For weeks, Dutch has been convinced that a terrorist cell, or maybe just a cell, has been forming on our street. Right around 3:00 every day, a woman pulls up in a red car and parks in front of his house. She’s got a red hat, a red coat, and is carrying a basket as she gets out and walks down the street, past my house, to the Maids headquarters that is catty cornered from me. A few minutes later, another car pulls up, another woman with a red hat/coat and basket gets out, and also heads toward the Maids. The cycle repeats at three or four minute intervals until half a dozen women have arrived and have ostensibly formed their coven in the Maids’ basement. Dutch has gone so far as to take pictures of their license plates to share with the authorities as soon as he confirms what kind of evil is going down.

So this past Friday, I came home early to take a little nap (as I have caught the National Cold and can’t shake it) and was prevented from actually resting when Dutch called me at 3:05, panicked. “Run to the front window – the first one just got here! Look! HURRY!!”. So I hustle to the front room and sure enough – a woman in a red coat, carrying a basket, has parked the car and is walking toward the Maids. “Stay on the phone,” I tell Dutch. “I’ll follow her.”

So I step out onto the sidewalk, acting nonchalant as I track her progress from the other side of the street and watch her turn into the Maids driveway and disappear around the corner. Dutch tells me the next one will be along shortly, and sure enough, another car pulls up in a minute or so, parks in front of his house, and a woman in a red coat with a basket climbs out and heads towards the Maids. “I’m coming to pick you up!” Dutch shouts and the phone goes dead. Since I am now standing in front of Catholic Charities, which is next door to my house, I wonder why he needs to drive here but I don’t argue when he pulls up since it’s freezing cold and I have no coat on.  (It’s hard to be both nonchalant and inconspicuous when it’s twenty degrees out and you’re in a tee shirt.) He pulls into the Catholic Charities lot as we watch the second woman walk into the Maids driveway across the street, this time veering left a bit, getting into one of the parked cars there, and…

…moving it onto the street in front of Dutch’s house. “You total spaz!” I tell him. “It’s the SAME WOMAN EVERY TIME!”.  

Hmmm. So the mystery is now why, exactly, she is moving all the cars. Dutch repositions his car to a spot right in front of my house in a bid to convince our neighbors we are complete idiots, and we sit parked as the Maids’ corporate vehicles return, take the recently vacated spots in their lot, and the Maids employees come and claim their cars which are now parked in front of Dutch’s house. Meanwhile, I am smelling something odd and wonder if it would be impolite to ask Dutch if he smells it, too, but it’s soon moot when Dutch glances at his dashboard and screams “oh my God, I’m totally overheating – get out! I need to get the car home!” which is of course right across the street and I could probably walk home from there but I bail anyway. Which turns out to be a good move because then I can see the giant puddle of stuff on the street that used to be part of Dutch’s car and I can tell him his radiator is likely empty.

So that was Friday. The rest of the weekend was similarly bizarre, but one moment stands out: my friend Brian and I, stopped at a light, taking an earful of grief from an old black man in a Buick about how bad my driving is, while Brian (from Newark, and the first non-cop in five generations) tries to tell the man he has to “let it go” while still communicating non-verbally that he thinks a good ass-kicking might be in order and the only thing holding him back is respect for the man’s age. After rolling up the window, Brian expresses his fear for the man’s heart. I have views on Buicks and their drivers, and nothing in the exchange contradicted these.

Yesterday, I’m proud to say I did my bit for global warming by removing a giant tree from my yard, thereby de-greening America a little bit in the process. Hooray!

Why? Well, half of it had already come down. Flash back to the day after my birthday, a cold and windy Sunday, when I am on the phone with Nature Boy commiserating about how we hate wind like Dad hates wind, and how his house is in the woods so it’s scary when big storms come through, etc. (By the way, Nature Boy’s baby just learned the word “douche.” I’m so proud! Amazingly, it was Mrs. Nature Boy who failed to self-edit in time to prevent this unfortunate lesson.) So about fifteen minutes after we hang up, I hear a sound outside as though all my patio furniture was blown against the house, and for a moment I think that’s what happened but a quick glance through the window tells me the patio is undisturbed. Hmmmm…. So I open the front door and look out on the porch, to see half of the 100-year-old maple lying across the yard, across the power lines (which are now down), and across the street. Miraculously, the tree has missed both my house and my car, and because it’s Sunday, there are no cars parked on the street where the tree landed. Live power lines are down in everyone’s yards, and I yell warnings to my neighbors, most of whom have emerged from their homes to see what’s going on. (Brigid, next door, told me their house shook when the tree hit. I believe her – the tree hit the power lines in front of my house so hard that it snapped off half the phone pole in front of hers.) This house was built in 1894 or 1896, and I think they planted the tree around that time, so when it’s on the ground where you can see all of it at once it’s impressive.

It’s less than twenty degrees, it’s windy like a tornado, I have no coat on, all my neighbors want to talk to me, it’s starting to rain, and now the police are here to put up the crime scene tape and stop traffic.  (I learn later that the lights on Broad Street went out, too, so the police were busy directing traffic everywhere in Red Bank that night.)  The police tell me I have to remove the tree from the street ASAP, and I think, “Sure. Me and what chainsaw?” so I get on my dying cell phone and finally locate a tree guy who will come out. A few minutes later my neighbor Guy comes over and tells me he’s going to organize a squad to cut up the tree and stack the wood but I tell him I have someone coming. I love my neighbors.

Back in the house, I call Dutch and tell him not to come home (he’s up north) and explain the situation, but of course he can’t resist the excitement so he’s soon en route. He does stop to ask why all the neighborhood drama always happens at my house, and I admit it’s a good question but don’t have an answer. (The RBPD has been here a few times now. I think they’re going to invite me to the next police department picnic.) I light a candle and pick up The Executioners Song, and read for hours until there’s a knock at the door and a nice man from JCP&L tell me we won’t have power till the morning. And did I mention it’s less than twenty degrees? So I contemplate hanging out in the increasingly cold house, in the dark, alone, and then pack a bag for the Marriott.

I love the Marriott. It’s like a mini-vacation, and so when Dutch texts me that he’s in town at Danny’s, and I should join him, I text back “no thx.” He’s not surprised, but continues to text me throughout the evening in an effort to change my mind and give me updates. (Apparently, he had quite a time during the power outage – the highlight was when he and Brian snuck into his house and hid upstairs in the dark until Dutch Jr. came home, then jumped out at him from behind a door. Last I heard, Dutch Jr. still wasn’t speaking to either of them.) Around 3:30 a.m., the power comes back on, which I know because Dutch sends me a text message to tell me. Around 3:45 a.m., he sends me another message asking why all the utility trucks are still hanging around my house and implying I am on very personal terms with the workmen. I don’t even want to report what I text back to him.

So now I’ve got a ginormous pile of wood mulch in the front yard where the tree used to be and a correspondingly lower balance in my checking account. I am home at the moment, waiting for the plumber to show up to deplete my funds still further and contemplating what to do with myself this evening… I understand there’s a group of red-hatted women who will be showing up at the Maids soon -- maybe they’d like to hang out.