Tag Archives: Indiana

Trespassing Shmuspassing


Continued from The Parking Saga…

A “No Trespassing” sign. Right there, smack dab in the middle of her front door. That’s right. My crazy neighbor decided it wasn’t obvious enough that one should not break into her home, and saw necessity in hanging a sign on her door.

No Tresspassing

This got me thinking. I’m new out here, and just learning the local laws and ordinances. Maybe I missed something. Is there a law that says you can only defend yourself in the case of a home invasion of you had a sign that says people shouldn’t break in? There’s always that fine print that defense attorneys love to find.

Should I get one? Is my new home not safe? Why doesn’t anyone else have one on the street?

I considered the source and decided to observe the situation. Now I’ve seen no trespassing signs in people’s yards, or on garages or large spaces of land, but never on someone’s front door.

After about 3 days, the sign moved to the top of the door. A few days later, to the bottom. Then it disappeared completely. Now I was even more curious? Who does this? And do the burglars approach the door and say “Oh, I was going to break in but I see there’s a sign.”

After a few days of trying to make sense of the whole sign conundrum, I had just started to give up. That’s when a simple walk by front window led me to another clue. The screen door didn’t close completely.

Even the sheriff stopped to make sure everything was ok, as the door was swinging in the “Windiana” weather. I suppose it didn’t latch properly.  So my neighbor would come and go, paying no mind to her broken door, or making any attempt to rectify the situation.

That must be the reason for the sign. After not seeing the sign for about a week, it suddenly reappeared on the door again. What is going on?  Ignore a broken door but taken time to hang a sign?

Just when I stopped trying to understand, the answer became clear: A big fat fluffy cuteness of a squirrel came running out of the doorway. So the sign was to ward off home invaders, just not the kind I’m used to. Unfortunately for my neighbor, squirrels can’t read.

The market is getting hot for Harlequin Squirrel Romance.

The market is getting hot for Harlequin Squirrel Romance.


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Parking Whores. Oops! I Meant Wars.

Continued from A Spot in the Park:

I go outside and step onto my porch. I politely greet her and then it hits me. A hailstorm of attitude like none I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve worked in customer service!

“Hi. Can I just ask for a small favor?” I ask. She replies with a dumbfounded stare. Maybe I wasn’t speaking loud enough. Or maybe my Eastern accent has her thrown off guard.

“Could you just move your car back a little bit,” I continue. “I have two small kids, and with the snow it was just hard to take them out this weekend.”


My guess is no.

“There’s a driveway there. I can’t back up.” Now it’s my turn in the dumbfounded staring contest. I guess she really didn’t understand that she could park behind the driveway. I pointed out that the house next to me is vacant, and she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way if she parked there, just a few feet behind where she currently parked. She continued staring at me. Nothing was getting through whatever is behind those dumbfounded eyes, so I thanked her, and retreated to my porch.

I heard her mumble something under her breath, so I turned back around. “I’m sorry, I thought we were done,” I said. “Apparently, you have more to say?” I caught her off guard. “I was on the porch and didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“I said it’s public parking.” She mumbled.

“Really? This is how you want to start out as neighbors?”

“I’m the biggest bitch you’ll ever meet,” she yells. Because that’s an appropriate response when someone asks you to move your car.

Knowing that my daughter was at the door, and everything I do sets an example for her, I quieted the voice in my head telling me to punch the lady in the face.

“Just a fair warning,” I told her, “I’m the nice one of this house. You’re just lucky my husband wasn’t here.” Anyone who knows us will verify the accuracy of that statement.

So she gets in her car, I go in my house, and life goes on. Since that moment, we haven’t had any contact with each other. However, I have noticed that she refuses to park in front of her own house, which makes me wonder if there’s some kind of invisible parking barrier there.  When she attempts to pull forward, the little Neon bounces back. I’d walk over there to inspect it, but there’s only one thing stopping me…

…to be continued…(again)…

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I Asked Santa for a Doll, But Got A Baby Instead!


Richmond, Indiana. December 2013.

Despite the chilly temperatures, Wally and I decided to take the kids to meet Santa and see what this “Old Fashioned Christmas” that I kept seeing advertised was actually like. We bundled up and headed down to the Historic Depot District of town, where we were greeted with lights, a horse drawn carriage, a snowman on a Segway, some people on stilts, carolers, and the local radio station.

I wasn’t too keen on taking my 4 month old son out in the winter weather, but I also didn’t want to deprive my 2 year old daughter of some holiday fun. I did what any over-protective mother would do. I carefully placed my son in his Boba Wrap against my chest, where he was cozy and warm. I put a replica Santa hat (obviously the real one belongs to the Big Guy) on his little head to keep it warm, and then I put my coat on over both of us and buttoned it in the front. You actually wouldn’t know I was carrying a baby at all.

The furniture gallery housed the always popular Mr. And Mrs. Claus, but before making our way inside, we stopped to see the ice carvings and live reindeer. Rory was having a blast.

We finally decided to seek some warmth and headed towards the building. Once inside, nestled amongst the dining room sets and cozy sofa sets, a Christmas Wonderland awaited us. Festivities as far as the eye could see! Two floors to be exact.

We decided to check out the second level, and even though nothing seemed more fun then walking a two year old up a narrow set of stairs at a speed of half a mile per hour, we took the elevator. It was a freight elevator, (we were in a furniture gallery, after all) and had to be operated by an employee of the store.

It had become warm, and I didn’t want the baby to get too warm, so I had unbuttoned my coat and exposed him, wrapped up tightly against my belly. As the elevator starts moving, another patron looks over at me.

“Oh my gosh! Is that a real baby?”

Thankfully, I have been blessed with a filter, probably a result of my ten plus years in customer service, that springs into action when asked a dumb question. Like a computer firewall, the filter blocks whatever I’m really thinking, and instead grants me the ability to respond politely.

I smiled and said: “Yep. He’s real.” As if there was any other response.

“He’s so cute. I thought he was a doll.” the lady said.

I thanked her and the elevator came to a stop. We departed the box of doom and each went our separate ways. There was something I just couldn’t get out of my head though.

“Why would I be carrying a doll around like this?” I asked Wally.

I really couldn’t come to terms with concept of finding an acceptable one of Rory’s dolls, putting clothes on it (since all of hers are naked), and then going through the process of wrapping it up, bundling it up, and then taking it to a Christmas event.

I guess I haven’t watched enough My Strange Addiction. Even when I did see the one on people who treat dolls like children, I still couldn’t really understand what I was looking at. I guess it’s a compliment that my son can pass for a perfect doll, but I also thought it meant I looked crazy enough to be one of “those” people.

Maybe Ill try walking around with a doll. I’d like to see how many people stop and tell me it looks real. I’ll let you know.