What's been going on...

First of all...
Am I Paris Hilton, or why do I keep receiving letters from Law Firms who want to represent me in fighting my traffic tickets??? I have gotten five of them so far (letters I mean... NOT tickets!!!). Seriously... I know that I have crossed that red light, and I honestly think that I have to just bite the bullet and pay the damn money. The Lawyers also only write about the red light... not about the license issue. The ticket for the traffic light is $80, and I am pretty sure that a Lawyer bill would be way higher than that. I just think it's amazing how they are so "attentive" and "willing to help" over this! How do they even know about it? If I felt the need to argue my case, would it not be ME contacting THEM?
Oh well... I have my license renewed, got a couple of points and have to just deal with the consequences of my actions. It feels wrong to me to fight something I know I did wrong. What could I possible say without blushing? It was a red light, for Christ's sake. No argument in the world can make it green!
The past week has been quite busy, and I gain more and more respect for my mom who has been a working parent for most of her life. I actually found myself reading an article online about how to get work, household, "babies" and a bit of down time into a 24 hour day. Yes... I can now be found at the self help isle at Barnes and Nobles!
I have also been more exhausted than I thought I would be once I stopped dancing. But the truth is that it is a very different kind of exhaustion. As a dancer, there are long days, late nights... lots of physical work. But there was also a lot of quiet time when - for example - a piece was rehearsed that I was not in, or when during a stage rehearsal I would kind of "walk" through the piece. Once it was time for the show, adrenaline kicked in, and got me through just about anything for a couple of hours. I would push through it, get myself into "performance mode", and before I knew it the curtain came down. Don't get me wrong... there were many moments when I thought I would die of exhaustion, but the work in a theater is basically made of several "rush hours" mixed in with a few "down hours".
Working for eight hours in a "regular" job is a very different level of constant dealing with other people, issues, thinking, being friendly, suggesting, sharing ideas, finding solutions and making people leave happily. It is a lot of fun, but it is draining on a level I didn't know about before I actually did it.
I think that every kid should work in retail at least once. It teaches you a lot of people skills, a lot of "problem solving" skills and a lot of patience. And I have to say... it is a great feeling to know that a client walked into the store in an obviously bad mood with no idea how to solve a specific home- house- room- issue, and to see that same customer leave an hour later with a smile and a solution.

The babies are doing very well... although I have not slept in ONCE after we got Fiby. She is a ball of energy who will not stop playing... EVER! I guess she spends many hours sleeping while we are at work, and needs to get her energy out when we are home. But must this happen at three, four, five and six in the morning? And of course... once I finally get up at seven and take her downstairs, she lays down under the table and goes right back to a lovely, peaceful sleep. Bitch! She is doing it right now! I want to wake her up and disturb her rest so badly!!! I wonder if it would work to use her own weapons against her!?
Oh well... another gray, rainy day is starting. I like this season; there is something about the grayness that always makes me think about life. I guess in a way this time of year reminds me of the way life works. That there are not always sunshine, blue skies and clear summer nights. But how can we appreciate those things without the cloudy, depressing days?
Anyway... another cup of coffee can't hurt before getting ready for work.
More soon!!!

Karma...

I don't know if what I am about to tell you happened as a karmic reaction to my last post where I made fun of the Trenton Police, or because I haven't finished my dinner the other day; bottom line, I have a story to tell.

Ok; before I got my Green Card a little over a year ago, the expiration date of my drivers license used to be directly linked to the expiration of my visa, which I had to renew every couple of years. Of course... once I had my precious Permanent Residence Card I really stopped thinking about it, and lived (and drove) happily ever after. I vaguely remember receiving a notice about my license in very early spring, but so many things have happened since and I admit that I simply didn't think of it anymore.
On Tuesday I had a day off, and went to pick Manolo up from work in the evening. I got to his office a little early and started going through all the stuff I accumulated in my wallet. I threw out receipts, organised bills by size... and eventually took out my license. Sure enough... it expired last month. DAMN!!!
In my head I went through my schedule for the week. I knew that on Thursday I would take the Bus to work anyway, since we have school at night, which would take place at a construction site near my job. Manolo would keep the car and pick me up in the evening to go there. Good... that only left Wednesday. I would take the car to work, pick Manolo up at night and that would be it. Friday I have a day off, and I would get my license renewed first thing in the morning.
Of course... all day Wednesday I was driving around a little nervous... knowing I was really doing something I shouldn't do. But hey... I have never been stopped, and I will be fine!
I got home from work at night, prepared some dinner and waited for Manolo's phone call to go get him. He called, I grabbed Fiby (it was her first birthday) and drove to where he works.
I guess NOW I should have stopped pushing my luck and made HIM drive back; but it just didn't occur to me.
We drove down South Broad Street and got to the corner where two traffic lights are set so that one turns green as the next one is just about to turn red. It pisses me off every time, and I have discovered that I can (kind of) make it through the second light when it's "yellow" if I push it! And so I pushed it as I have many times before. I got through the second light as it jumped from yellow to red................ and there they were; coming out of a side street with their lights blinking. Trenton cops.
COME ON!!! We were two minutes away from our house on my last drive before going to the DMV!!! I pulled over, rolled down my window, and realized that I didn't even bring my wallet this time!
Long story short... the cop was actually nice. He took my name, went to his car and came back a little while later to inform me about my expired license. He was kind of cool, and charged me for less then he could have for the license issue. Of course... he got me for the red light as well, which I couldn't really argue either.
It was altogether a very expensive and quite exciting evening... $270.
There is a side of me that wants to be angry at the fact that all this went down at one of the worst corners of our neighborhood. There are so many crazy things going on right there that would be way more important to fix than my little red light/ license issue. As we sat in the car waiting for him to write up his tickets, I wanted to point things out to him... like: "Heads up... hooker to your left! Attention: Crack sale 11 o'clock!"
But on the other hand I have to slap my own wrist and say that I can't complain about cops NOT taking charge... and then complain when they do (even if it bit me in the ass).
How the hell could I have forgotten about this in the first place!? I know I have been busy and preoccupied with a lot of things that are going on in my life right now... but... HOW??? How does one forget about an important thing like that?????? I need a freaking assistant!
I am mostly mad at myself for not having been on top of things. I mean... had anything else happened, I could be in jail now. Can you picture me in jail??? Manolo would come visit with the babies fresh from the groomers with pink bows in their hair; it would be quite the sight!

Site Meter...

Are any other bloggers having issues with the "site meter"? Mine just stopped working today, and I cannot fix it!
HELP!!! (That wasn't Fluffy... he's dead, remember???)

The Bird...

"HELP!!!!"


Every time I go to the little corner- supermarket by our house, I am captivated by the pile of the "Trentonian" sitting right by the register. I always get a kick out of looking at the front page - mostly because there is always a murder, rape or break in right in my hood, and I keep feeling more and more lucky to still be alive. The other day though (and I don't know why I didn't write about it THAT day), a headline on that very front page grabbed my attention and made me open this somewhat questionable newspaper to read the details about it on page three.
Allegedly a woman heard screams for help coming from the neighboring house, and when it wouldn't let up, she finally called the cops. They (miraculously) showed up at the location, heard the desperate screams for themselves, surrounded the house, created this big scene....... just to find the screams came from a parrot.
HAHAHA...everybody was laughing and happy that there was no emergency, and the bird had a moment of fame and glory.
First of all... this is not a story for the front page of ANY newspaper.
But my immediate thoughts went a bit further.
Don't parrots generally imitate and repeat words they hear over and over again? They don't just come up with their own vocabulary; I know that, because my sister had a talking bird once who wouldn't shut up, and because it is pretty much common knowledge - or so I thought. Call me "Miss Marple", but if I was at that scene with the bird, I would have asked a few questions about how this feathery thing came to scream "Help!!! Help!!!" in the first place. I couldn't believe the cops were just like...:"Ohhh; that was cute. ok... bye!" I can't get the image out of my head that the poor lady living with the bird was a hostage or victim of domestic violence whose only hope was the bird who heard her screams many times, and who could now scream "for her" in order to rescue her. She was chained in the basement for years now, waiting for this very moment when the police would be alarmed by the pet's screams. Finally the day comes; the cops show up. She is hopeful and certain that trained police men would realize that there was fowl play. I mean - come on... everybody knows how birds learn to speak. Surely they would see the red flags.
Well... not those cops.
In disbelief the lady watches the police drive off through the little basement window after some second rate reporter took a snapshot of "Fluffy" - or whatever the hell he was called - for the front page of the Trentonian. The lady is living in the basement sadly ever after, Fluffy probably died later that day of "heart failure" or some other ominous cause and was never to be heard again, and another Trenton criminal got away with it all.
Maybe my imagination is just off the hook, but I do think the story didn't quite end where it ended according to the paper... that's all I'm saying. But if authorities can't even follow simple and clear clues like this one, of course they look at two guys on the street exchanging money for envelopes going :"He must be paying rent...!?"

Opa, Oma and the war

In German, we call grandpa "Opa" and grandma "Oma", and while I have mentioned those two in one of my recent posts, I really want to take a moment to talk about these two amazing people.
Number one... they have been married for over 50 years, which is enough to just bow in awe. They have been through the war, did their part in rebuilding Germany once things got back on track, have raised two amazing daughters and were the best grandparents any child could possibly wish for. We (my sister, brother and I) basically grew up with them as closely as with our parents, and for the past 15 years they lived in my parents house on the second floor. It has always been a great situation, where three generations learn from each other, love and annoy each other and just do what they can to be happy and supportive of each others lives.
As I grew older, one of the most impressive thing about them was for me that they have truly experienced WW2, and that they can tell stories that put all the "mysteries" into perspective for me.
To this day, they lay out their clothes for the next day on two stools by the end of the bed in the order that they will be put on in the morning. This is just one of many details they have never gotten rid of after living in fear, ready to run as soon as the bomb alarm would go off in the middle of the night. We are talking about a woman who was a young teenager, and who survived three direct bombs, who crawled out of her basement to find her families house in ruins three times, and who rebuilt the home three times. A woman who refused to go to the "Hitler youth" meetings (she actually still has her pass with only one stamp in it, which she is very proud to show..."look... I only went once!").
Opa came home from school one day to find his family missing for days. They were interrogated by the SS, and he had no word of their whereabouts. They went through it from the beginning... when Hitler came up with the "Reichs Mark" - the new currency, which was handed out upon turning in every cent of the old "Gold Mark". Opa's uncle kept a bag full of the valued Gold Mark and hid it, which somehow authorities got wind off. He was a priest, and when the SS showed up he was not at home. The soldiers turned the place upside down... looking for the money. The uncle's maid, who had no idea what they were looking for finally said: "I kept telling him not to listen to the radio... I said he would get in trouble... he wouldn't listen to me."
The Nazi's never found his Gold Mark... but after the big mouthed maid spilled the beans about him illegally listening to the "forbidden" radio station, took him to a concentration camp as soon as he got home. He remained there for a couple of years, miraculously made it out - only to die of exhaustion and starvation a few days later.
It is interesting to live in a foreign country as a German. It makes me a little sad sometimes when I realize that the first thing people generally think of is not "Mercedes Benz", "Einstein", "Johann Sebastian Bach", "Marlene Dietrich" or "Oktoberfest" - although... beer is usually second in line... AFTER Hitler. But the truth is that this time in history is carved so deeply into people's memories that there is really no recovering from it, no matter how many good things there were and are.
For me, my grandparents were a vital part in making me understand that not every German at the time was evil. That there were good people who suffered through war times, and that not everybody raised their right arm and cheered at the sight of this little, closeted, meth-using racist monster who cowardly killed himself once he realized that he screwed up beyond repair. It was important for me as a person and as a German to listen to the stories these two people told me early on in order to not be ashamed of where I come from.
When I first moved to NY a very interesting thing happened.
It was a very rainy day, and I (along with millions of Ny-ers) tried to catch a cab on my way home. I finally got one, and as we stopped at a red light two young girls knocked on my window and asked if they could share the ride with me. They would drop me off first, and then keep going wherever they needed to go. Sure thing...! They sat down and we started making small talk, until the girl right next to me asked where I was from. I said "Germany". They exchanged looks, and the other one said: "OK then..." and both turned away.
I asked:"What's wrong?", which was quickly answered with the words: "Well... we are Jewish. Your people killed us!" I couldn't believe it! With the little English I could come up with at the time I managed to say: "Well... I am gay. They killed US, too." Uhh... I am so glad these two little bi***es didn't pull a stunt like that once I was a little more secure. I think today I would stop the cab and kick'em out - with the words "not because you're Jewish, but because you're stupid!" Come on, girls...! I was clearly not personally involved in the horrible things your ancesters went through, and I am clearly not in any way involved in neo- nazi actions. Would a German neo- nazi really move to a foreign country??? Would a neo- nazi be kind enough to let somebody share a cab with him? Would a neo- nazi wear Dolce and Gabbana??? Think, girls... think!
But the incident did affect me, and it made me very aware of stereo types and the mistakes we all make when we assume that someone is supposed to be a certain way because of his/ her background, look, sexuality, religion, color, or status in society. It really made me think, and whenever I am about to pass judgement on someone I try to remember the way I felt that rainy day in a NY cab.
But back to Oma and Opa; they have - in so many ways - had such a big impact on my growing up and on my understanding of the world. It is quite remarkable that I can talk to Opa about my relationship to a man, when he grew up at a time when gays were considered "sick", and put to death. And not only does he talk to me about my relationship, and about how to make it last as long as his lasted; he defends gay people openly whenever he hears guys at parties tell a gay joke!
I do hope that I will have them around for a lot longer...; Whenever I think about my life as an American Resident, the two of them are probably the main reason for me to sometimes wish I was home more often. My parents are very young, and can come visit me here whenever it works out. But my grandparents wouldn't get on a long flight like that anymore, and our time together really depends on how often I can go see them. For the past few years Opa actually cries every time I leave Germany, which breaks my heart. And he says things like: "I hope we'll see each other again in good health", which almost kills me.
Anyway... I don't want to think about it; they are kicking. (In fact... grandma has a permanent scar on her leg from watching soccer on TV. Yes... she got into it so badly that she KICKED her leg out as if she was hitting the ball, and hit the corner of the stone table hard enough to bleed!) You go, Oma Beckham!
Ich hab euch lieb!!!

A normal day

OK... here is the thing: Somehow there is always something going on with us that makes me feel like we should have a reality TV show. I guess I have come to grips with the fact that we are not the average household, and that every day there is yet another thing to add to the list.
Yesterday morning we walked out of the house to drive Manolo to work. It was one of the lucky days where our schedules allow me to drop him off, take the car to my job, be done with work before him, so that I can go pick him up at night again.
As soon as I pulled out of our parking spot we noticed that the car was making a strange sound. I pulled over, Manolo leaned out of his door and saw that the right rear tire was completely flat. Damn...! We decided to drive around the corner to the gas station and put on the spare. Here we were... Both dressed for work, him almost late as it was, and neither one of us too eager to get our hands dirty. We got out, looked at the tire, looked at each other and battled each other with intense looks over who would do the honors. Of course... minutes into our mechanic- work a small audience stood by; probably putting down bets on our ability to complete the manly task. But I have to say; at times my own butch-ness surprises me, and we got it done without a single stain on either one of our shirts or pants.
All was well, I dropped our flat tire at the car dealer and went to the bank for Manolo. Since he works basically from eight AM to eight PM every day, he tends to ask me to run certain errands for him, that he should (legally) probably do himself. Every time I am about to do any of this stuff in his name, I get a little nervous about it... almost like I am doing something I shouldn't.
So... I got to the bank with this slightly nervous feeling in my stomach, approached the little table where you fill out the slips as I hear a bank employee ask "what brings you in today?" I told him what I was here for, and he asked me to let him help me with the transaction. I hate that... because now I have to pretend to be Manolo with a person in an office, and not only through the teller where all you do is exchange papers. I sat down, handed him Manolo's papers, he looked at me (oh... by the way - clearly a Latino) and said Manolo's full name. But he didn't really just SAY his name... he pronounced it in perfect Spanish, and literally added a question mark right after it. As little pearls of sweat appeared on my forehead, and a much too long pause needed to get filled with some kind of a response, I answered: "Si... Ola." For the ones of you who watch "Will and Grace" you might know how Karen talks to Rosario sometimes in "Spanish" with this horrific English accent. Yep... that was me. "Si... Oulaa".
I could not wait to get out of this place! Not only was I sweating profusely; I also tend to blush easily, which doesn't make things any better. It was altogether just a very tense morning.
In the evening we had our first class of the new quarter. Color Theory. Every first class of every new course we take is always a little intense for me. You never know what the teacher is gonna be like... or how the atmosphere will be, what the other people are like... and of course - there is the moment I dislike the most: Everybody has to introduce themselves and say a few words about why they are taking the class. I can't stand it. I guess people would assume that as a performer I wouldn't mind it, but don't forget that I was trained to dance... every step was rehearsed and well practiced, and the roles are very clearly assigned: I am here to dance, you are here to watch. In a class, I am not here to talk! I haven't rehearsed!!!!!!
Anyway; As I am listening to one by one talk about themselves (mind you... I am more concentrated on counting how many more people there are until I have to speak), the room just turns into this sort of competition about who is serious about it and who is just here to have fun. It is all about impressing the teacher and talking about ... "my decorator got me interested in design after she did my 35 room beach mansion" and stuff like that. The room just got more and more stuffy by the minute.
And... god bless Manolo. He was in line right before me, leaned forward and said: "Hello; my name is Manolo and I'm an alcoholic". Everybody turned around and cracked up laughing as he started looking around and said "oh... sorry! It's not that meeting!" He got serious, started talking about how we were both dancers and started taking classes last quarter, and that we have learned a lot so far. The teacher asked us which classes we took............. BLANK. We came up with two of the courses, but could not - for the life of us - remember the third course. In a panic to not appear like total idiots I turned it into a joke and said (laughing) "we REALLY learned a lot, haven't we?"
It was so cool to see how breaking out of the "norm" can really break the ice, and I have to say that Manolo is just so good and smart about how to make people comfortable and relaxed. The rest of the class was a lot of fun... people had a great time, laughed and we all enjoyed ourselves.
Anyway... I have a day off tomorrow (although - at night we are starting another course: Construction Materials). I am not sure if we should bring hard hats...!? Maybe a little "Village people" couldn't hurt to get things going there!? We'll see. I'll let you know how it went.

A German family...

My family is so funny; I actually think that one day I want for Manolo and me to live in a house with an "in- law- suite", so my people can come over more often. Of course... Manolo having the same dry humor as most of my family, he calls the half finished basement in our house the "in- law- suite".
The cool (and sometimes scary) thing about my family is that they always say what's on their minds. I remember the first time they met Manolo years ago when we were both still on tour and performed in Berlin in 2000. My parents were there, my sister and brother, my grand parents and friends of the family. Manolo was very nervous to meet all of them, and to get through a dinner with complete strangers he thought he needed to impress. Although - let me say this: For Germans the "meeting the family" is really not such a big deal. If they like him, GREAT... if they don't, OH WELL. So to me it wasn't a big deal at all, but he spent days carefully selecting his outfit, and even asked a co- worker to join us for back up.
Dinner started, and we - of course - had a great time. They all loved him instantly, we had food and plenty of beer, and the evening got rolling. In a very silent moment my sister decided to ask Manolo a question that almost knocked his socks off.
"So... why would a grown guy like you be attracted to a 22 year old boy?"
Silence. All eyes on him. Suddenly everybody spoke and understood English fluently. He somehow managed to turn the conversation around, but it was this moment that he knew what kind of people he was dealing with.
A while ago I thought about death. I started wondering about the little security I really have here... and just about the "technicalities" of what should happen to me if I died. I spoke to my mom about it a few days later, and just wanted to hear her opinion. Should I be berried here? Should I be cremated (which is what I want), and then remain here, or should my ashes be taken to Germany? Or would you prefer if my body was transported home, and you guys deal with all of it?
Without letting me finish my thoughts, she interrupted me and asked: "How many airline tickets have we bought for you since you moved to the States? It is enough to buy them while you are alive, I will certainly not buy another one when you're dead! Don't you have miles left?"
Of course... we started laughing; which for us means "That was funny"... but NOT "I was kidding".
"Affection" to us - and a lot of Germans - is very different from the affection people know, give and appreciate over here. We don't tell each other that we love each other. Kids don't say it to their parents, parents don't say it to their kids, couples don't say it to each other. We don't compliment mother's cooking, and if she asks us "didn't you like it? Why don't you tell me you liked it?" We answer: "Not criticizing is enough of a compliment!". If a woman complains to her husband about him never telling her that he loves her, he will most likely answer: "I told you at our wedding that I loved you. If anything changes, I'll let you know!"
We are also bad with receiving compliments from our friends. If a German woman meets an old friend and is told "you are looking great!", it is practically an insult. Because what it means is "you are looking rested" which means "you must not work hard enough" which means "you must be lazy" which means "your house must be a mess." In fact - there is this joke that the best compliment one can give a German housewife is to say "damn girl... you look worn out!"
All this is really funny to me; especially after living in the States for so long. People here pay such great attention to the way they come across and the way they make sure to give credit and open appreciation. Generally I think that life here is a lot more "user friendly" than it is back home.
The area I am from is in the far south of the country. We speak a dialect so horrible, that the entire German population makes fun of it. We are the laughing stock of many comedians, and people from the north can basically not understand most things we say. It is seriously not just a matter of pronunciation - like it would be here with people from southern states. No... I am talking about a separate language, with its own vocabulary. The city nearest to my village is called "Ulm". It is Einstein's birth place, and home of the dome with the tallest tower in the world. It is also the "home" of my dialect, and people take great pride in it. My grandfather was born and raised there, and is the true "Ulmer" of the family.
We have this expression at home for when we (for example) run into someone we haven't seen in a long time. I guess here we would maybe say "holy sh**"; there we say "leck me am asch" (I am writing dialect), which basically would be "kiss my a**". I know... it makes no sense in English. Anyway. This expression can - of course - also be an insult, if used in a different context. But - and this is the funny part - if a person from Ulm tells a cop in anger "leck me am asch", this person cannot be ticketed for insulting authority, simply because to an "Ulmer" this expression is a form of greeting others! Isn't that wild? Of course... grandpa has used this one countless times, and is quick to point out his "Ulmer-ness" whenever possible.
My grandpa is another one.
When they came to see us perform in Paris a few years ago, we took the "Metro" at night from the Theater to the Hotel. The subway system there is very secure... and every passenger has to hold on to his/ her ticket until he/ she is back on the street above ground. Naturally... there are no signs pointing this out, and that night a wall of cops awaited us as we were about to get out of the station. Now... both my grandparents are around eighty, and the loveliest people on the planet. With us was also my sister - a cop in Germany, who speaks french. My grandparents threw away their tickets as soon as they got through the gates at our departure station, which now turned into a problem. Of course... we tried to tell the cops that those two old people could not possibly have jumped over those gates in order to hitch a ride for free... but it was useless. The female french cop charged both of them 50 Euro, and we were all pissed. My grandpa was so outraged, and as he walked away remarked: "100 EURO in five minutes!!! She would have not even made that much if she was a hooker... that ugly bit**"
Oh well... those were a few stories about my family and the people I love. And yes... I said "I love"... even if that makes me a sissy of a German!

In the wrong part of town...

Ok... I know I had this post in the recent past about how there are good things in this neighborhood, and about how those good things should be appreciated and not overlooked... bla bla bla. But I think Manolo had it right the other day when we talked about how things go down around here. His words were: "The people we don't like aren't wrong! They live their lives the way they want to. WE are in the wrong place. WE are the exception here, and WE don't fit in."
Sadly... he is right.
It got to the point where the smallest things bother me so much that I just want to scream at people. I walked out our front door the other day early in the morning, and the first thing I saw (and almost stepped into) was a huge pile of dog poop right by our steps. I had to go to work, and just left it there. In the evening I came home (poop still there, of course), got our two princesses and went for a walk. While walking I thought to myself: "I will NOT pick it up. Manolo and I know it's there and won't step into it, and I will make the conscious decision to not care about anybody else stepping into it either." As we got back to our front door, and as I searched for the right key, some idiot walked past me and said: "You will pick this up, right?" I just looked at him with a smile and asked: "Does this mountain of SH** look like it came out of a lap dog?" - and went inside.
We are the good ones here. We do nothing to piss people off, and it just baffles me when the same people that screw up this town suddenly decide that they have to open their mouths and "preach" about doing "the right thing".
The other day our friend Christine had a run in with one of her neighbors, just to wake up the next day and find the glass of her storm- door smashed in.
The number of break ins have gone up, and it is altogether just not a safe place to be. So again - erase my previous writings about "the good sides of the hood" from your memories, and forget I ever wrote it.
On my walk a few days ago, I passed three cops who were in the middle of arresting this guy one block over from where we live. The guy's girlfriend was frantic, calling people on her cell... the guy's friend was trying to tell the cops some story that involved the words "misunderstanding" and "mistake" and all the usual stuff, which obviously didn't get them far. That block is a mess, and a constant problem zone. Since Fiby needs at least two rounds around the corner, I passed the scene a second time - by then the police was gone and the remaining residents of the house were left behind, saying things like "damn... that was close!" and "... but the mothafu*** still owes me 50 bucks". Days passed and I forgot about the incident, until I walked down the same street again the following week and saw the "happy family" reunited on their stoop. I was already past them on the opposite side of the street when I heard someone yell:"Hey... tall guy"! I turned around to look at the group, when the friend of the arrested guy screamed:"Look...! We got him back!"
I am not sure what the most unsettling part of this situation was. Was it the fact that those cracked out people can basically do anything over there? Was it that to them getting arrested is really nothing BIG? Was it that they included me in their group, assuming I would care about how the story ended? And what the hell was I supposed to answer? "Oh... good! I was worried! Now I can sleep again!?" Or maybe: "Did you get your 50 back?"
The sad thing is though, that I feel that for our safety it is a bonus for me to be "included" in their daily lives. I would love to just ignore them or tell them off, but how long after that and before one of our windows is smashed in!?
Too bad; I really like our little house and our little back yard. But it is not worth risking our safety. I guess we'll have to stick it out a little longer, but as soon as we can we will pack our stuff and move - like most "none addicts", "none criminals" and "none prostitutes" have done before us. We gave it a try... we really did. We put pink lights on our tree on the side walk for the Holidays, for crying out loud! BRIGHT PINK. That's trying!!!