Bear with me. I do not want to get googled* on this one so the following may sound a little forced. A national periodical, something like the "Cash Journal" just came out with its opinion on the most superior of the mighty fine metropoli in the United States where you might want to reside.
My tax administrative district was selected as the best.
Eat that, everyone who doesn't dwell here!!!!
Having said that, (the ability to say so being the only useful part of this silly numeration) I simply don't get it. I have been a member of the population in several municipalities in this state as well as a couple of mid-Atlantic states as well. Additionally, I've travelled to my share of places around these United St@tes of Ame^ica and there are many that are far more lovely than the hamlet of my current residence.
In the "Cash Journal" online piece there is a really ugly picture of a pretty nice park that we have here. Nicest park in the hamlet, which oughta make it the nicest park in the US, given the standing of said borough, which it is definately not. Anyhoo, last night I was at said park (rec league t-ball. Our rec league
is actually pretty tits) when a friend told me of the recent designation.
"No" I said to her, "you are mistaken. We were given something like 7th place two years ago and then last year nothing. I remember because the editor of the local paper complained that nothing had changed but yet, whazzah! dropped like a stinky potato."
"No" she said right back. "We got the new [status] this year. Like, today".
Because mothers that you meet in the park are shameless liars ('my child was potty trained at 9 mo's yada yada yada') I didn't believe a thing this dear friend whose name I got wrong in front of another rec league mom just two weeks ago said, so I went home and googled the "Cash Journal" municipal seedings.
True enough.
I mentioned a few days ago that I was going to be canning 56 pounds of pickles. Sure, you thought I was exaggerating but I wasn't. I am still working on the goddamned things. Last night while trying to get the crinkle cut cucumber chips put up, the phone rang. It was my neighbor from across the street.
"Tomorrow is my moving day" she said. She has been moving for the last three months and even rented her house out six weeks ago which must be an enormous pain in the ass for the renters who are in there because she keeps going back to the house to get more of her stuff.
"Really?" Did the tone of my voice betray any note of sarcasm, incredulity, boredom? I hope not. She is a very sweet lady.
"Everyone who promised to help me load the truck has been trapped in a terrible spelunking accident, so it seems I am on my own". This is not true but who cares? When someone you know is moving all you need is a great excuse. Particularly if you own a truck.
Crap. We know where this is going. "Is Ben Wundrun available?"
"No" says I because for one, I am a terrible liar so I have to painfully stick to my version of the truth to avoid confusion later, and for two, he wasn't. "He has a dinner meeting and won't be home
sober till late".
"Well, I was hoping he might be able to help me with the heavier stuff."
"He might. When are you loading the truck?"
"Six" she says.
"a.m?" Now what does my voice sound like? Pigeons on helium?
"Yes. I need to get an early start".
"Well" I say hating myself with each word I know is about to come out of my mouth, "I could always help".
So the alarm went off at 5:30 this morning. And ten minutes later. And ten minutes after that. Did I mention I was up late canning yet another batch of pickles? I fucking hate pickles now and I further especially hate people whose nicknames might be 'Pickles'. Off the top of my head I can only think of one. Fuck. 5:50.
In total revenge mode I roll out of bed and barely brush my teeth. Smell
this people who move at ungodly hours of the morning!!!! Haha - there is no truck there. Back to bed.
I said to Ben 'no truck'. He made a happy murmur. In his
inebriated compassionate state the night before he said he would be more than happy to help, too.
"I hear the truck" I say.
"I don't hear the truck for twenty minutes" says Ben.
"Your hearing has always been better than mine", I lie. I am supportive like that.
Twenty minutes later we are loading a truck. Shortly after that, I step in it. Not the truck, but a deep pile of doo dropped from my lips to god's driveway.
"Mavis**" I say brightly to my neighbor. "Did you know you are leaving the [apex of seeded urban administrative districts] in the United States of Ame^ica?"
She looked at me for a full 30 seconds before turning away because I think she was going to cry.
"Jesus, are you a dork!" says Ben, equally brightly.
Some people do feel it is the best [densely populated area], I guess. I am sorry those people, or just one anyway, can't stay.
*
the reason that I do not want to get googled by mentioning the name of my municipality is that I would hardly want my neighbors to read my blog and know the dastardly things I plan on saying about them at anytime I see fit in the very near future. Hell, there's a guy on my street who's a blog just itching to happen. Oh, that and as a closeted atheist I wouldn't want the word to get out about that until I'm ready. Sometime after my parents have passed away would be just about right. I'm thinking 20 or 30 years would do.**
not her real name. duh.
America's best senator happens to live not in my neighborhood, but about one neighborhood over, maybe a mile or so away. 'Jesus, Jess' you say. 'We had no idea you were a swell, living the high life in an exurban mansion accessible only through a large, protective, moat-like, gated barrier.' 
