Saturday evening I was out of town when I received a call from a blocked number. Typically I ignore calls from blocked numbers, as usually they are calls from collection agencies. Unfortunately, I owe eighty thousand dollars to Wagner College in New York City. A college that provided me with a useless hundred-thousand dollar degree in theatre that would later earn me an illustrious job as a dancing fork in a Baltimore dinner theatre production of "Beauty & The Beast". A job where I played a pirouetting utensil for six months and made less than minimum wage. For those of you pursuing a degree in theatre, stop now, I beg of you. P.S. Eight years later, I still make minimum wage, only now, my job doesn't require jazz hands. Sallie Mae's going to be waiting a long time.
Anyway, I answered the call and low and behold, it was Esther, the deranged landlady of my luxury estate. I immediately took a swig of the vodka tonic sitting on my nightstand and said a Hail Mary. Okay, I didn't actually say a Hail Mary, I don't even know what it means to "Hail Mary" except I assume that's what you say to a cute gay guy you meet on the street. Or maybe that's, "Hey, Mary!"; I really don't know. I don't participate in religion and the last time I prayed for anything was when there was rumor that Oprah Winfrey was getting her own network. Apparently God does exist.
First off, I want to state for the record that people with blocked numbers must have something to hide. I don't have any skeletons in my closet; my life is an exposed book. Well, truth be told, it's more like an AA pamphlet. I don't have a blocked number and I have nothing to hide (except a pair of Jenkos I purchased in 2004 when I thought it would be fun to go urban for a day). I understand if you are a celebrity and you have a blocked number, or perhaps if you're a drug dealer or an exotic animal collector, however, when you are a 103-year-old landlady who manages a ramshackle apartment building, your phone number should be fully visible to the tenants and to the homeowners association. I really wish her number came up unblocked because I would program her into my phone as "Mrs. Hitler" and I would laugh every time she called. It would be really funny until one day when I accidentally picked up and said, "Hello, Mrs. Hitler".
Alas, I picked up the phone and said hello. Esther replied, "Hello…hello…Elliott?" Did Esther forget whom she was calling? Did the nasal, high-pitched voice on the other end not sound like me? Everything, and I do mean everything she says or does is completely irritating. Why does she stare at me from her balcony with binoculars? Why does she stop the elevator on her floor to lecture me about the dangers of carrying heavy groceries up to my apartment? Why does she feel the need to wear sweat pants, socks and sandals every single damn day in West Hollywood? Where are the fashion police? Where are the real police? Why have they not arrested her?
Esther is also the slowest speaker in North America. She is Mr. Ed. Esther says to me, "I was going through the recycling and I noticed you threw out some mail from Anthem Blue Cross. I just wanted to make sure you didn't need it". I didn't respond for a solid thirty seconds. She was going through the recycling?! Wait, what? Esther has been spying on me since the day I moved in, but this is insanity. She is now going through my personal trash. My landlady, in addition to being a fashionista, a relative of Gladys Kravitz, an authority on plumbing, and a general threat to happiness everywhere is, a dumpster diver!
My first thought was – "Oh my God, what other mail has she been going through? Is this why I haven't gotten my penny saver in weeks?" I should really start subscribing to gun catalogues just freak her out. My second thought was, "Oh my God, she eats stale cereal and apples out of the dumpster" SHE IS THE RACCOON LADY. Because you know the people who are dumpster divers root through the trash to find old bread and moldy cheese and they cut out the moldy parts and then eat them. It's true. There was a whole show Oprah did on it. Esther probably has a table set up next to the dumpster right now. She has lit some candles and is enjoying the rest of that bottle of two-buck chuck I threw out. She's also eating just the rainbows from a bowl of stale Lucky Charms along with a side tin of expired cat food and she has invited some homeless people to her supper club.
I'm going to the press with this one. And by the press, I mean the building owner. I didn't know how to respond to her. I told her politely, "I don't have Blue Cross/Blue Shield but, thanks for checking." What I really meant was, "I'm getting a restraining order you crazy bitch."
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