The Gina Spot

My dad has been wanting to move for several years, but especially since my mom left us in 2008.

At first, he thought it would be a great idea to move to the suburbs.  I vetoed that idea.  When my mom was sick, I spent far too much time traversing the city to get to their house, and they only lived 15 minutes away.  I needed him closer to me, because none of us are getting any younger.  Even though he’s the most active octogenarian I know, we should still err on the side of caution.

Then, he thought maybe a fixer upper.   I had to laugh at that prospect.  Here’s a man who starts off changing a light bulb and ends up needing an electrician.

I had to take matters into my own hands. (Something that’s coming back to bite me square in the ass.)

So . . . a year ago, I located a fantastic condo and it’s right across the street from my house.  Even better that I know this building very well.  I watched its construction back in 2006, at the top of the market.  I know the couple that owned it, and felt sad when they moved to TX, and sadder still when I heard the remote news that they were divorcing.  It was bittersweet that they were underwater on the mortgage, as were most people who built/bought at the top of the market, because that perfect storm created the opportunity for us to snap it up at a great deal and significant discount from the original asking price.

It’s a pretty large space — 3 bed, 3 bath duplex — obviously more than he needs, but I would rather he have the space and not need it over needing it and not having it.

We put in the offer in April of 2011.  We waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I made a few hostile calls to the seller’s broker, who kept blaming it on the bank.  I was convinced that good old Bank of America was stringing us along, hoping that we would rescind our offer which had been accepted by the seller, but was still significantly below the asking price.

FINALLY, 10 months later, we received word that we would be closing on the condo in a hurry.  They waited so long that we were trying to beat the clock before the property went up for judicial auction — which nobody wants.

Where we sit now is that we own the unit, and my father is preparing to move.

What have I done?

First, my father has at least two dumpsters full of shit that needs to be thrown away.  And who is going to execute that nasty task?  Not the 86 year old (who thinks he can lift furniture). Nope.  That job falls into my hands.

And who is going to organize the place?  Not the man who was yelled at for years by my mother to pick up his socks.  Not the man who has a penchant for collecting newspapers from the past month.  Nope.  Again . . . my job!

And WHO is responsible for all of his moving administration, such as the vetting and hiring of movers, change of address cards, switching the utilities, etc.?  Him?  NOPE!  Once again . . . all me, all the time.

He moves on August 15th.  I wonder if we can sell the place back before then.

I started this post as a column, and then I never finished it.  It didn’t make the cut . . .

I didn’t think of myself as a person with a lot of Game in the dating world until years ago, when a friend approached me about the potential for being in his documentary, aptly titled “Game,” that would feature men and women in Chicago who were known for their sixth senses in dating.  I couldn’t resist, so I participated in a roundtable conversation with several people – mostly men – who had great grasp of the opposite sex and tactics to reach their end goals.  Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), the documentary never went farther than an initial conversation, but it got me thinking about Game.  What IS Game, exactly?  And is it a good thing?  Or is having Game another way of saying that you’re a dating menace?

Even after attending and participating vividly in the discussion, I was still leery about my level of Game.

The first issue was that men didn’t find me to be so attractive.  For most of my adult life and formative dating years, I’ve been a dating columnist. The irony is that nothing turns men off faster than the possibility of being analyzed and exposed in front of a large audience.  My entire package usually wasn’t appealing enough to take the risk.  There were very nice men who wouldn’t have touched me if they were paid large sums to do so.   And then there were the doozies who wanted to date me just so that they could be featured in the column.  Those were men to be avoided.

Second, I wasn’t necessarily a “boyfriend person.”  I knew serial monogamists who seemed to easily move from man to man.  Not me.  I’ve always had a vibrant social life and lots of fun friends, which enabled me to effortlessly go long stretches of time in between serious relationships.  There were many men that I was attracted to, so I dated the ones who weren’t scared off to indulge myself, stay current and to generate content for the column, but I was all about having a good time – which didn’t include waiting for a man to call.

Also?  I knew women with what I perceived to be Game. Those were the women who were showered with gifts and financial rewards for their efforts.  I was certainly not in that camp – and I began to think that if I really had game?  I had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

I couldn’t figure it out, so I decided to ask another male friend if he thought I had Game.  He pondered, and then told me that I have Game in the sense that I’m analytical and aloof.  I recognized Game, didn’t fall for Game, and didn’t seem to care if anyone was running Game because my emotions were beyond reach.

His theory didn’t make sense initially, but I eventually saw his point and determined that Game – or the manipulation of another’s behavior to suit your purposes – is born from a place of apathy.  If you’re running game on someone, you simply don’t care much about them.  Likewise if someone’s running game on you, you need to be aware of their intentions.

Somehow, it made me feel better that I wasn’t someone who had game, as much as I was a person who can deflect game.  I think.

I feel like I could write four posts … if not more.  It isn’t that I’m not encouraged to blog, or that  I don’t have things to blog about.  Social media has evolved in a way that our soundbytes are smaller, and the things we say are shorter and less meaningful. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy “getting it done” in 140 characters or less, but the nuances aren’t there.  There are so many people who I follow on Twitter. Some of them are perfect for the character limitation, while there are others that leave me wanting more — at least a paragraph of information and witticism.  So, here we are.

The summer is going reasonably well.  My fitness plan has gone completely awry.  I took on a new project and have had no time to maintain a steady workout schedule, let alone ensure that I have healthy food.  Sad.  Very said.

In other news, I had a deck built — a deck that I’ve yet to truly enjoy because of the infernal temperatures that we’ve experienced lately.  I was forced to build the deck because my back porch was threatening to secede due to years of neglect.  With me on it.  I entered the project kicking and screaming (largely because of associated costs), but I have to admit that I like it.  I haven’t spent a lot of time outside because I had been neglecting the backyard.  Significantly.  To the point where weeds on the periphery became trees.  Not kidding.  One had grown so tall that it was mistaken for a tree.  I hired my esteemed contractor to cut down said tree-like weeds without the knowledge that someone might have grown attached to it.

While the deck was being constructed, I left the contractor to his business and went on a shopping trip to the Container Store — which is one of my favorite places to spend money.  So many possibilities for an organized home!

While perusing shelf organizers, the contractor called.  Apparently my neighbor was upset about the demise of the “tree” that grew between our properties, but technically on my side.  The trouble was that I didn’t know this neighbor.  Had never seen her before. She lives in the rental building next door and had moved in two weeks earlier.  Apparently she had grown attached to the growth, which she surmised was a Mulberry Tree.  Also, she was upset because she chose that unit because it covered the back bedroom window and her 7-year-old liked the tree because it attracted birds.  He handed her the phone so that she could make me feel like Mr. T., and I could explain my reasoning for cutting down foliage that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.  She said “I could understand pruning the tree, but I don’t understand cutting it down completely.”  To which I responded, “I’m sorry, WHO are you, again?”

My first inclination was to explain a few things to this new neighbor:

1. The tree is NOT a tree, first and foremost.  You are not a botanist by any stretch of the imagination, because 1) a mulberry bush does not even remotely resemble the monstrosity that was removed, and 2) if you were, you would understand that the “berries” that grew on this tree were born of pure evil, and were on the verge of releasing their seed into my flower garden and creating offspring.
2. You are RENTING, which means that you can move in a year, without consequence, while I’m left to deal with the possibility of jungle creatures setting up residences in my yard.  Not gonna happen.  Aside from the fact that this weedy tree originates from my side of the property line.  If your landlord isn’t upset, you don’t have a leg to stand on.
3. If you were stupid enough to choose a unit because of an alleged tree, I don’t know how to help you.
4. They’re called BLINDS.  Invest.
5. This conversation is moot because the weedy tree?  Was already laying on the ground.  Done.

My second inclination was to be a little nicer while explaining everything I described in the first inclination — although my contractor was betting on the first, to the point where I disappointed him a tad.  We left the conversation in a friendly capacity and she bought curtains.  Crisis averted.

Fun stuff, yes?

More later . . .like maybe in a few minutes.