The Scholarly Suspect

On Monday the Mister and I were watching the Olympics and marveling at the 80 pound, 10-year-old Chinese gymnasts when we were suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Mind you, I don't live in the ghetto. I live in a nice, boring neighborhood from the 1950s filled predominately with original owners. Our neighbors to the left, Fred and Pam, are retired officers. Behind us is the ophthalmologist, Al, who recently lost his wife, Wanda, to a massive MI at the age of 83. With all the polyester around here, we were more likely to suffer a crime of fashion before a crime of passion. Or so we thought.

The first bullet to hit the air took us by surprise, and I daresay we thought it was Fred's or Al's or Eugene's or Harve's 1969 Buick LeSabre backfiring. The second, third, and fourth bullet had us ducking our heads as we ran towards the boys' bedrooms. They were sawing logs, of course, because that's what you do amidst gunfire. The Policy and Procedure Book for Children Aged 1-5 clearly states that one must wake up screaming (1) for no reason, (2) between the hours of 2:00am - 5:00am, (3) on the nights before deadlines, meetings, appointments, and school. They were off the clock in their minds.

But we were up and at attention. The Mister went outside to check on the neighbors while I stayed inside by the phone. As luck would have it, all the neighbors went outside to investigate at different times, so we all missed each other. The next day the street was abuzz with speculation and everyone recounted the story from their perspective. This was way bigger than the sale at Walgreens. In fact, this was up there with Medicare Part D. Fred swears he saw the suspect jump his fence and enter another neighbor's yard. No one really believed Fred because of his reputation for embellishment, but tonight handed me some evidence that makes me think ol' Fred may not have been spinning a yarn, after all.

We were outside playing with the boys. The Mister was checking the grass for doggie land minds, and I was his second set of eyes. I kept pointing out piles with my feet. Here's one. Here's another. You missed one right here. Oh, and here's...a book?

Not two feet away, over by the boys' slide, lay a book wrinkled and beaten from the sprinklers. A Stephen King book, no less. My mind raced with criminal possibilities as I shrieked and pointed it out to the Mister, who remained unconcerned. Maybe it belongs to Fred or Pam. Maybe their son, Kevin, accidentally dropped it over the fence. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I wasn't convinced.

Then the Mister found the second book, this one about a foot away from the first. At this point I remembered every episode of CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, True Detective, and Medium I have ever watched. Any number of whackos could have left those books. Remember the Urban Legend about the life-sized clown statute that turned out to be an escaped criminal from the insane asylum? What if it was that guy?!

I handed over the evidence to Fred, who immediately instructed Pam to get her CSI kit, even though as waterlogged as the books were, fingerprints were unlikely. I could hear Fred's retired wheels spinning. He is going to be up all night.

I am, too. Not just because the books suggest someone was in my backyard, most likely running. As shocked as I was 20 minutes ago, now I'm just flat confused. I'd love to speak with the suspect (behind bars) and ask about the books. Because, really? Books? Did he think he would get a break in the mayhem and madness and catch up on a few chapters? You know, in between stuffing silver candlesticks in his robber-bag he might like to read chapter 14 real fast because, let's face it, when you hit the arc in a suspense novel you have to ride it to the end. Am I right?

Clearly, my criminal is a scholar. Maybe not of fine literature, but a reader nonetheless. Hey, if anyone can appreciate the call of a good book it's me. But might I suggest that he put down the crime and suspense and read this:


Something tells me he could learn a thing or two that may be useful for his line of work.

I'm Here!

Sorry I've gone long between posts. I have been busy. Super busy. Not just with work, but also hanging out with friends.

Can you believe summer is almost over? I am quite sad about it, really. In a couple of weeks Mikey will be off to school. Sniff. Sniff.

How I Met the Mister, Part I.

I grew up in a strict, conservative Catholic home, the Argentine-born daughter of two immigrants. I was not allowed to speak with boys, date, or wear makeup. No daring outfits, dangling earrings, or dark nail polish. I begged, at the age of 13, to read Seventeen Magazine. I think my mom might have allowed it, but my dad flatly refused to even entertain the thought, even after I explained to him that 17 year old girls don't actually read Seventeen. After college, it was assumed I would return home. And I did. I was twenty-one years old.

I didn't even think of getting my own apartment until I was around 24 years old. By that point, I was almost done with my Masters and my dad was finding it increasingly difficult to end arguments with, "Because I said so." I found a very nice apartment in a lovely woodland-like setting. I had money saved up (living at home doesn't cost much) and I took great pleasure furnishing my new place. As I placed furniture and hung poster art, I couldn't help but fantasize of all the parties I would be hosting, late nights laughing with friends, and grilled dinners on the balcony.

Here's the rub. Sheltered Catholic girls don't have many friends, and the friends they do have lead equally dull lives. My friends from college all lived out of state. Things were not going as planned. I was now poor, bored, and lonely. I started going home to have dinner and staying until it was time to go back to my apartment to sleep. Suddenly my parents and brothers seemed infinitely more interesting.

I'm a night owl, so I would often pull into the apartment parking lot between 10:30 and 11:00pm. I am also exceedingly cautious. Morning, noon, or night--whether I was in or out of the apartment I kept everything deadbolted. On my first night there I installed a security light. So I was on my toes when I stepped out of my car just before 11:00pm. I did everything right. I scanned the area. I held my keys in my hand, and even had one extended and ready to stab any unsavory penises that dared cross my path.

I bounded up the stairs, looked around, and seeing no one, unlocked the door and quickly went inside. I immediately locked all the locks, including the deadbolt. I put on my pajamas, washed my face, and was scrutinizing my face in a magnifying mirror when I first heard the knock on my door. I had been inside my apartment for less than 10 minutes.

It was a happy knock, if knock can be happy. The kind of knock you rap on a friend's door when they are expecting you.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there? I said without saying. I gently put down my tweezers and cocked my head, waiting for a familiar voice to call my name.

Knock! Knock!

Bill? Steve? Not Tiffany, we're fighting. Kara is already in bed. A little something inside me started to tingle. I quietly got up from my vanity stool and walked towards the knock. I didn't make a sound as I approached the door and stood before it, not knowing I was projecting my fractured image through the peephole to whoever was standing outside.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A little more insistent. I softly pressed my fingertips against the door and looked through the peephole.

White male, or light-skinned hispanic. Early 20s. Average height, 5'8-5'10. Overweight and doughy, about 220 pounds. Dark hair slicked back, round glasses. Some acne. He must have sensed my presence or noticed movement in the peephole because he suddenly broke out in a huge smile and chuckled, like I should be happy to see a miniature version of him staring back at me. I did not say a word. I did not know him.

I reached down to release the deadbolt, and then changed my mind. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and pulled my chef's knife out of the block and walked towards the bedroom. I picked up the phone and debated calling the police.

And then he tried to kick down my door.

For a split second, I stared at the door in disbelief, wondering if perhaps I didn't imagine the deafening crash. But then the crash came again, and I knew by the way the window in front of me shook that he was rushing the door and trying to break the deadbolt. I called 911 and explained in bursts what was happening. I had to yell over my potential intruder, who was now screaming, cursing, and kicking the door, for the operator to hear me.

The operator was very nice. He took down all my information and told me someone would be there shortly. And then he said he had to go.

Please don't hang up. I'm scared. I could barely speak the words. My mouth was taking in short gasps of air like a fish out of water.

I'm sorry. I have to answer more calls. And it occurred to me the operator didn't want to stay and hear what would happen when my intruder made his way past my locks.

We hung up, and I called every person I knew and then my dad. Only my dad was home, and by the time I reached him the pounding at the door stopped. I daresay in the deafening quiet he didn't believe me when I told him someone tried to break into my apartment and the police were on their way. He showed up as I just as I finished giving the officer my statement. He thanked the officer and as I walked down the steps towards my dad, the officer called down from my stoop.

Your daughter is very lucky. There's someone going around. She would have been the 3rd.

We didn't ask 'the 3rd what?' because we didn't want to know. My dad never said a word on the way home, and I never went back to the apartment. My mom had a family friend clear it out and put everything in storage. I canceled my lease. I resumed my boring, sheltered life, only this time with great pleasure.

Two weeks later, Kara called me and invited me to eat dinner at our favorite restaurant, T.G.I.Fridays. Now that I was at home, I had plenty of money for such luxuries, and 30 minutes later we were in the lobby of the restaurant waiting for a table. I had a night class for my masters, but if we ate fast, I could make it in time.

I know you two ladies aren't waiting for a table!

Kara and I looked over to find a bartender leaning over the bar and looking in our direction. Kara and I turned around to make sure he was talking to us.

Yeah, I'm talking to you! You're not really going to wait for a table when you can have dinner right now with me, are you?

Kara and I looked at each other. I don't really drink. I don't go clubbing or dancing or partying. I certainly don't eat dinner in bars--don't people puke in there?! My eyes said it all: I couldn't possibly do that.

Kara looked back at the bartender. Sure, why not? That sounds like a great idea.

We both walked into the bar, Kara with a more lively step. I smiled weakly at the obvious regulars and they chuckled into their bourbon. I made a point to sit at a table in the bar, not the bar itself. I wasn't going to be there long.

The bartender smiled at my passive-aggressive defiance and walked around the bar to our table. He greeted Kara first and then turned to look at me.

Hello there.

I took in his hair, dark as pitch, hiding underneath a gray Kangol hat. Two eyes the color of money stared right through me, and for the first time in my life I blinked first.

Hello there yourself, Mister.

Favorite Moment

Getting pregnant isn't always easy. For some of us, yes. A couple of months of easy work produces a team of dividing cells that bubble inside you, not unlike like happiness you feel when a second pink line suddenly appears alongside the lonely control. It was like that for me, but not like that for more than 12% of women out there, and not like that for my best friend, Kara.

She's tried things. Lots of things. They haven't worked, except one time, and it was fleeting. A few short weeks of dividing happiness before the bubble burst. So she and her husband decided she would take a break from trying lots of things. They decided to become foster parents in hopes of adopting domestically. Within a couple of short months, they were the foster parents to two girls aged 7 and 2. The youngest one had red hair, like Kara.

The girls were removed from their home because their parents were dealing and taking methamphetamines. They came with two trash bags of clothing, abandonment issues, and developmental delays. Kara and her husband were thrilled.

They went to the beach and museums and parks. They ate real, complete dinners as a family. Kara met with the oldest's teachers and both she and her husband worked around the clock to bring her up to speed academically. They put her in private school for the summer and attended her awards ceremony at the end of the term.

They were bubbling with happiness once again.

The parents, while clean, were not making the progress stipulated by the Court. They failed to secure a job. They had no place to live. The girls came back from visitations hungry, dirty, and, on three occasions, with with heads teaming with lice. Kara took off work all three times to take care of the situation because that's what moms do.

While the parent's lack of progress was unfortunate, Kara and her husband were, albeit secretly, bubbling with happiness at the prospect of adopting the girls.

And then, on an ordinary Wednesday, the social worker called Kara and her husband to let them know she would be recommending to the Court reunification. She wanted the girls placed back with their parents full time. The parents were still jobless and homeless, but she felt those were issues to overlook in light of the fact they had been clean for almost six months.

And, again, Kara and her husband's bubble burst.

Thirty days later, I attended a farewell party for the girls. The next morning, Kara dropped the girls off at the adoption agency and said goodbye for the last time. That night they received a phone call about another little girl, this one eight years old. For many reasons, they gently closed the door to their open home--temporarily. They needed to take a break from blowing bubbles.

And so that is why this week my favorite moment is not really a moment. Instead, it is a feeling of respect and admiration for those couples out there, like Kara and her husband, who open their homes to the many children out there who have no family of their own. Children out their who are alone in a world without family, without hope, and without bubbles.

If I had a magic bubble blower, I would surely blow them some. And a few for Kara, too.

Poop Stories are Funny.

Mikey: Mama, come look at my big poop in the toilet and will you wipe my bottom?

Jules: Sure thing, buddy.

... ... ...

Jules: Wow. Good job, Mikey! Um, did that hurt?

Mikey: Of course not, mama! It doesn't have any thorns, you know.

Thank You

Thanks for all the well wishes. My migraine is gone. I thought it was coming back today midafternoon, but so far so good.

Also, I wanted to thank you for the fantastic book recommendations! I'm still working my way through them, but I just have to say you all have some fantastic taste in books. Right before we left for Lake Tahoe I took all your suggestions to the bookstore and planned to take them all off the shelf, read the backs, and then decide which I would bring on the trip. Then God started laughing. And Nico started crying. And Mikey had to have one of each wind-up toy. And a ball.

I ended up grabbing the first four I could find. Not the thoughtful selection process I envisioned, but the books were all excellent so it worked out.

Since late June-July I have read and loved the following:

1. The Pillars of the Earth.


2. When You Are Engulfed in Flames.


3. Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.


4. Naked.


5. The Monsters of Templeton.


Next up is Middlesex after I finish a couple of outstanding projects. Then I'm going to make my way to PaperBackSwap.com and be completely unsurprised when not a single book I want is available. Then I will go to the bookstore and buy some more recommended reading.

How has your reading gone? And do you recommend I add any other books to the pile? It's big, but oh so pretty.

Break

I think I'm going to take some time away from the blog. Maybe a couple (more) days, maybe a couple of more weeks. I've been having excruciating migraines (the one I'm nursing now has been around since last Tuesday) and the computer monitor isn't making things any better.

I know most of you understand the joy that is a never ending migraine. Wish me luck that this one ends soon.

And, yes, I am making an appointment with my doctor as we speak.