Bum-barded!

A-ha!

Guardian bum angels reach out!  

PimpThisBum.com is knotting the panties of bleeding hearts and social conservatives all over the country. 

Kevin Dolan, the 55-year-old dude who started the site, is according to a CBS news story, "a marketing specialist," from Katy, Texas. 

Dolan and his 24-year-old son say they launched it to test-run their new online marketing business. They figured they'd break in their Internet venture with a charitable project – filming a bum named Tim Edwards, who lives beneath an interstate overpass in nearby Houston. 

I understand I'm in no position to call the kettle black as I've featured many a bum on Lance, but as a reporter who frequently deals with "marketing specialists," I can't help but mutter one dig under my breath:

Marketing specialists moonlighting as humanitarians usually have ulterior motives.

Good luck, Tim. I hope this sets you straight. And to the rest of my guardian bum angels – be nice to entrepreneurs. You never know when the Capitalism Fairy will tuck a twenty under your bedroll.  

Thank you for pushing my buttons.

Of all countries, my first blog critic hails from Canada. Miffed over my blase attitude toward guardian bum angels.

You may have already read Natasha's comment after the Tree frogs, bums & wedding dress post. My face was burning when I read it. I haven't been this scolded since a newspaper advertiser reprimanded me for likening his real estate gimmicks to David Hasselhoff's German popularity.

YET, I was simultaneously thrilled and pissed. A Mormon Canadian mother-of-four wearing an adorable scarf in her blog photo AGHAST at something I wrote in St. Petersburg, Fla.?

Bring it, benevolent Canadian!

Before I hammered out a reply I Mapquested Alberta, Canada and saw that her province's southern towns border Montana. Picturing this blonde woman and her husband Jude, their four kiddos and tag-a-long dog living in some prairie mountain town north of the border, I was flattered to have held her attention.

Pasted below is our exchange. It is by far the most constructive feedback I've received since starting Lance last April.

BUT, before I go ... Natasha, how do you feel about the word canuck?

--

Heidi,

I was going to give you some Twitter advice to help you promote your blog because I uncharacteristically clicked on your spam barrage of links on your Twitter feed and I thought, Huh-- this blog is not half bad.

Then I read this post.

I am AGHAST at your LACK of "humanity". You were indignant and offended at the ladies at the store who didn't say "good anything" to you and yet when presented with a man whose foot just might even have to be amputated, you told him it was disgusting and gave him all of one dollar. When telling his friend to get Jed to a clinic, you forgot to add, "...after you collect a lot more money because, of course, a dollar isn't going to get you anywhere." Maybe you don't have much money or didn't have much on you. That's understandable. What is not understandable is your comments to him. Not, "I hope that gets better soon!" or "I'm so sorry. That looks painful." No, you "snapped" that his foot was "dis-gusting". Where was your compassion? You judge some ladies for having poor manners when you lacked something greater?

Your first thought was "Foot ointment? Ah, this is one I haven't heard before." You were judging him. Sure, a lot of homeless people suffer from alcoholism, to try and shut out the pain of their world, but not all of them do. And because you cannot know for certain, you should never, ever take it upon yourself to judge. Live generously without judging and be blessed while letting the sin of lying be upon the head of he who lied to get money from you.

You couldn't have taken him to the clinic yourself and asked someone to fix his foot? Asked if they had any sort of charity program or whatnot? I don't know how it works there. In Canada you don't have to pay for basic health care-- everyone is cared for.

Even the word you use for these people-- "bums"-- associates them with something lowly and maybe they are by appearances. But when judgment day comes, it's very possible that these bums will rise higher than you, because they've very likely been given very little with which to work.

And even if you don't believe in God, you claim to believe in humanity. But you begrudged it.

Even to sandwich such a sad issue like homelessness in with your prophetic tree frog and your wedding dress shopping is so dismissive!

I NEVER leave critical comments on people's blogs. But you really don't seem to have any idea how this post comes across and since you put it out there, and you linked to it, and you're trying to drive more traffic to it, and you're trying to become a writer, I couldn't in good conscience walk by and just toss you a measly dollar.

Best of luck with not stepping on the tree frog, finding the right dress, and dealing with "the bums".

--

Natasha,
Your blog is very pretty. I like the scarf in your picture and I dig most of the to do's on your bucket list. I figured this place was as good as any to post a reply to your criticism (ie: MY first hate mail.)

What can I say? I refer to bums as bums. It rolls off the tongue.

I realize it's less P.C. than "homeless person," "man on the street," or "transient.” I've learned from many conversations with bums that street peeps resent the word transient. Most of these guys/gals hang around one city block longer than I've lived in some apartments. And since “homeless man" or "man on the street" sounds too Phil Collins, and since most of the ones I interact with nearly every day tend to do a lot of bumming around, I’ll stick with bums.

Despite my crude sense of humor, I do have a heart. I’m a sucker for GD bums. In fact, I have friends with much more sarcastic senses of humor who've suggested I suffer from, “a Pollyanna complex.”

Note: I only had two bucks on me that day.

Note: When my boyfriend moved out of his apartment two years ago, I delivered a stack of his old blankets and pillows to a man sleeping on the sidewalk. Having observed this man earlier in the day on a bike ride, I returned with my car and the bedding, careful not to wake the old bugger as I set a pillow by his head.

Good lord, Mormon. I wasn't passing judgment. Sure the guy's foot was battered, but no more than mine after a muddy music festival and a bad fall. His request for foot ointment WAS a new plea. Usually I get asked for cigarettes, quarters, dollar bills, lighters, etc ... And usually these requests are followed by - or preceded by - a catcall.

Was I cavalier? Probably. Am I always cavalier? No. Was this post an honest snapshot of the day? Sure. Did I embellish his wound by calling it "gangrenous?" Probably. I'm a writer not a doctor.

As for driving this guy to a walk-in clinic, if I were to personally escort every ailing person I pass to a medical facility in St. Pete, I'd log more miles than a NYC cab.

Natasha, your blog is lovely. And I mean that sincerely. My boyfriend was "following" you on Twitter and since I'm a blogger with limited readership I figured I'd follow you too. I wanted to share my posts. The "spam barrage of links" on my Twitter feed is the only way I know how to draw traffic to my site, that and Facebook and MySpace. As irritating and exhausting as social networking sites can be, they’ve introduced me to a bevy of talented writers and photographers.

Like you, I just want to make people laugh and think and come back for more. If my "behavior" chaps your ass, I encourage you to read more of my posts. I'm much more than a bum-bashing pisspot.

Also, by scolding my dismissive behavior you totally overlooked my two favorite literary devices - juxtaposition and symbolism. The post that left you AGHAST had both.

Having said all that, thank you for your comment. I’m tickled by hate mail too. I was working on a freelance piece about a Tuskegee Airman when I read your comment. It woke me up and carried me through to deadline.

Maybe we can be friends.

--

Hi, Heidi. (That was the name of our favourite cat, by the way.)

Okay, first of all, I did not give you hate mail. I didn't call you stupid or use crude language. I was commenting on your behaviour and I believe my writing left it open as a dialogue.

I sort of hear you on the symbolism and juxtaposition thing. Sort of. I wrote a post about my Twitter philosophy that got me MY first critical comment, except that unlike my comment to you, this one attacked ME personally instead of just my behaviour. And the reason she attacked me was because she didn't notice the symbolism in the very thing she was criticizing: I was telling people who use Twitter to tell me (or you or any other Twitter follower) how they could make them happy, make them "remarkable", etc. etc. I objected to the arrogant language by using it myself to say, "Maybe I can help YOU!" and then proceeded to tell them a better way to use Twitter and it was TOTALLY on purpose and some readers picked up on it.

Speaking of which, here is what I wanted to tell you: People want to get to know you. If you tweeted little random thoughts, links to other things on the web, comments back to people, and funny observations, only then intermingling links to your blog, you'd get a lot more followers and ones who would be following not out of obligation but because they found you engaging. Twitter really is about relationships. But when all your tweets are about your blog, it looks like you don't want a relationship. You just want to talk about you.

And that's NOT a criticism. I am not suggesting that there's any symbolism there with how you use Twitter. You just started. And normally I don't even bother to tell people how to use it better but I could tell you weren't just some big business jerk-off and I liked your blog title.

However, approaching your point about symbolism and juxtaposition, I don't see it. If we're going to critique it as a piece of writing, here goes: It read like a "Here's what I did today" diary type post. It did not seem to have a moral, a lesson, etc. There was no point. Which is fine, for a blog post. Not all of my posts have a point. But for there to be juxtaposition or symbolism as a creative writing tool, there needs to be a point that is magnified by those tools.

And because it doesn't look like there was any intended point besides to give a snapshot of your day and your life (and your character, so it seemed) it did put you in a bad light. As I said, I didn't think you realized how it made you look and how it encouraged a similar mindset for readers. A few of these points that you're saying here, could have been included. Like how often you're catcalled, etc. You could have worked it in without breaking up the writing.

My heart is warmed to hear about you dropping off the blankets and I don't doubt you're telling the truth.

I'm friends with lots of people and you've made it clear that you can have a mature dialogue and are not easily offended. So, SURE!

--

PS. I took the photo above a year ago on a bike ride through downtown St. Pete. It is the staircase of the country's first open-air post office. Built in 1916, the St. Petersburg Post Office was designed by George Stuart, an architect who served as a captain in the Canadian militia in the 1890s. After he was shot in the neck by an arrow in Canada's Last Indian War, Stuart moved to Texas – where they used guns. Eventually he retired to St. Petersburg, Fla. (go figure) where he designed the St. Petersburg Yacht Club, the post office and dozens of gothic-y homes. I thought it was an appropriate picture given the context.

Tree frogs, bums & the dress I didn't keep.

To be honest, I've put more thought into purchasing a six-pack of Charmin toilet paper.

...

I bought my wedding dress last month for $128 at White House|Black Market, and I returned it last week not because I didn't like it, but because I thought I could do better. 

Also because toothpastes have caused greater fits of indecision. 

I blame the tree frog who showed up by our front door last month, who for one week, no matter where I moved him to, would return to our front door to hibernate precariously close to the welcome mat.

"That frog," I told Joe, "is going to get stomped on."

Remembering a former new age-y boss, who once confessed to me during a long Christmas shift at Waldenbooks, that he had a groundhog spirit guide, I decided to reference the frog in Ted Andrews book, Animal Speak.

According to Andrews, if a frog has presented itself, "it may be time to breathe new life into an old project or goal."

The frog is a symbol of fertility, rebirth and resurrection. Since I'm in no hurry to get preggers, I took this is as a message to get cracking on The Book, which I realize has nothing to do with returning The Dress. 

But you know, I digress. 

Armed with frog knowledge I took off to purchase a present for a friend in downtown St. Pete, and as usual, I passed a gaggle of bums, and as usual, one of them called out to me.

"M'am," he croaked. "Can you spare some change so I can get ointment for my foot."

This is a new one, I thought. Foot ointment. Surely this bum - I'll call him Jed - has milked other ailments in the past, but foot ailments? C'mon, dude. Wear shoes and your feet won't slough off. 

Mildly irritated, I looked at Jed's foot. 

Sure enough the shit was horrible. Propped up on a curb, looking as if it had been shot, the foot was purplish, bulbous and the wound was the size of a fist and oozing something green. His toes, what I could see of them, looked gangrenous.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a dollar bill, handed it to Jed and snapped, "That foot. Is dis-gusting."

Jed took the dollar bill and nodded gratefully, his ruddy face creasing in the afternoon sun like an origami crane. It hit me just then, like a sack of bricks to the belly, that bums are ageless. Not ageless in the sense that they are young, but ageless in the sense that they are without an age. To those of us who pass them by, bums are just bums with no names and no ages. No numbers and letters to hang over their heads. Just time. 

Humanity is a funny thing when it socks you. Wrinkled by dirt, and wounded by the absence of time or perhaps by the weight of time, I blushed when Jed thanked me. When I passed the bum sitting to him, I handed that guy a dollar bill and said, "take your friend to a walk-in clinic."

The last thing on my mind was a wedding dress, but then I passed White House|Black Market on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 2nd Street. And though I've never purchased anything from this yuppity boutique, I'm a fan of simple semantics. A store named White House Black Market that sells only white and black merchandise is a store after my utilitarian heart.

I instantly spotted the lone ivory sheath hanging on a back rack in the oft-forgotten clearance corner, and for the helluvit I asked to try it on. To the delight of the women behind the counter, it fit like a kind of satin liquid – save for a teensy bit of gut-sucking and an obvious granny panty line. 

"Linda," said the one saleswoman. "Get over here. You're not gonna believe how well this dress fits."

"Like a glove!" Squealed Linda. "Oo! We've been waiting for someone to buy this dress!"

Oh Lord, I thought. My Cinderella moment, and here I am still contemplating Jed's seeping foot. 

I asked one of them to unzip me so could I purchase it because after all, it fit like a glove and when you're wired like me, you don't question the significance of that. 

"How long do I have to return it?" I asked.

"Return it?" They snapped. "Why would you return it?"

"In case I find something better."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because as I left the store, bag in hand, both women forgot to say goodbye, good day or good anything for that matter. 

Sashaying past my guardian bum angels, I winked. Frugal, no-frills and with a 30-day return policy, I had just bought my wedding dress. Or at least, I was dating my wedding dress.

It was simple, so ho-hum that it slid easily behind our bedroom drapes. And when Joe got home from work I boasted about the price like I had just purchased two-for-one lamp chops at the downtown butcher. 

"Wow. $128," he said. "Nicely done."

So not a Big Deal that it's behind the bedroom drapes. But don't look, I said. It's still a wedding dress goddammit.

And then, two weeks later I returned it. I think the saleswomen had a bet, because when I walked in with the dress in a Target bag, the one smirked at the other like, Itoldyouso. 

"Yeah," I mumbled. "It didn't work out."

"Well that's too bad," the one woman said. "It fit you like a glove."

On my way up 2nd Avenue I passed Ann Taylor, walked inside and purchased a fetching tweed number for the rehearsal dinner. 

Guess what?

It fit like a glove.

--

PS. The dress pictured above is the one I didn't keep. It was unfussy, prettier than some dresses and less pretty than others. It was slightly beaded and cheaply priced, but in the end, not the dress for me. We had too much in common.

Plot eureka

Ran into another guardian bum-angel yesterday. I didn't take his picture for fear that it would reveal he didn't exist.

FYI: it was not the same street prophet who predicted last month that our final offer on the house would be accepted. This guy was wearing a gray T-shirt that read: "I lost my #. Can I have yours?"

I was taking pictures of these fine ladies at the corner of 2nd Street and First Avenue (outside of Ivanka Ska's House of Ska) when this bum-angel said, "You should go across the street and see if the photographer over there needs your help."

I looked across the street, saw nothing, and snorted, "What photographer?" 

"There's a photo shoot at the post office. The models are wearing the same kind of getup as the mannequins. If I were you, I'd go see if the photographer could use a hand. You never know."

Because bums are northern stars, I sighed, pedaled across the street and watched as two statuesque (albeit extra terrestrial-looking) models pouted for a short blonde photographer who looked not unlike myself.

Intimidated by these specimens and feeling pretty weird about approaching the photographer, I pedaled back to the House of Ska and told my guardian bum-angel that I felt uncomfortable interrupting the shoot.

"Hey, you know never," he said. "She might not need your help now, but in the future say she's got a job that requires an extra set of hands, she'll remember you."

"I don't have any business cards," I replied.

"So," he said, challenging me. "What you do is you come back to the store here - I presume she works for the owner - and you leave your card and say, 'I saw you had a photographer out here Saturday. If you ever need help, or she's not available, call me.'"

Thanking the guy for his two-cents, I pedaled home and considered the idea. 

Later that night, while walking to CVS to get the usual chocolate ice cream, ketchup and charcoal, I had an epiphany. A plot epiphany.  It hit me when I passed a woman in hospital scrubs who, after rushing to get off the bus at 4th Street and 8th Avenue, asked me for directions to a house by the bay.

The plot epiphany was so powerful that it instantly made my stomach hurt. Scurrying home with my bag of ice cream, ketchup and charcoal, plot poured from my mouth like frothy Pop Rocks. 

It is the first plot idea I've ever had. 

With Joe's help, I ironed out some details, hammered out a synopsis and lovingly named my protagonist. 

Anyway, what I'm getting it is ...

I'm leaving my regular post at the newspaper. I put in my unofficial two-week notice last week. Instead I'll work as a freelancer, which will allow more time to write for myself and supplement the income I'll make as a nanny.

A nanny you say?

Yes. In two weeks I start watching seven kids in St. Pete.

Seven kids you say?

Yes. One family. Seven kids.

Once again, a bum is right.

I won't bury the lead here, or wait until the end to mention that we got the house.

And as always with me, the day I was told our final offer was accepted, I kind of already knew.

While walking my pug Thursday morning, a man on a bicycle called out to me, "Excuse me m'am."

Noticing his body was buckling under backpacks and a bed roll, I paid special attention, as homeless men and I share a kinship.

"Yes?"I asked.

"What is your name?" The man on the bicycle asked.

So I told him mine and the pug told him his.

"You're blessed today," he said. "You are beautiful and today is beautiful. Good things come to you today."

And I said, thanks. And he said, good day.

Now. Had I not mentioned this story to Joe upon immediately entering the apartment, I fear he would have outright said I was lying, when later that afternoon, after a lunch interview in Sarasota, my phone rang and Joe said, "We got the house."

And like I said, I kind of already knew, so after squealing, "WHAT? WE GOT IT?" I lowered my voice and said, "Well, I suppose the bum already knew, right?"

And Joe agreed. He's used to things like this by now. We all have guardian angels. I have bum angels and if you ask me, Joe is damn lucky to have a girlfriend with bum angels. Especially in St. Pete, where bums abound.

And so our conversation took a turn, not in the direction of bum premonitions, but in the direction of total baffled shocked. After back-and-forth negotiations this week, we never expected the homeowner to accept our final offer. We were still $18,000 apart. Sure Realtor Randy gave us hope, what with his positive percentages and all. But $18,000 is still a pretty big unflushable turd, if you know what I mean ... or at least it's a turd to be reckoned with.

Cynical journalists. We were still not convinced. Even me, the hopeful one, the dreamy one, the one with bum angels at her fingertips. Even I was not convinced.

So after work we met up with Realtor Randy at The Ale House in St. Pete, where he said he'd be sitting in full Philly Eagles regalia watching a preseason game at the bar.

When we got there we were still so unconvinced that neither one of us felt compelled to order a beer.

"C'mon! Order a round," Randy insisted.

"Nah," Joe said and I shrugged.

"You guys just bought a house. Get yourselves a beer!" He cheered, throwing his own giant stein in the air.

"We'll celebrate when we're at our kitchen table," we replied.

Randy shot Joe a look. The kind of look that said, dude I carted your ass all over St. Pete for two months looking at houses. We find one. The guy accepts your crappy offer and now we're at a bar, signing the final offer and you disrespect me, your devoted Realtor, by denying one celebratory beer?

We could not get past the fact that no one runs away with Florida real estate, not even in 2008. Begrudgingly we each ordered a brewski, and by the time the last line was signed in Randy's stack of Keller Williams paperwork, we were both feeling good and celebratory.

Later that night while grocery shopping at Publix, I noticed that Joe reached for the cheapest, smallest can of bread crumbs.

"You never buy that little can," I said.

"We're homeowners now. We're going to be poor for awhile." He said.

I smiled and clicked my heels. In my head of hopeful girly bubble thoughts, I catalogued this moment under The Most Rousing Line Of The Night and proceeded to the check-out.

--

PS. The illustration above is by New York City artist Kelly Mudge. To purchase this hauntingly excellent painting click here.

How I spent my summer Faycation

I ran into Ian (remember him?) Tuesday morning in Sarasota near the downtown mermaid fountain a few hours before Hurricane Fay was supposed to ravage Sarasota.

I asked Ian, "Where will you stay in the event of a hurricane?"

And Ian said, "Come here. Come closer. Let me tell you something. There are some people in this town who would get offended by that question. Having said that, the question isn't, 'where will I stay in the event of a hurricane?' The question is, 'why isn't the hurricane here?'"

Ian went on to outline some kind of Matrix-esque theory about the cosmos - essentially his version of Murphy's Law. How puppets anticipate things. Not people. How government and newspapers are puppet masters. And how, if I were to sit on a bench wearing the Santa pajamas pants I was wearing when I approached him, how HE should be the one to ask ME where I'm staying in the event of a hurricane. 

So I looked down at my Santa hammer pants, which belonged to my friend Ricci before she moved to Africa, and I suddenly thought: touche Ian. I look like a slob. You look like a slob. For all anyone knows, we're a street couple.

So I backed away slowly and let him rant some more about his being a scientist and a journalist, and how some people say he looks like Jesus when he wears a headband. Feeling like an asshole for reminding him that he was homeless, I said, "I'm gonna skedaddle, Ian. But can I take your picture first?"

And he said, "Wait. No. Not without my headband." 

So he grabbed his headband and his ball cap, laughing like Muttley because Jesus didn't wear a ball cap. And I snapped his picture, waved goodbye, headed back to PK and Kyle's house and promptly took a shower and changed my pants.  

I was instructed by my editors to hunker down in Sarascrotum for the night and to be prepared to churn out a series of bang-up stories chronicling the destruction. Our publisher even pushed deadlines back a day to accommodate the coverage. 

Since all downtown offices were closed, all government offices were closed, Sarasota County schools were closed, stores windows boarded up and bottled water sold out, I ate leftover Chinese takeout, parked myself on the porch and invented "Fay" puns for the newspaper.

Should I Fay or should I go?

Oh Faymate. Come out and Fay with me.  

Would you like me to put the storm on fay-away?

Do not disoFay me!

My Western New Yorker friend Sam and his wife Beth were staying at a resort on Sanibel Island near Fort Myers, when the storm was scheduled to make its first Florida landfall. Around 10:30 a.m. I received an e-mail from Sam that went something like:

"Last night we were evacuated from the island. As non-residents we are not cool enough to weather the storm. I am pretty sure this state is full of wimps. I generate more of a storm surge when I take a leak in the toilet. We were going to venture out to the Bass Pro Outdoor World, but they are not open ... even though they sell survival gear. Anyway, I strapped on my rain suit and went out to try and make it look bad outside. Here are some pics. The coffee here is OK and I didn't lose my swizel stick."

If anyone has good storm photos (and this goes for the New York readers, the Kansas readers, the Colorado readers, the Missouri readers, the West Africa readers, the New Mexico readers, the UK readers, the Germany readers ...) please email them to blog.lance@gmail.com. In the meantime here's my sister Heelya in our backyard after a blizzard in North Collins, NY. 

    

Lighting up on Lemon Avenue.

I've been distracted. Birthday parties. Rays games. Ghost hunting in Sarasota. Bike riding with Joe. Interviewing Sarasota County Commissioners. Watching Batman. You know. The basic distractions.

This guy's name is Ian. Or at least Ian is one of his names. He also goes by Adrian and Avery. According to Ian, who likes to set up shop in the courtyard by the clamshell fountain in downtown Sarasota, his parents were a "headstrong lot," too stubborn and too squabbling to decide who to name their son after. Since they both had unisex names - Adrian and Avery - they decided to call him both.  

 

"Now listen," says Ian. "I think both names are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. But my parents had it coming. What did they expect giving their son two names like Adrian and Avery? I go by Ian now, which I consider a nobler name. It's a noble name, isn't it? Ian."

"Yes," I said. "It's a nobler name."

I asked Ian if I could take his picture. He was nervously rolling cigarettes like some people twirl straw wrappers. (If you look closely, you'll see that all those blue papers beside him contain tobacco. Grainy, dirty bits of brown tobacco the color of rawhide leather. Also the color of Ian's skin.)

So I said, "Hot damn, Ian. That's a lot of tobacco."

And he said, "You roll your own too?"

And I said, "Don't smoke. Hey, can I take your picture?"

And he said, "What for?"

And I said, "Because I like the composition of your loitering."

And he said, "If you want to take my picture you'll have to sit here and listen to me for a minute. That's my sitting fee - you listening to me talk."

And I said, "Ah OK. Go on."

And just like that Ian went on. And on. And on. He spoke with a slight British accent that reminded me of when Madonna started speaking with a brogue back when she was writing children's books. I listened to Ian for 20 minutes and in those 20 minutes I learned that he's a reporter investigating corruption within the local power structures, including the daily newspaper, and that the biggest problem with people today is that no one wants to make eye contact anymore.

I later realized that when I took these pictures Ian neglected to look me in the eye. It turns out that homeless people are as fearful of us as we are of them. The next time I see Ian I might tell him this, except that in listening to his stories I feel the people he fears most are ... his parents.

So be good to your kids, guys. Try not to name them two unisex names at once. It's hard enough finding your identity as a kid. 

Goodnight. 

Housed.

I interviewed a woman for the newspaper this week whose voice mail message said: "You've reached Diane. I'm not here right now. Please leave me a message and before you hang up tell me one good thing about your life."

In the five seconds the message played two thoughts flashed through my head. 1.) This is a business call. You're setting up an interview. Just leave the basics. You're too longwinded to go into what's good 

about your life anyway. And then 2.) Don't puss out. Tell her you're looking at houses with Joe tonight. She asked you. 

So I left a message for Diane Lane - not the actress, the Sarasota massage therapist who goes by Lane instead of her long spitty German name - and at the end of my reporter's message I said, "And the one good thing about my life right now is that tonight I'm looking at houses with my boyfriend."

After I said it I immediately felt like a 9 year old. But whatev. Isn't the first time I sounded like a child. Won't be the last. 

Here's a rundown of the four grownup houses we looked at Thursday:

House No. 1

The Bachelor Pad of Girlfriend Past

A guy in his early 30s still lived there. He was in the shower when our Realtor knocked on the door. His dogs - a white Maltese-y dog and big white beaky dog - were going ape shit in the living room.

I suspected our Realtor was not a dog man since he grimaced when our pug grunted in his direction at the apartment before we left. 

"You don't know with dogs," he said, unlocking the door and then closing it right away as the big white beaky dog tried to nose his way out.

Joe concurred.

I said, c'mon no biggie. Open the door. Aint no two fluffy white dogs gonna scer me.

Joe gave me The Look. The 'Stop it Bamm-Bamm Rubble' look. So I clutched my hands behind my back and rocked on the heels of my ballet slippers. 

"Do you want me to open this door and risk Joe losing his nuts?" The Realtor asked.

I thought about making a joke about cheaper birth control and then didn't. No, I said. You're right. We should wait for the man in the shower to cage his two foofy dogs.

Inside, the house was decorated like Paige Davis' Trading Spaces crew had gone to town on it. Orange and green walls. Blue walls. Big wooden blocks spelling out the word D R E A M nailed to a dayglo wall in the living room. The 30-something dude in the shower had by then emerged toweling off his hair and I couldn't help but concoct scenarios as I studied the guy's weight lifting bench in the living room. Perhaps his girlfriend had painted the place like Trading Spaces, nailed D R E A M letters to the wall and then several months later dumped him for a guy with bigger muscles. Now he was selling the house because he was heartbroken, or fed up with women and his Trading Spaces house with the D R E A M letters on the wall. One look at the guy's sad sacky face and I wanted to whisper bad karma in Joe's ear. So we passed.

House No. 2

The House That Mortgage Fraud Destoryed

A foreclosure behind Publix. A woman who speaks only Spanish cosigned on the house for her friend who skipped town, ran off with the appliances and left her with a sub-prime mortgage she couldn't afford. The house wasn't bad save for a dead cockroach and a master bedroom smaller than the one we have now. But, c'mon no closet! Most females have a symbiotic relationship with their closets. Without closets our species is endangered. Pass.

House No. 3

The Bookish Bungalow With a Bum View

Ah yes. Our favorite. The one pictured above. A 1920s bungalow in Old Northeast with a porch large enough to tap dance on. Since I get too dreamy-eyed and gung-ho about these things I will ask a passing Joe for his opinion. (Sorry he's no longer asleep. PK just made pancakes and sausage for breakfast - important stuff to wake up to.) 

Says Joe: "I thought it was very ... it looked like it needed the least amount of work." (Typical practical, calculated Joe.)  "I liked the hardwood floors. I liked that it was open. I liked that it was airy. I liked the living room and dining room. I thought the kitchen kind of sucked. I didn't like that it was near that road ..."

By that road he means 4th Street. As we stood on the porch and praised and critiqued the house, paperbag-toting bums filed in and out of the gas station across the street. Tis House No. 3's biggest downfall. However not a deal-breaker. Since I'm pregnant with a novel and looking for a place I can write in I determined this house with it's sweet bungalow charm, ginormous front porch and awesome view of 4th Street shenanigans, has some serious storytelling potential. A keeper, for now.

House No. 4

John Belushi Lived Here

We were the most excited about this doosie based on the photos our Realtor e-mailed us. However when we got there after ten minutes of getting lost, turning around and getting lost again, we determined the place was too Addams Family meets Animal House. The porch swing was great. The upstairs/downstairs thing was cool. The rotting windows? Not so much. There was no yard to speak of. Only a "side yard" about the size of a bathroom, fenced in by deteriorating wooden planks that the current homeowner used to store his random crap in. The house would have been cooler if Joe and I were Phi Sigma Kappas. So we passed.

The goal: 10 houses by the time we leave next month for our romp through the Florida panhandle.