WHEW! I've been out of the blogging game for about two weeks now and it's good to be back. There's been ups and downs in my life and I can't wait to share all the excitement/hardship with you in later posts, but today, I'm finally getting back to fashion and telling you a story.
So first, Fashion-y stuff:
I know, I know, the mustache craze is over and everyone has had their full of the facial hair, but when I stumbled across this little gem in a Downtown Portland thrift store called Little Ghost, I couldn't say no. The color is one of my favorites, the print is cheeky, and (not that you can tell in this outfit) the back is asymmetrical. It commands attention whether it's with jeans or a statement skirt.
I donned black tights and my high-heeled boots to deal with the cold front that's been hitting us this week. The colder it gets, the more I'm forced to layer, using my creativity but losing it quickly. There's only so many ways I can jazz up a sweater with out spending a lot of money (which we don't have right now, but that's a story for another post).
Now that you've had time to marvel at my thrifted goodness, I have a story for you about neighbors.
Odds are, a high percentage of the people who skim my blog know what it's like to have a bad neighbor. Friends have told me horror stories of terrible roommates or disastrous condo partners but I'm the first one in our circle to add a story about the crazy person who lives in the house next to you.
Last night, J, Mr. T (my new nickname for our roommate), C ( the brand-spanking-new girlfriend of Mr. T), and I were getting ready to head to a show for The Royal Bones. It was a chilly night, with air so sharp the cold rattled your teeth as you breathed in. J and Mr.T had moved my clunky piano out to the car and started it, not only to let the engine warm up but to protect the instruments.
I was standing in the kitchen, makeup brush in one hand and mirror in the other, waiting for my tea to boil so I could put it in a travel mug for the road. I braced myself as J and Mr.T came back inside, the door allowing some autumn chill to sneak into the house. We chatted for a few minutes when there were three loud bangs -- sharp, piercing, seeming to throb from the inside of the house. We paused.
"Did you hear that?" I asked.
J looked over our sink, out the two twin windows. "Oh, God." He said, exasperated. "It's Crazy Santa Man."
Our neighbor's name is obviously not Crazy Santa Man. I just, surprisingly, feel bad about putting his name on the internet. His nickname isn't that creative. He looks like santa, and he is crazy. He had lived in the house next to us when J was a child, and used to pull passive-aggressive stunts on my in-laws, even going so far as to force them rip up and replace their side-of-the-house steps because they extended a few inches into the grass that ran between the houses.
He was standing on the sidewalk in front of our front steps, armed with a towel and black turtleneck, screaming so hard his face turned into a tomato. In between the high-pitched insistence that we "TURN THAT F*CKING CAR OFF" and his excessive hand-waving, I deduced that he wanted us to turn the car off because it was (and I need to exact-quote this) "GETTING CO2 IN MY HOUSE."
Now, in case you have a brain that has adapted to the ways of modern science, you'll recognize CO2 being the oh-so-dangerous chemical that you breathe out into the universe. According to several extremely macabre websites (that I'm sure will be great to explain in my search history), the average time of death someone can suffocate from CO2 in a 6ft-by-6ft coffin is a little over five hours. Mr.T's car had been running a little over seven minutes at this point.
Crazy Santa Man continued to yell at the four of us crowded on the steps, ignoring Mr. T's assurances that, yes, he was going to turn the car off, and to chill out, and my asking him to calm down. Our white-bearded neighbor escalated, brandishing his scary towel, telling us "DON'T MAKE ME MAD YOU DON'T WANT TO MAKE ME MAD YOU DON'T WANNA DO THAT."
I proceeded to ask him if he had windows open or cracks in his house that could possibly be letting the perceived chemicals into his home, to which he responded, "NO. MY WINDOWS ARE SHUT. YOU CAN'T SMELL THAT? ARE YOU DESENSITIZED?"
"No." I said. "I have insulation in my walls."
J, with a vein now protruding in his neck, rose his voice to match Crazy Santa Man as our bearded neighborhood repeatedly told us to "SHUT UP" and "F*CK OFF" all while being very close to our faces. Mr. T finally shut the car off and our neighborhood strode off in a huff, his temper tantrum done, upset that I refused to entertain his fantasy of our car putting CO2 through the walls and closed windows of his house.
The next day our in-laws contacted the police for us, revealing that Crazy Santa Man had never been that aggressive with them and that he was only that threatening with us because he thought we were just kids who he could bully. We found out through the police that since his problems with neighbors extended back a long time, we could call them whenever he decides to be a bully again.
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So there ya go. Hopefully this week I'll be back on my blogging game and be able to keep up with all your awesome thoughts. :D
skirt -- thrifted!
sweater -- thrifted!
boots -- thrifted!