I don't remember my life before "Dirty Dancing". In my mind, I have always wanted to marry Johnny Castle. I have always wanted to be Jennifer Grey in her pink dress and silver shoes. The mere idea that serious life issues can be solved or forgotten by dancing suggestively on a stage in front of children and old people was always truly fascinating to me. It shows that everybody needs to have something to shake up their mundane lives, and their booties. Music is my escape, as aforementioned in posts such as "Take Me Away". My escape has another layer, however, and it's movies with cheesy-yet-iconic dialogue and a great soundtrack.
When I was little, and first discovering the movie, I didn't know why the guy stabbed Penny with a dirty knife on a folding table, nor did I understand why Baby worked so hard to fill in for her so this awful thing could happen to her. I didn't know what "knocked-up" meant. I had no idea why Baby couldn't tell her father why she needed such a large amount of money, or why she was helping someone who so rudely told her to go back to her playpen. I couldn't fathom why Johnny got fired after it was discovered that he did not, in fact, steal Moe Pressman's wallet. Ah, the innocence of childhood.
What I did know, was that I couldn't wait to grow up and learn how to dance with Patrick Swayze while on family vacation in the Catskills. I envisioned myself being rescued by my leather jacket-clad dance instructor/secret lover from that oppressive corner and a father who just didn't understand. I would get chills thinking about changing the lives of all the stuffy vacationers through the power of performing a dance that was one-part mambo and one-part simulated sex. I grew up thinking the most romantic thing that could ever possibly happen to me would be learning to dance whilst balancing on a log, in the rain.
As I grew up, I learned the sad truth about Penny and what really happened with that dirty knife and folding table. Once I figured out that Robbie was even more of a rat than my child eyes could have ever imagined, I started to see how important it was to be able to discipher the dogs from the knights...though, truth be told, I'm still pretty hit-and-miss on that one. The innocence was gone, and every observation was developing depth. I stopped blushing when I realized they were naked under those covers, and instead started craning my neck when Johnny got out of bed as if doing so would afford me a better look at his butt. Still, some things haven't changed at all. To this day, I am unable to look at a watermelon without crying out, "I carried a watermelon!?!?" in my head. I hear "Wipeout" any time I am walking down a long flight of stairs, or when I'm dancing through my house as if nobody's watching. I still want that pink dress. I still want to punch Neil when he says "I'm sorry you had to see that, Baby. Sometimes, in this world, you see things you don't want to see". I guess even at 10 years old, I knew I didn't want to be treated like a silly little girl.
I don't know if Johnny and Baby lived happily ever after together, my guess is they did not. I do think they showed each other they could be more than they ever imagined. It gave me hope that even things that do not last forever can make a large impact on our lives. Plus, it gave me a new appreciation for rainy summer days. Of course, the most important lesson I learned from "Dirty Dancing" was that God would not have given me maracas if he did not, in fact, want me to shake them.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Alphabetizing by Author
I find myself spending a lot of time thinking about getting organized. In my head, I work out a plan, execute that plan, and live the rest of my life in a blissful cloud of folded clothes, alphabetized books, and grocery lists. Unfortunately, I have discovered that merely thinking about something does not make it a reality. It will not become a reality until I actually do something. Despite my good intentions, I don't think it's in my nature to live a scheduled and ordered life. However, that does not stop me from being borderline obsessed with having everything in place.
My imagination gives the picture of a future that is a perfectly-choreographed magazine feature article. Everything is figured out, and everything is where it is supposed to be. The plan is executed easily and in a timely fashion. I'm dressed fabulously and effortlessly. A real, honest-to-goodness smile is on my face as I stand in the middle of my pristine, organized kitchen, laptop containing whatever I'm writing at the time open before me. I even have a steaming cup of coffee from which I drink without burning my mouth. I assume that I am a real writer by this time. I likely stay home for work while the man in my life leaves for the day...or the week. I don't need someone all up in my grill all the time. We're both happy with the way things are, with neither of us wanting more or less. I suppose that would be my ideal relationship. A mutual respect, trust and admiration, which results in the comfort of knowing neither of us has to worry about the other doing something untoward. It's silly, I know. My expectations seem so simple, yet are so far fetched I will likely remain single for the rest of my life. I guess that would be okay too. The point is that in my fantasy, it's decided, it's in place, no drama and no regrets. Life doesn't typically work that way, but it doesn't stop people, especially myself, from wishing it did.
I have always been in somewhat of a constant daydream. I am a rather logical person in general, but lately I've been visiting la la land a little too often. I'm a creative person, with an overactive imagination, but I also understand it is just my imagination. I have not only managed to plan my future, but I've styled it as well. In real life, my dishes are rarely done. I have copious amounts of dog hair filling every neglected space on my carpet, and floating like tumbleweeds through my kitchen. It doesn't matter how many times I run the sweeper, and swoop with the swiffer, the damn hair is everywhere. My dresser has a pile of clean, folded laundry on top of it because I keep procrastinating in my attempts to go through my drawers and get rid of clothes that no longer fit me or are no longer wearable. The wall-mounted toilet paper dispenser in my bathroom displays an empty cardboard tube that once held an entire roll of the stuff. The toilet paper currently in use, sits on the edge of the tub. The only medicine I take is ibuprofen once a month, the bottle for which stays in my purse, therefore, my medicine cabinet contains an old plastic straw dispenser, some candles, beer cozies, and an empty box of band-aids. I might have some Neosporin too, but I'm certain it's probably expired by now. I am also one of those horrid people who does not rinse out the sink when I am finished brushing my teeth.
Do I really care all that much about organization? Or was it something instilled by my Danny Tanner-esque mother? Due to the fact that she can't relax in a mess, has she managed to convince me that I can't either? Or is it truly impossible for me to thrive amongst chaos? I certainly don't live in filth, but my kitchen table has mail stacked upon it. I have the aforementioned toilet paper and dishes issues. Do you know how many journals I have? They are stuffed into every crevasse of my couch, under my bed, and I might even have one in the bathroom. Each one had a pen, but due to unrelated necessities for pens in the past, I still have to search for a writing instrument every time I pull one out of it's "hiding" place. I have a total of 6 clocks in my home, and not a single one is set to anything resembling the correct time.
Am I a mess or am I normal? I guess everyone is going to have their own opinion. Please, just remember that if you're visiting my house, the toilet paper will be somewhere within reach of the toilet. If something pokes you in the butt when you sit on my couch, it's just the corner of a journal, please don't move it because it is likely the keystone holding the entire piece of furniture together. I promise I ran the vacuum before you came over, and yes, I am aware that my calendar is still set to February 16th, because that is the last time I thought to change it. Welcome to my home, I advise you to abstain from wearing dark clothing. It's not perfect, but it's my own little slice of heaven.
My imagination gives the picture of a future that is a perfectly-choreographed magazine feature article. Everything is figured out, and everything is where it is supposed to be. The plan is executed easily and in a timely fashion. I'm dressed fabulously and effortlessly. A real, honest-to-goodness smile is on my face as I stand in the middle of my pristine, organized kitchen, laptop containing whatever I'm writing at the time open before me. I even have a steaming cup of coffee from which I drink without burning my mouth. I assume that I am a real writer by this time. I likely stay home for work while the man in my life leaves for the day...or the week. I don't need someone all up in my grill all the time. We're both happy with the way things are, with neither of us wanting more or less. I suppose that would be my ideal relationship. A mutual respect, trust and admiration, which results in the comfort of knowing neither of us has to worry about the other doing something untoward. It's silly, I know. My expectations seem so simple, yet are so far fetched I will likely remain single for the rest of my life. I guess that would be okay too. The point is that in my fantasy, it's decided, it's in place, no drama and no regrets. Life doesn't typically work that way, but it doesn't stop people, especially myself, from wishing it did.
I have always been in somewhat of a constant daydream. I am a rather logical person in general, but lately I've been visiting la la land a little too often. I'm a creative person, with an overactive imagination, but I also understand it is just my imagination. I have not only managed to plan my future, but I've styled it as well. In real life, my dishes are rarely done. I have copious amounts of dog hair filling every neglected space on my carpet, and floating like tumbleweeds through my kitchen. It doesn't matter how many times I run the sweeper, and swoop with the swiffer, the damn hair is everywhere. My dresser has a pile of clean, folded laundry on top of it because I keep procrastinating in my attempts to go through my drawers and get rid of clothes that no longer fit me or are no longer wearable. The wall-mounted toilet paper dispenser in my bathroom displays an empty cardboard tube that once held an entire roll of the stuff. The toilet paper currently in use, sits on the edge of the tub. The only medicine I take is ibuprofen once a month, the bottle for which stays in my purse, therefore, my medicine cabinet contains an old plastic straw dispenser, some candles, beer cozies, and an empty box of band-aids. I might have some Neosporin too, but I'm certain it's probably expired by now. I am also one of those horrid people who does not rinse out the sink when I am finished brushing my teeth.
Do I really care all that much about organization? Or was it something instilled by my Danny Tanner-esque mother? Due to the fact that she can't relax in a mess, has she managed to convince me that I can't either? Or is it truly impossible for me to thrive amongst chaos? I certainly don't live in filth, but my kitchen table has mail stacked upon it. I have the aforementioned toilet paper and dishes issues. Do you know how many journals I have? They are stuffed into every crevasse of my couch, under my bed, and I might even have one in the bathroom. Each one had a pen, but due to unrelated necessities for pens in the past, I still have to search for a writing instrument every time I pull one out of it's "hiding" place. I have a total of 6 clocks in my home, and not a single one is set to anything resembling the correct time.
Am I a mess or am I normal? I guess everyone is going to have their own opinion. Please, just remember that if you're visiting my house, the toilet paper will be somewhere within reach of the toilet. If something pokes you in the butt when you sit on my couch, it's just the corner of a journal, please don't move it because it is likely the keystone holding the entire piece of furniture together. I promise I ran the vacuum before you came over, and yes, I am aware that my calendar is still set to February 16th, because that is the last time I thought to change it. Welcome to my home, I advise you to abstain from wearing dark clothing. It's not perfect, but it's my own little slice of heaven.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Winter Of My Discontent
I am a mess. I have been sick for two weeks, and I feel horrible. On top of it all, due to aforementioned sickness, I haven't been able to work out, which only adds to my general malaise. Plus, the weather is beautiful and I can't enjoy it. Please, allow me to grumble for a few paragraphs, after which, I'm hoping I'll feel better.
A string of recent burglaries and robberies in my town has this solo girl on edge. I feel a sense of hyper-awareness where I once felt easily carefree. I have to be sure to lock my doors behind me. I must remember to only open windows that can't easily be climbed through. I sleep restlessly with my front porch light on and shining in my face all night. I carefully gauge my dog's reaction to all sudden noises. A sense of ease has managed to return throughout the past several days, but I don't think I'll ever again leave my sliding door in my kitchen open for the simple joy of feeling the breeze circulate fresh air through my home.
Work is blissfully busy, and I'm grateful for the sake of the business, but my boss and I are stressed to the max. I'm ending my days exhausted, uninspired, and crawling out of my skin. My brain can't seem to form a creative sentence and my ability to retain my annoyingly chipper attitude is eluding me as of late.
On top of everything else, add the discouragement of having a brand new niece that I want to cuddle, but can't because she lives in Virginia, which is a 12-hour car ride away. My mood isn't particularly cranky, or sad, or even angry...it's just not me.
I have also been excessivly restless. The walls of my home and town are closing in on me. It's as if the inflammation in my chest isn't the only thing cutting off my oxygen. I hate it when things get like this. I feel discombobulated. I have all these ideas floating around me, but I can't grasp any of them, let alone make sense of them. I've become unsure and overly-critical of myself. I need to rest, but I can't settle down. I have fifteen half-finished grocery lists in my purse. I have been to the grocery three times this week. Twice to pick up things I forgot the first time, because I never finished making my list.
Reminding myself to take pleasure in the simple things is important, but often forgotten. Exasperated sighs call for a glimpse outside, or a pause to listen to the birds chirping. Monday, I took a few minutes to walk to the Coke machine to get a bottle of water. We have water in the office, but the sun felt good on my skin. The grass smelled fresh and new. The water tasted cold and refreshing. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time, until I neared the door of the office and heard the phone ringing. Having been jolted out of my moment of peace, I sprinted inside. Upon picking up the phone I heard silence, and then someone asking for "Jeannie". Since my boss' name is Jennie, I said "We have nobody here with that name", and slammed the phone down.
Maybe next week will be better...
A string of recent burglaries and robberies in my town has this solo girl on edge. I feel a sense of hyper-awareness where I once felt easily carefree. I have to be sure to lock my doors behind me. I must remember to only open windows that can't easily be climbed through. I sleep restlessly with my front porch light on and shining in my face all night. I carefully gauge my dog's reaction to all sudden noises. A sense of ease has managed to return throughout the past several days, but I don't think I'll ever again leave my sliding door in my kitchen open for the simple joy of feeling the breeze circulate fresh air through my home.
Work is blissfully busy, and I'm grateful for the sake of the business, but my boss and I are stressed to the max. I'm ending my days exhausted, uninspired, and crawling out of my skin. My brain can't seem to form a creative sentence and my ability to retain my annoyingly chipper attitude is eluding me as of late.
On top of everything else, add the discouragement of having a brand new niece that I want to cuddle, but can't because she lives in Virginia, which is a 12-hour car ride away. My mood isn't particularly cranky, or sad, or even angry...it's just not me.
I have also been excessivly restless. The walls of my home and town are closing in on me. It's as if the inflammation in my chest isn't the only thing cutting off my oxygen. I hate it when things get like this. I feel discombobulated. I have all these ideas floating around me, but I can't grasp any of them, let alone make sense of them. I've become unsure and overly-critical of myself. I need to rest, but I can't settle down. I have fifteen half-finished grocery lists in my purse. I have been to the grocery three times this week. Twice to pick up things I forgot the first time, because I never finished making my list.
Reminding myself to take pleasure in the simple things is important, but often forgotten. Exasperated sighs call for a glimpse outside, or a pause to listen to the birds chirping. Monday, I took a few minutes to walk to the Coke machine to get a bottle of water. We have water in the office, but the sun felt good on my skin. The grass smelled fresh and new. The water tasted cold and refreshing. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time, until I neared the door of the office and heard the phone ringing. Having been jolted out of my moment of peace, I sprinted inside. Upon picking up the phone I heard silence, and then someone asking for "Jeannie". Since my boss' name is Jennie, I said "We have nobody here with that name", and slammed the phone down.
Maybe next week will be better...
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Cadillac
Upon first meeting them, I likened them to Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon. They were my supporting actors, my guardians...my comic relief for the year I was part of their world. I don't remember their names. In fact, until yesterday, I don't think they had crossed my mind in close to ten years.
It was my first day at my new workplace. I was in my early twenties then and beginning my first "real" job. The Monday through Friday, 9-5 kind. It was a big office, and everyone had their own cubicle. These two characters were the first to stop by my new space and make proper introductions. I think, from that moment, they felt a sort of responsibility for me. They took care of me and joked with me, and made me feel at home.
During my first two weeks, I didn't have my own car, I had to borrow whatever available vehicle was in the driveway at my parent's house each morning. They made a joke about it one day, asking what I would be driving tomorrow, to which I replied "a Cadillac". For the remainder of my time there, each morning, they would pass by the door of my cubicle and say "Morning, Cadillac".
The judge I worked for was the busiest ALJ in the state and in desperate need of an assistant. I was considered "hourly", which meant I would work full time, but not be eligible for a raise or benefits of any kind. This bothered my new friends. I worked very hard and I loved my job, but they were always coming to me with different opportunities for which they felt I should apply. I always laughed them off and told them not to worry about me. I was happy right where I was. Finally, one day they showed up at the "door" of my cubicle. They had heard of a job in a law office, with benefits. An attorney that offers insurance options to his office staff is unbelievably rare. They had finally convinced me. I interviewed for, and was offered, the position the very next day.
I was sad on my last day, and devastated about a week later when I discovered I had left a job I loved for a job I absolutely loathed. I regretted my decision and could think of nothing but going back to my cubicle. I missed my boss, and the ladies in the makeshift offices surrounding me, and of course, I missed the dynamic duo.
I stayed with the lawyer, however, and that job put me on the path that led me to this couch, at this moment. My life was rough from the day I entered that law office until nearly three years ago when I was standing in Walmart and received a phone call telling me I had been hired to work for a small land clearing company in Straughn, Indiana. I'm not saying my life was any worse than anybody else's life, nor am I saying that I am exactly where I want to be now, but I know I am on the path that will take me to the place I'm meant to be. I spent a lot of time being angry at myself, and everybody else because my life hadn't come close to becoming the life I wanted. I have come to realize that taking the advice of my friends, whose names I do not remember, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.
It's amazing, isn't it? These two men changed my life. They probably have no idea what an impact they made...I didn't even realize it myself until a few days ago, when I found myself driving behind a shiny new Cadillac and smiling to myself at the memory of them standing outside my cubicle waving a phone number at me.
It was my first day at my new workplace. I was in my early twenties then and beginning my first "real" job. The Monday through Friday, 9-5 kind. It was a big office, and everyone had their own cubicle. These two characters were the first to stop by my new space and make proper introductions. I think, from that moment, they felt a sort of responsibility for me. They took care of me and joked with me, and made me feel at home.
During my first two weeks, I didn't have my own car, I had to borrow whatever available vehicle was in the driveway at my parent's house each morning. They made a joke about it one day, asking what I would be driving tomorrow, to which I replied "a Cadillac". For the remainder of my time there, each morning, they would pass by the door of my cubicle and say "Morning, Cadillac".
The judge I worked for was the busiest ALJ in the state and in desperate need of an assistant. I was considered "hourly", which meant I would work full time, but not be eligible for a raise or benefits of any kind. This bothered my new friends. I worked very hard and I loved my job, but they were always coming to me with different opportunities for which they felt I should apply. I always laughed them off and told them not to worry about me. I was happy right where I was. Finally, one day they showed up at the "door" of my cubicle. They had heard of a job in a law office, with benefits. An attorney that offers insurance options to his office staff is unbelievably rare. They had finally convinced me. I interviewed for, and was offered, the position the very next day.
I was sad on my last day, and devastated about a week later when I discovered I had left a job I loved for a job I absolutely loathed. I regretted my decision and could think of nothing but going back to my cubicle. I missed my boss, and the ladies in the makeshift offices surrounding me, and of course, I missed the dynamic duo.
I stayed with the lawyer, however, and that job put me on the path that led me to this couch, at this moment. My life was rough from the day I entered that law office until nearly three years ago when I was standing in Walmart and received a phone call telling me I had been hired to work for a small land clearing company in Straughn, Indiana. I'm not saying my life was any worse than anybody else's life, nor am I saying that I am exactly where I want to be now, but I know I am on the path that will take me to the place I'm meant to be. I spent a lot of time being angry at myself, and everybody else because my life hadn't come close to becoming the life I wanted. I have come to realize that taking the advice of my friends, whose names I do not remember, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.
It's amazing, isn't it? These two men changed my life. They probably have no idea what an impact they made...I didn't even realize it myself until a few days ago, when I found myself driving behind a shiny new Cadillac and smiling to myself at the memory of them standing outside my cubicle waving a phone number at me.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Fred Mertz
Last Friday, on my way to work, I drove by the house I lived in when I was little. Due to the fact that my current home is directly down the street from this house, I actually drive by it every time I go somewhere. As I was making my turn, my eyes fell upon the back of the house behind my old home. You see, when I was a little girl, I was convinced that Fred Mertz lived in that house.
For those of you who aren't familiar with "I Love Lucy", Fred Mertz and his wife, Ethel, lived at 623 East 68th Street in New York City. The very same building as their tenants/best friends, Ricky and Lucy Ricardo. Fred was a bit of a curmudgeon, but for some reason, even as a little girl, I always found him endearing. Maybe it was his white hair, or the fact that the waistband of his pants was closer to his armpits than his hips. Whatever the reason, I had managed to convince myself that after his stint in Connecticut in the latter years of the series, he somehow ended up on Washington Street in Hagerstown, Indiana.
I often write about my happy childhood, and I'm not lying. While I admit that I had my moments as a teenager (as is typical), and even more moments as an adult, I cannot recall a single moment from my childhood that makes me sad, or uncomfortable, or even regretful. My mother has always encouraged me to be independent. So, when she came into my room one summer afternoon and caught me packing my suitcase, she asked me where I was going. "To go live with Fred', I said. Now, knowing my mother, she likely thought she had done something wrong or upset me, but she didn't let it show. She just let me continue packing and bade me "farewell" as I exited the side door of our little house. I made my way through the backyard, underneath the swingset, and across the alley. I stood in "Fred's" driveway for awhile, and kicked some rocks around. I had never actually seen Fred Mertz in person, let alone anywhere near this place I now stood. To this day, I am not quite sure what exactly prompted me to believe the man lived there.
So there I stood, kicking at the gravel, suitcase in hand. I felt silly, because I suddenly realized that Fred did not actually live there. I looked over at my swingset...Fred's house didn't have a swingset in the yard. What if his basement didn't have that special "basement smell" that ours did? What if he didn't let me play Barbies!?!?!? I took one last look at the Mertz house, shrugged, and headed back home. Across the alley, under the swingset and through the backyard to the side door. I let my mother know I had returned, that I had decided to not go live with Fred after all. In hindsight, I suspect she had been watching from the window, and likely knew all along that I would have never made it past the driveway.
To this day, I don't really know what possessed me to want to leave my home, my toys, and my basement that smelled of fabric softener and must. I certainly have no idea why I wanted to live with a fictional character from a 50's television show. I suppose it's yet another example of my extremely overactive imagination. I mean I did have an imaginary friend who happened to be an elephant living in a tree. (See: Wilbur & Bagel). I continue to be eternally grateful to my parents for never trying suppress my wild fantasies. I believe that my ability to see my dreams as something I can actually turn into a reality are evidence of how spectacular my parents actually are.
Of course, when my mom would have me sit down to watch "I Love Lucy" with her, I'm sure she never imagined I would someday leave her, albeit very briefly, to live with the Ricardo's grumpy old landlord.
For those of you who aren't familiar with "I Love Lucy", Fred Mertz and his wife, Ethel, lived at 623 East 68th Street in New York City. The very same building as their tenants/best friends, Ricky and Lucy Ricardo. Fred was a bit of a curmudgeon, but for some reason, even as a little girl, I always found him endearing. Maybe it was his white hair, or the fact that the waistband of his pants was closer to his armpits than his hips. Whatever the reason, I had managed to convince myself that after his stint in Connecticut in the latter years of the series, he somehow ended up on Washington Street in Hagerstown, Indiana.
I often write about my happy childhood, and I'm not lying. While I admit that I had my moments as a teenager (as is typical), and even more moments as an adult, I cannot recall a single moment from my childhood that makes me sad, or uncomfortable, or even regretful. My mother has always encouraged me to be independent. So, when she came into my room one summer afternoon and caught me packing my suitcase, she asked me where I was going. "To go live with Fred', I said. Now, knowing my mother, she likely thought she had done something wrong or upset me, but she didn't let it show. She just let me continue packing and bade me "farewell" as I exited the side door of our little house. I made my way through the backyard, underneath the swingset, and across the alley. I stood in "Fred's" driveway for awhile, and kicked some rocks around. I had never actually seen Fred Mertz in person, let alone anywhere near this place I now stood. To this day, I am not quite sure what exactly prompted me to believe the man lived there.
So there I stood, kicking at the gravel, suitcase in hand. I felt silly, because I suddenly realized that Fred did not actually live there. I looked over at my swingset...Fred's house didn't have a swingset in the yard. What if his basement didn't have that special "basement smell" that ours did? What if he didn't let me play Barbies!?!?!? I took one last look at the Mertz house, shrugged, and headed back home. Across the alley, under the swingset and through the backyard to the side door. I let my mother know I had returned, that I had decided to not go live with Fred after all. In hindsight, I suspect she had been watching from the window, and likely knew all along that I would have never made it past the driveway.
To this day, I don't really know what possessed me to want to leave my home, my toys, and my basement that smelled of fabric softener and must. I certainly have no idea why I wanted to live with a fictional character from a 50's television show. I suppose it's yet another example of my extremely overactive imagination. I mean I did have an imaginary friend who happened to be an elephant living in a tree. (See: Wilbur & Bagel). I continue to be eternally grateful to my parents for never trying suppress my wild fantasies. I believe that my ability to see my dreams as something I can actually turn into a reality are evidence of how spectacular my parents actually are.
Of course, when my mom would have me sit down to watch "I Love Lucy" with her, I'm sure she never imagined I would someday leave her, albeit very briefly, to live with the Ricardo's grumpy old landlord.
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