July 25, 2013
Jazzy
guitar music engulfed me as I stepped into the dark room, to meet my group of
Brazilian wannabe’s. Hadn’t been to a Meet-Up group since before I left the
country in October of last year. Came bearing gifts-several newspapers from Sao Paulo, to divide
amongst the guests. I adore being mistaken for a Brasilian as I open my mouth
to share my deranged saga. Must admit, it sounds pretty far-fetched, even to
me. Ordered dessert and coffee and was the first to leave the vibrant restaurant.
Americans speaking spattered Portuguese, eating Mexican food, pretty
entertaining! The strong, silent-type, pockmarked face and wide toothless grin
turns out to be of Portuguese descent. His thin, red triangle-haired wife is a
Brit. Gregarious and uncharacteristically heavy Japanese guy, seemingly unaware
at just how awful his Portuguese accent actually is, boldly interjects his
opinion and vast outrageous stories, without the slightest hesitation. A
wide-eyed dark haired beauty is fashionably late. She scans the five page menu,
inspects all of the pseudo photos of the platters for twenty minutes, before
deciding upon a fruity smoothie, made to order. Pale as a piece of paper, thick
black glasses and stark white button-down plops in the dad’s seat at the table and
consumes all of the leftovers on the plates within ape-arm’s reach. Guess he is
strategic about his timing, as to not have to pay for a full meal. One more
cheerful dude joined us, yet didn’t say much. I suspect he knew I would be
writing about him later.
Finally
out of my heavy black boot, not even wearing the tell-tale compression sock,
the limp is slight, yet noticeable still. I have the Handicapped tag for my
vehicle for another few months. That gives me the confidence to shop, dine, and
play wherever I choose, since I am not forced to park miles away and walk. Lucky
me.
Neighbors
continue to torment me with there clomping up and down, well into the night. My
unfortunate guest gets the brunt of the revolving front door activity as well
as the blast of smoke drifting down from the livingroom window. Hard to imagine
how things can turn out well, in the end. Either they get evicted or I find
another place to live and have to take legal action, to get out of the lease,
and my significant deposits reimbursed. Gads. I just acquired all of the
furnishings I need, and hate to think about having to haul it all someplace
else. I have a lengthy list of incidences to report and yet, the law tends to
be on the landlord’s side. I adore the Stepford-Wife-quiet wide streets, vast
parks nearby to run Ty, old-style architecture and the friendly neighbors
(aside from the folks upstairs, of course.) So, if I can’t get the law on my
side, there is always the chance I can get my cousin, Guido to come for a
visit. Won’t they be surprised?
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