the townhouse.
Last night we painted 1/2 of the living room with a more neutral golden brown, replacing my much beloved Ralph Lauren Chamois yellow (which is not everyone's cup of tea.) We still have 1/2 a living room, the stairwell, upstairs hallway, downstairs bathroom, and master bedroom left. That's without mentioning cleaning the tile grout and replacing the water heater. Phew!
In other news, I wanted to mention two small human acts of kindness that have totally taken me by surprise these past couple of weeks:
- After loading my shopping into my trunk in the Trader Joe's parking lot, I turned around to see where the nearest trolley park was (shopping cart for you Yanks). As I did so, a woman came past me pushing her own empty trolley. "Let me take that for you," she said. So unaccustomed to a stranger's umprompted generosity was I that I actually looked hard at her to ensure she wasn't carrying a gun and about to mug or car-jack me. I even protested: "No, that's okay. Thank you. I can do it." "No, really. I'm heading over there anyway," she persisted, grabbing the handle from me. And off she walked. Never seen her before, may never see her again. How nice was that?
- Hubbie and I went up to Foresthill on Friday night, site of our wedding just 8 months ago. (If you can believe it, we still get to stay and drink for free at the hotel where we got married. Anyway... that's not the story.) Saturday morning we head to the "Starlight Cafe" for breakfast, a hole-in-the-wall cafe on the Foresthill Road with the worst tasting coffee I've ever had the misfortune of drinking. After a few minutes, a family we had seen at the Forest House hotel the night before walked in. The young woman of the group was getting married that very afternoon. Her father-in-law recognized us from the Forest House and we exchanged greetings, then later small talk but that was about the extent of our relationship. Done with breakfast, we asked our waitress for the check and she told is that the father-in-law had picked-up our tab. We were pretty flabberghasted. Again we protested but gracefully accepted his generosity. Leaving, Hubbie said "That was weird," equally as suspicious of the man's motives as I had been of the woman who had taken back my trolley.
Both situations really touched me even though the gestures were small. Here were two complete strangers who performed random acts of kindness without expectation of anything in return.
In my suspicion of their actions, however, I recognized something sad. So seldom is it these days that we humans show each other kindness or common courtesy without agenda, that we actually question the motives of a stranger who is nice to us! I've seen the movie Pay It Forward, and I definitely experience kindness from my friends and colleagues, but I've rarely (if ever in my recollection) been the recipient of such efforts from complete strangers.
So, I resolve to perform random acts of kindness whenever the appropriate opportunity arises now. As I do so, I will post them here. If you do the same, please share what you did and what the reaction was and I'll include them in a post.
PAY IT FORWARD!
Monday, July 02, 2007
Should we all start praying to Allah?
I'm not one to panic but Chester the Bear's comment on one of my posts got me thinking...
Said the soft cuddly one: "Personally, I think it's the beginning of the end of the world as we know it, and your kids had better learn Chinese and Arabic if they're going to get anywhere."
It's certainly true that western, white christians are not procreating at the same rate as other religions and races.
This from www.danielpipes.org:
Indigenous Europeans are dying out. Sustaining a population requires each woman on average to bear 2.1 children; in the European Union, the overall rate is one-third short, at 1.5 a woman, and falling. One study finds that, should current population trends continue and immigration cease, today's population of 375 million could decline to 275 million by 2075.To keep its working population even, the E.U. needs 1.6 million immigrants a year; to sustain the present workers-to-retirees ratio requires an astonishing 13.5 million immigrants annually.
AND
Europe is increasingly a post-Christian society, one with a diminishing connection to its tradition and its historic values. The numbers of believing, observant Christians has collapsed in the past two generations to the point that some observers call it the "new dark continent." Already, analysts estimate Britain's mosques host more worshippers each week than does the Church of England.
Some 5% of the E.U., or nearly 20 million persons, presently identify themselves as Muslims; should current trends continue, that number will reach 10% by 2020. If non-Muslims flee the new Islamic order, as seems likely, the continent could be majority-Muslim within decades.
The National Intelligence Council projects that Europe's Muslim population will double by 2025.
I don't know who this guy is (and honestly he is a bit "worst case scenario") but he and Chester have a point. Are we a dying race? And if so, what on earth does that look like for us?
It's not that we could become the minority in and of itself - I'm all for the melting pot theory - but the fact that the projected majority hate us, for the most part, and despise our way of life is pretty damning.
While not all Muslims are this way by any stretches of the imagination, there does seem to be a lack of desire to "melt", so to speak. It's more like oil and water, with only one able to rise to the top.
What do you think?
Is this just part of life's pendulum and eventually it will swing in the other direction before any major, radical world realignment happens? OR are we really staring down a future where all women wear burkas and the call to prayer will be heard on loudspeakers in London?
Said the soft cuddly one: "Personally, I think it's the beginning of the end of the world as we know it, and your kids had better learn Chinese and Arabic if they're going to get anywhere."
It's certainly true that western, white christians are not procreating at the same rate as other religions and races.
This from www.danielpipes.org:
Indigenous Europeans are dying out. Sustaining a population requires each woman on average to bear 2.1 children; in the European Union, the overall rate is one-third short, at 1.5 a woman, and falling. One study finds that, should current population trends continue and immigration cease, today's population of 375 million could decline to 275 million by 2075.To keep its working population even, the E.U. needs 1.6 million immigrants a year; to sustain the present workers-to-retirees ratio requires an astonishing 13.5 million immigrants annually.
AND
Europe is increasingly a post-Christian society, one with a diminishing connection to its tradition and its historic values. The numbers of believing, observant Christians has collapsed in the past two generations to the point that some observers call it the "new dark continent." Already, analysts estimate Britain's mosques host more worshippers each week than does the Church of England.
Some 5% of the E.U., or nearly 20 million persons, presently identify themselves as Muslims; should current trends continue, that number will reach 10% by 2020. If non-Muslims flee the new Islamic order, as seems likely, the continent could be majority-Muslim within decades.
The National Intelligence Council projects that Europe's Muslim population will double by 2025.
I don't know who this guy is (and honestly he is a bit "worst case scenario") but he and Chester have a point. Are we a dying race? And if so, what on earth does that look like for us?
It's not that we could become the minority in and of itself - I'm all for the melting pot theory - but the fact that the projected majority hate us, for the most part, and despise our way of life is pretty damning.
While not all Muslims are this way by any stretches of the imagination, there does seem to be a lack of desire to "melt", so to speak. It's more like oil and water, with only one able to rise to the top.
What do you think?
Is this just part of life's pendulum and eventually it will swing in the other direction before any major, radical world realignment happens? OR are we really staring down a future where all women wear burkas and the call to prayer will be heard on loudspeakers in London?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
