When we were looking for a house to move into a few months ago, my husband and I checked
out a house in Simi Valley, California. The four-bedroom, '60s-style ranch home
was owned by Mrs. Lipking, who we chatted with via email and who met us
on a weeknight to give us a tour. While showing us the house, she made
various condescending remarks:
Although I am well into my thirties, I still get regularly carded for alcohol, so I didn't care about that one as much. I politely told her my age and my income, which alone was enough to pay the rent a few times over, to which Mrs. Lipking replied in a patronizing tone, "Oh! I'm proud of you," followed by jabbering about her successful painter son, Jeremy Lipking.
We didn't even apply for the place, since we knew we'd have so much against us from Day One. The first time we left the garbage can on the street for an hour too long, she'd be at our door complaining about what horrible tenants we are.
Fast forward a couple of months: I connected with my good friend Didi, a small-press publisher of chapbooks and magazines in Central Illinois, who was working on a new project. Her next issue of Oranges & Sardines, a mag dedicated to showcasing artists and poets, was in the works--and she was excited about the roster of painters she'd rustled up. Among them was the painter she'd use for the cover, Jeremy Lipking. Yes, the successul painter son that we'd heard all about.
Still sore from the experience with Mrs. Lipking (which was made worse by her uncanny resemblance to my beloved aunt), I relayed my story. Coincidentally, I'm sure, the painter didn't end up being featured as planned.
Fast forward a couple of months: I was on the website of my husband's Chicago-based illustration agent, hoping to find contact information for a friend of ours also represented. I scrolled through the agency's relatively small roll of illustrators and stopped when I saw the name Ron Lipking. Two seconds of research yielded what I immediately suspected: He's the Mr. Lipking, the other homeowner, the potential landlord, the "Pop" to ol' Jeremy.
To top it off, the final straw that prompted me to write this post: As of this evening, my Facebook "People You May Know" features none other than Jeremy Lipking.
Won't these damned Lipkings leave me alone?
In times like these, I'm tempted to do things like send snooty messages--under the relative anonymity of email, of course--while my husband is much more level-headed. His way of phrasing it is much better, but the general idea is that sometimes people or groups of people cross paths with you and attempt to be black holes, vying for your negative energy. If you encourage it, you just incubate additional nuisance. On top of it, they're probably completely unaware of who we are and how annoying they are. ;)
I'll just sit back and wait for the next encounter. Wouldn't it be great if it was in Texas during a lightning storm at a bathroom-and-kitchen expo? So random.
- "You're so young. Do you know how much the rent is?"
- "Are you sure you need all this space?"
- "There are a lot of townhouses and apartments around here."
Although I am well into my thirties, I still get regularly carded for alcohol, so I didn't care about that one as much. I politely told her my age and my income, which alone was enough to pay the rent a few times over, to which Mrs. Lipking replied in a patronizing tone, "Oh! I'm proud of you," followed by jabbering about her successful painter son, Jeremy Lipking.
We didn't even apply for the place, since we knew we'd have so much against us from Day One. The first time we left the garbage can on the street for an hour too long, she'd be at our door complaining about what horrible tenants we are.
Fast forward a couple of months: I connected with my good friend Didi, a small-press publisher of chapbooks and magazines in Central Illinois, who was working on a new project. Her next issue of Oranges & Sardines, a mag dedicated to showcasing artists and poets, was in the works--and she was excited about the roster of painters she'd rustled up. Among them was the painter she'd use for the cover, Jeremy Lipking. Yes, the successul painter son that we'd heard all about.
Still sore from the experience with Mrs. Lipking (which was made worse by her uncanny resemblance to my beloved aunt), I relayed my story. Coincidentally, I'm sure, the painter didn't end up being featured as planned.
Fast forward a couple of months: I was on the website of my husband's Chicago-based illustration agent, hoping to find contact information for a friend of ours also represented. I scrolled through the agency's relatively small roll of illustrators and stopped when I saw the name Ron Lipking. Two seconds of research yielded what I immediately suspected: He's the Mr. Lipking, the other homeowner, the potential landlord, the "Pop" to ol' Jeremy.
To top it off, the final straw that prompted me to write this post: As of this evening, my Facebook "People You May Know" features none other than Jeremy Lipking.
Won't these damned Lipkings leave me alone?
In times like these, I'm tempted to do things like send snooty messages--under the relative anonymity of email, of course--while my husband is much more level-headed. His way of phrasing it is much better, but the general idea is that sometimes people or groups of people cross paths with you and attempt to be black holes, vying for your negative energy. If you encourage it, you just incubate additional nuisance. On top of it, they're probably completely unaware of who we are and how annoying they are. ;)
I'll just sit back and wait for the next encounter. Wouldn't it be great if it was in Texas during a lightning storm at a bathroom-and-kitchen expo? So random.
