The hand's off landlord

Paul and I are heading up to the mountains for a Labor Day Vaca. Being the responsible tenants that we are, we called our landlord to ask if he wanted us to pay next month's rent before we left or if he wouldn't mind waiting till we returned on the 2nd. I should preface the following story with some anonymous details of our landlord.

One, he had our apartment's previous tenant find the new renters, us. Two, he prefers cash. Three, we have yet to meet him at the same place twice.

We called him on the phone and are literally walking out the door to drive to the mountains and he asks if we could pay today rather than wait till we return on Tuesday. We said ok, and where did he want us to meet him. He gave us instructions to another one of his properties, this one called “Smuggler's Cove” and to meet him at 1:30pm. We kill a couple hours and reach the complex at 1:25 and call back to get the condo number. He says it will be the one with work trucks outside and presumably the garage door open. He also waits till now to inform us that someone named Andrew will be receiving the cash. Paul had pulled over on the side of the road to receive these oh-so-specific instructions and 90 seconds into the conversation enters older gentlemen onto the scene. He pulls up to the window and rolls down his passenger window, motioning for Paul to roll his down. Paul obeys but is still on the phone. This is when aforementioned person proceeds to berate Paul for apparently having blocked his ritualistic tight turn onto the Smuggler's property. Clearly Paul is on the phone, as it's up to his left ear. The guy isn't deterred and continues to yell at us while now completely blocking the road to both lanes in desperation to make his point. He starts to angrily wave his cell phone in the air, miming that if we don't move he's calling someone. Paul pulls forward slightly, I guess enough to satisfy the constipated grump who drives off to leave Paul to finish up with our landlord. It still takes us a few loops around the apartment/condo/duplex homes to find the one he was talking about. Paul runs inside, pays the Andrew character, also getting him to sign a torn envelope that he received it, and then we're off for a three-day weekend away from the crazies.

Who's your Daddy?

So this update is long over-due and I have a list of excuses, yadayada yada so let me just get on with it.

We have settled in Boulder Colorado for the time being; at least until life decides to pull the asphalt up to our door again and drop us off again at some other near or distant location. Paul got a job at the Boulder REI and he starts CU Boulder orientation August 18th. On that same day I will begin setting up my classroom/"pod" with my 2 fellow teachers at Boulder Journey School, referred to as BJS. In a long list of ironies that is my life, add to it one more: it is New Zealand's sister school I was previously working at and of which I wonder how related it is...its vaguely similar in that it shares the same basic philosophy of teaching but culture, location and a variety of personalities that make up its framework give it vast differences. (If you are privy enough to know my personal blog, check there for more oddities, or email me for the account.)

Now for an anecdote: Paul and I thought we'd use our time this summer to slam ourselves into shape for living at 5,400' above sea level (1,650 for you metric lovers). Paul has signed up for his first marathon this September and I recently competed in my second triathalon...I'm not going to get nit-picky with sharing details, suffice to say I didn't drown during the swimming and actually crossed the final finish line by myself, (and i use, 'by myself' loosely). The week prior to my tri, Paul suggested we do a training ride from Boulder to Lyons, a town about 18 miles away. I was all for it, especially since there was rumor of a coffee shop and I'm a sucker for beans. The ride was fairly routine including a few butt-numbing hills and we made it to Lyons in good time and start our search for a java shoppe. We spot one on main street. I get the usual, black fully-leaded, and Paul orders his. We choose a table outside for a few reasons: 1, we want to keep an eye on our bikes, 2, we wanted to save fellow patrons from smelling our lycra and 3, we wanted to save fellow patrons from staring at our lycra clad bodies. I sit down while Paul waits inside for his order. Immediately a friendly six-year-old girl hops up on the chair next to me. We start to chat about the lap dog that she just 'rescued' from another patron one table over who is now being dragged by its collar while afore mentioned kindergartner forces her threw a maze of table legs. Paul sits down and we start to ask her about her summer and if she's having fun, etc. Mid conversation she stops, looks at Paul, looks at me and in a voice reserved for secrets among playmates turns to me and asks, "Is he your Dad?" I try not to laugh. Paul shoots me a "not funny" glare. And almost before I can answer the dog-dragging girl is onto another subject. I could look at it two ways, obviously neither is good: she thinks I'm about 10 years old or that Paul is 40. Paul wasn't too excited about her observation but at least it made for a good story.