Non-Food Blog... Sorry.

The first few days in our new neighborhood (in the house Matt and I are renting) were filled with some pretty crazy moments. I was worried about living near Airline in the far east "Heights" area. At times, it reminded me of the area I grew up in. Sometimes, we'd come out and the gas would be siphoned out of the tank. Other days, blissful ice cream runs were interruped by a smackdown on the front lawn. You just never knew what was coming on 19th Ave. I had a feeling Louise St. might be a similar experience.

First there was Leopard Lady. This was the woman living in the garage apartment behind the house. She was an anorexic, smoking, drinking, cussing, 50-something biker who walked around in assless leather chaps (nothing underneath except skivvies) and leopard print halter tops. Hence the name, leopard lady. Within a week she was evicted for the following offenses:

• A trash heap in the driveway that measured 20' long x 10' wide x 8' high (filled with shoes, chairs, shower curtains, books, games, dried flowers, jeans, and every other kind of shit you can think of). Picture Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. This is what Leopard Lady looked like when she sat atop her heap and help court with her fellow biker friends.


• Letting her rotwiler Elvis shit all over the lawn and not picking it up. I imagine Elivs was nice, but my paralyzing fear of dogs always got the better of me.


• Blasting music in the wee hours and having rucous sex in the driveway outside our kitchen window. Good for her, yes, it was. We all heard just how good it was.


• Kicking the dog across the street named Bumpy (keep reading).


• Flaunting her M16 machine gun. All I could picture was a Guns and Ammo wall calendar with her picture on it.

• Failing to pay the first month's rent.

About a week after we moved in, there was a knock on the door. It was 3 AM. I shook Matt.

"Someone's at the door." I started hauling myself out of bed, and forgot that Matt has his ear plugs in. I guess I snore.

"Shabashamsha shasha, whasha."

"Matt," I say sternly. "Get up. There's someone here." By now, I am padding do the door.

"What's going on? I can't hear you." He's a real champ in a crisis, this one.

"Matt," now I am yelling. "The police are here. Get up."

I opened the door and the police officer said, "Ma'am, I hope I am not disturbing you." Um, no, no, not at all? Just sleeping. "Is that your silver car out there? We just arrested someone for breaking into it." He steps back and motions to a guy sprawled out over a car. They're fisking him and removing multiple handguns.

No, I explain, that's Leopard Lady's car and shit in the drive. They head up to the garage, but ask me to hang on while they investigate. Matt shuffles out rubbing his eyes, "What's going on?" For the next 30 minutes, we watched then recover the stash, hidden in some bushes. They took away the gentleman and we all went back to sleep. The next morning, we learned the police were alerted by the man living across the street.

You see, the neighborhood is just that, a hood. There are some well groomed areas and we were ushered into the home with open arms. On Matt's first visit to the house, he'd not even walked from the car to the house when he was accosted by who we later learned was Mrs. Garcia's grandson (perhaps an MS-13 flunkie). Mrs. Garcia lives in the house directly across the street and has for the last 50 years. Grandson ran across the street with a yippy chihuahua at his heels to inform Matt of the rules of the block, which included no black people and no selling of hard drugs. Yes folks, home sweet home. (For clarification, yes, black people can visit, and no marijuana is not a hard drug.) He also told Matt that he lives in the Galleria and has four children by four different women. This was also the man sitting outside watching as a theif rifled through Leopard Lady's trash heap.

The chihuahua yipping at his heels belonged to Mrs. G, Bumpy. He was not leashed nor neutered and we were to be careful as he often stood in the street. It's impossible to see him in a rear-view mirrow. (He's a stud chihuahua, so he's very valuable. He stands in the middle of the street day and night barking incessantly, with these huge, gigantic doggie balls. It's absolutely repugnant. When I see the dog from behind, all I can see are these balls that are actually the same size as Elvis's. No wonder he's a stud.)

The day after the trash heap break-in, I had the afternoon alone in the house. Rather than unpacking, I was trying to nap. It was an unsuccessful venture what with waking up to Elvis's antics of crawling under the house and barking incessantly. My heart stopped each time, as my fear of dogs is a reflex action. Another attmept to nap was short-circuited by the blaring of... was that brass instruments? Yes, yes it was.

I peeked out the window, but I knew I would need a better view of what was transpiring. With my protective anti-Elvis Maglight in hand, I saw there was a five-piece mariachi band in full regalia at Mrs. G's house. Sombreros, silver-studded pants, ruffley shirts. Apparently, she was turing 75 and they were having a fiesta. (I pieced this information together as a result of the two 4 foot tall balloons: one a 7 another a 5. I'm quick like that.) This was thrilling. They were playing away, people were dancing and clapping. This was fun. This was my hood, people! I bounced along to the music, waved to Mrs. Garcia and to Grandson. I kept saying to myself, look interested, maybe they'll invite you over for some beer and tamales. I knew they would have tres leches. Alas, they simply waved back. After the Mexican Hat Dance number, I went in a little broken hearted.

In short, the welcome to the neighborhood was, well unique. And memorable. Viva la Bumpy.

No Mi Adore Cavatore

A few weeks ago, Matt and I decided we wanted to be suburban, so we decided to drive to Applebees. Yep, that was our first mistake. Thinking we wanted Applebees. To get there, we ended up on some back roads that took us past an adorable little place called Cavatore.

Without even talking about it, we pulled into the driveway and changed our plans from Applebees. This was mistake number 2. I regularly chastise my students for not doing their homework. And here, I hadn't done mine.

The place was all kitschy... it was great. It looked like an old bar-b-que joint. It was wooden decor inside with hand painted signs directing people to local businesses. There were old fashion wash tubs and wash boards, fishing poles, pictures of cowboys.... Don't be deceived, this is not a bar-b-que joint. Not even close. It is, in fact an Italian restaurant. It's as though the previous owners decided to up and leave, and these squatters moved in. There was nothing to suggest this down-home Texas place was even remotely close to having any Italian atmosphere.

While walking in, we saw that Michelangelo was live every night. That meant nothing to us, until we sat down and took stock. The one, the only Michelangelo was about 65 years old, and he was dressed in a tuxedo. All 15 hairs on his head were slicked back into a foot-long ponytail. It was greasy and disgusting. He serenaded all four tables with the likes of Moon River and other sentimental favorites. At one point, another patron (a 15 year old girl) got up and played a little diddy as well. While she was performing her encore, Michelangelo came over and asked if we had any requests. Mmmm... no, not really. Except for you to take that grease-ball hair somewhere else.

We ordered the veal Parmesan and manicotti. When I eat Italian, I look for garlic, basil, oregano, and tomato. I look for wonderful blends of bubbling cheeses. What I got was repulsive. It was not only cold, but sweet. Sugary sweet. In that gaggy fake sweet way. Have you ever taken a drink of something thinking it was diet coke and realized it was root beer? For that moment, you're confused. You think, ick. What's that? Then you figure it out and move on. That was initially what happened. It wasn't what I expected. But in my case, there was no moving on.

To go into detail would be too much, but what I can tell you is that the meat was tough and soggy, the manicotti was in a ramekin and never really heated through (um, microwave much?). And the service, which should have been great given that everyone was standing around with no one to serve, was almost non-existent.

I am sad to say, not even Michelangelo can bring me back.