Out on the tiles

I call my mom almost every weekday morning, but we generally take weekends off because we’re both very busy, important people. So her call, on Sunday, came as a surprise.

“I have something very important to tell you,” she said.

My stomach flipped. I immediately thought of my sister, filming a Steve Irwin-type adventure show in Australia, the deadliest continent on the planet.

This is it, I thought. Hailey’s been eaten by a crocodile. I knew this day would come.

“What?”

Matt, who had watched me halt mid-stride and heard the quaver in my voice, looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows a full inch higher than usual.

Those lovable nutjobs

“Did you know that when your father goes to the bathroom, he counts the tiles on the walls and floors? He can tell you exactly how many tiles there are in the bathrooms of every home we’ve ever owned.”

“What?!”

I let out a long breath of air. For Matt’s benefit, I shook my head and rolled my eyes ceiling-ward. He resumed typing.

I pictured my parents sitting side-by-side at a honky-tonk Austin bar, an icy pitcher of Miller Light between them. I wondered how much of that sweet nectar remained.

“I just thought you should know since we’re related to him,” Mom continued, laughing. “Wait – you’re related to him. I’m not. So you should know.”

I repeated this news to Matt. After all, our offspring would feature genes from both nutjobs on the other end of the call.

“But does he count them all or count across and down and then multiply?” Matt asked.

I repeated the question for Mom.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Here, you ask him.”

“Your mother thinks I’m Rainman,” Dad said.

“You count tiles in the bathroom?” I asked. “Do you count them all or count across and down and then multiply?”

“Both,” he said.

“Both?! And it never occurred to you to mention any of this when I was getting tested for O.C.D. as a child?!”

He didn’t seem to hear this last question.

“You know those holes in shower drains?” Dad asked. “I count those too.”

He returned Mom’s cellphone.

“How on earth did this topic of conversation come up?” I asked.

“You know that Kendle you got me?”

Mom never can remember the name of Amazon’s eReader.

“Kindle,” I said.

“Yes, Kindle,” she said. “Well, you put a book on it about a guy--”

“'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime,'” I said.

“Yes! And we were talking about it with the bartender and Dad said, ‘Well, you know, I count tiles in the bathroom,’” she said. “And I always thought Sheldon Cooper from ‘The Big Bang Theory’ was a little strange, but he’s not strange; his brain is messed up --like your father’s. He’s not normal. And all this time you had O.C.D.C. and Dad was the source.”

I detected a hint of triumph in her voice.

“So go write a blog about it,” she said.

So I did.

Just listed

I’m a wannabe first-time homeowner shelling out a ridiculous amount in monthly rent to live within a commutable distance of my husband’s Cupertino job. This means reviewing Silicon Valley real estate listings makes me sad. And that’s why I want to extend a hearty shout-out to Russell Ciotta of “Classic Properties” for making me laugh out loud; his listing for 6625 Clifford Drive made last night’s perusal of “The Ugly Yet Unattainable” unexpectedly enjoyable.

Ciotta knows he has nothing to lose; clinching several hundred thousand over his $1.3 million asking price is a given in this wacko market. So he lays out all his cards on the table: cracked façade, mold, mildew and moss, rust stains, unsecured crawl space rat portals. The online photo gallery doesn’t contain a single flattering image of Ciotta’s teardown special. Accessories include a broken squatty chair, a Christmas tree stand and a pool ladder -- but no pool. The primary image shows the front door ajar, and if you squint through the shadows, you can just make out ceiling-high towers of newspaper and the silhouettes of a dozen or so cats.

I can’t decide if this listing is a joke, a social experiment or over-the-top honest advertising. Perhaps Ciotta simply decided to phone this one in. In any event, he deserves some props. Bravo, Mr. Ciotta. Bravo.

Resurrecting Bianca

Warning: This blog post contains spoilers about "Be Right Back," Season 2, Episode 1 of "Black Mirror," the British anthology television series that explores the dark side of technology. If you haven't seen this 2013 episode yet, well, what the heck are you waiting for?!


If bloody curtains and a skeletal clown don’t say, “Come hither, children; we have candy,” I certainly don’t know what does.

Bianca in costume

Within minutes of arriving home Monday, I hung my handmade curtains in the living room windows and clothed the mannequin in a mask and clown costume. I lined the front walkway with tiki torches borrowed from the backyard. I dumped a bag of mixed chocolate bars in a bowl and stirred in plastic cockroaches and Ping-Pong balls painted like eyeballs. I draped the front door with crime scene tape, the red-colored kind that sternly warns, “Danger.” I launched iTunes and cued up “Thriller.”

I have never lived on a street conducive to soliciting or distributing Halloween candy.  Throughout my childhood, my parents drove my sister and I to trick-or-treat in neighborhoods with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. And thus far, the addresses of my adult years can be characterized in one of two ways: sleepy retirement community or two-lane thoroughfare to more inviting, tranquil pockets of suburbia.

This year, I told Matt, would be different; on this, our first Cupertino Halloween, we resided a mere block from an elementary school, and a steady stream of young families passed by our front door en route to class or work or home each day. I would become the Cool Lady on the block who answered the door in costume and dished out king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’d compliment the creative kids on their homemade costumes and cast a reproachful eye at the pillowcase-toting teenagers too lazy to dress up at all. 

My first visitor of the evening arrived as I maneuvered the clown-attired Bianca through the front door and onto the stoop. Bianca, like many third-hand mannequins, tends to shed her appendages at the most inopportune times. And this proved one such time, as she dropped her left hand for the benefit of a middle-aged woman passing by.

“Nice mannequin,” the woman said. “Are you registered to vote?” She thrust a flyer into my hand. The ensuing conversation set me back 10 minutes of decorating.

Follow the torches, children.

I retreated to the safety of the couch, where I could maintain a clear line of sight of the front walkway. I peered through the red paint-splattered polyester curtains and waited. And waited.

Eventually, Matt fired up an episode of “Black Mirror” – the one with the rehydrated dead boyfriend – and my attention drifted from the street to the T.V. Right about the point where Martha begins to suspect Ash has been gone far too long, Wolfie uttered a low growl.

“Trick-or-treaters!” I said, leaping from the couch. Matt paused the television as I ran to the door. I would surprise the little goblins by yanking it open before they had a chance to knock. My excitement became so great that when I finally did throw open the door, the action seemed to lack an “A-ha!” exclamation.

The stoop was empty. Across the street, however, five silhouettes crowned by multi-colored glow sticks approached the darkest, most un-deserving house on the block. 

“Black Mirror” resumed, and Martha struck up an online romance with a computer.

I ventured out onto the sidewalk the second time Wolfie sounded a false alarm. No pedestrians in sight. I resisted the urge to yank a tiki torch from the ground and wave it in the air, a candy beacon in the night.

Back inside, Martha was adding electrolytes to a bathtub of Ash. By the time she began bedding her Frankenstein, I had abandoned my post to shower and change into pajamas. But I kept my bra on – just in case.

“Did anyone come?” I asked Matt, rejoining him on the couch. Part of me wanted assurance I hadn’t missed anything, but the other part desired affirmation someone – anyone – had seen my ridiculous decorations.

Bianca waits

No, no one had come, but Martha’s Frankenstein was becoming a bore. 

The doorbell, when it finally sounded, was jarring. I sprinted to the door.

“Trick or treat!” said the 12-year-old on the stoop. She wore her hair in pigtails – a homage to some character I couldn’t place. I offered her my decoy treat bowl, the one with the Styrofoam skull in it.

“Oops! Wrong bowl!” I laughed at my joke. Pigtails did too, albeit nervously.

She selected a Twix bar from the second bowl I presented. Behind her, beyond the flaming tiki torches, I heard chatter emanating from the driveway.

“Do your friends want any candy?” I asked, hopeful.

“Um, they’re afraid of the clown,” Pigtails said.

We laughed. Carrying the bowl, I followed Pigtails past Bianca, past the plastic severed arm and past the steely-eyed plastic rat to deliver my treats.