There goes the neighborhood?

When leaving Chez Melina for work this morning, I noticed that there was some activity at the vacant house next door.

Formerly home to the hard-drinking renter from hell and her incredibly nice boyfriend, the house has been for sale for months and months. The owner was asking a silly price for it. But now the For Sale sign is gone and some gardeners are hastily cleaning up the back yard, and there's more going on indoors. I don't think he'd send gardeners around if he'd decided to let Chase foreclose on the place.

Considering that I recently dreamed that Muammar Gaddafi moved in next door, I am watching to ensure that no tents go up in the back yard, or a contingent of Amazonian Guards begin to patrol the place. If this happens, I'm calling the neighborhood association to complain. I don't think Beduin tents are allowed in the local conservation district.

Remembrance of things past

Having been unable to quit worrying about biopsy results - my doc's assistant just told me to call back after 3:00 - I found myself making a list of newish priorities around 2:30 this morning. There were a few sundry observations thrown in as well; they may seem odd now in the light of day, but keep in mind the state of their author and time they were recorded.

There's nothing major, really. More like rescheduling my spare time: less Internet surfing and TV watching, more practicing the piano and shaolin. Quit worrying so much. Finish replastering the dining room wall. Put more money in savings. Offer to repair my neighbor's side gate so her awful dogs won't keep running amok (yes, I have an agenda; these dogs keep knocking over plant pots on my porch, and one jumped on my screen door and damaged it). Clear out the spare closet and toss anything I hadn't worn for two years or longer, unless it's formal wear. Perhaps one day I'll need it.

I also found myself with no regrets about my past carnal misbehavior. Instead, I found myself wishing I'd indulged more often. But if I don't meet the right sort of male, I'm not going to trade quality for quantity, and I have no plans to lower my standards in this department. So I don't see anything changing.

Lastly, I decided that I need to do more sit-ups.

Let your mind alone

Ever since my doctor did ouchy things to the armpit bump last week (did the biopsy thing), I've reacted exactly as I suspected I would. Which is to worry incessantly. Do biopsies really have to take so freakin' long?

This worry thing is/was stupid as the chances of anything serious going on are extremely small, especially with my lack of additional symptoms combined with a history of illnesses that can affect one's lymph nodes decades down the road. Elizabeth, my doctor friend, is convinced that the swollen lymph nodes are a throwback to the dengue fever I contracted during my year in the Philippines, but I think this is because of her fascination with tropical diseases. (Note: Never get Elizabeth started about parasitic diseases; it gets really gross really quickly.)

At least I was able to stick to the rest of the week's plans, which was to take off work for a few days and visit my mother while my younger brother decamped to Austin. I am back in the office after three days of taking her cat to the vet, buying her a new vacuum cleaner, fixing loose roof shingles while she had a near-heart attack, and cleaning/fixing things.  I always wonder why my brothers cannot do simple fixes like replacing faucet washers and air conditioning filters, waiting for me to drive 120 miles so I can do it.

Now all I have to do is figure out why I had an odd dream last night. The subject matter was pretty damned funny in retrospect: I dreamed that Colonel Gaddafi (Quaddafi?) had moved into the vacant house next door to mine.

He wasn't a very good neighbor, as I kept catching him aiming rifles out of the house's bedroom windows. But when I eventually knocked on his front door to confront him he had the audacity to hit on me.

Nine more hours

I have a doctor's appointment Wednesday morning. I keep telling myself it's not serious, can't be serious. But I don't think I'm going to get much sleep.

Sometimes I wish I drank. But even this is a silly thought, as I have no liquor in the house except some Glenfiddich the Estranged Husband left behind. I had one glass of it when I fell and concussed myself back in the days of Delightful Date and it's been sitting on the kitchen counter ever since. I keep planning to give the nearly-full bottle of Glenfiddich away. Or trade for some Dalwhinnie.

Another birth order myth debunked

One drawback to AT&T email is that you have to go to Yahoo to sign in. (There must be other places I can read my e-mail; I need to research this.) Yahoo's splash page always has stupid but irresistible stories I must click on.

Today's stupid story is about birth order and romance. According to the story's author, here are the types middle children like me should gravitate to:

Contrary to their reputation as insecure messes (example: Jan Brady), middle kids actually make stable and loyal partners. “One thing you’re not is spoiled,” Dr. Leman says. You probably grew up feeling like you got less attention than your siblings, and that drives you to work for every perk — including a happy relationship. Also in the “positives” category: You’re “a compromiser and negotiator,” Dr. Leman notes, so you’ll give your partner plenty of say in everything from how quickly your relationship progresses to where you go on vacation together. And your romance should be free of daily petty squabbles (middles hate conflict); instead, you try to put others at ease.
Your love challenge: Opening up. Have you ever been told you’re hard to read? “Middle children can be very secretive,” says Dr. Leman. “They got hammered by the first-born and swindled by the baby, so they keep their cards close to their chests.” You’re also not the best communicator when you’re upset. But if you learn to speak up instead of holding your anger in, you’ll have a more harmonious relationship.
Best match: Youngest child. “Middles aren’t as threatened by last-borns as they are by exacting first-borns,” says Dr. Leman, so the odds are good for open communication.

Looking back at my romantic life, almost every male I've dated was a first-born. I've never felt threatened by one. Ian* is the odd one out, being the last of six. Darn Catholics.  But should anyone believe an article that uses characters from The Brady Bunch as examples?