Crazy Landlady made her annual mid-summer appearance this past Saturday, and let's just say she once again left little of her appearance to the imagination.

I'm not sure how much I've shared on the blog about Crazy Landlady (and I'm too lazy right now to scan through my 100+posts to check), so I will give you a brief introduction:

The first day I met Crazy Landlady, she met me at my then soon-to-be humble abode to show me the "charming" (she used that word at least a dozen times in the 20 minutes I was with her) duplex she was renting. Within the first 5 minutes, she had told me the story of the last 40 years of her life: from her grandparents dying and leaving her the money that she used to purchase the house, to the nearly 20 years she lived here while she taught elementary school, to her marrying for the first time at the age of 50 (she must be close to 70 now), her mother's recent death, and the stress of her husband's recurring back problems. As if that wasn't enough, 10 minutes further into our meeting, she had hiked up her dress and flashed me her shiny white polyester granny-panties as she toweled off her stomach and complained about the summer heat.

I am not making this up.

And yet, that apparently was not enough to offset the built-in bookshelves, working fireplace, and 1/2 block walk to work that her property offered me. 2 days later, at our second meeting, I read over and signed a year lease agreement while Crazy Landlady used the bathroom down the hall...with the door wide open...and straight in my line of sight.

Again, I repeat, I am not making this up.

The past year has afforded many opportunities for family and friends to laugh at my Crazy Landlady stories, but there hadn't been another "exhibition", so to speak, until this weekend.

Saturday morning, 10 a.m., the doorbell rings, followed by Crazy Landlady's knock and shrill voice calling my name. I open the door, in my pajamas (it was a laundry morning), and CL proceeds to walk through my house, uninvited, to my kitchen, where she proceeds to inspect the minuscule damage caused by last week's water leak and then fiddle with the light switches by the back door, trying to figure out which one must stay on to allow the new tenant in the back guesthouse to control her porch light (Crazy Landlady is very security conscious). Then she calls in Handyman, who had been cleaning out the garage.

So, there we are, the three of us --me standing in my pjs, CL talking over her white horn-rimmed glasses, and Handyman looking very uncomfortable but nodding nonetheless -- in my kitchen, with the back door open, and I should have seen it coming when she commented on the heat and reached for a paper towel. But it was early. And I wasn't expecting company. And she's quick for an old broad. And before I know what has happened...she has lifted her hot pink tank top to towel herself off...under her 70ish-year-old, white, sagging, bra-less boobs.

I didn't know whether to throw beads or throw up.

And Handyman? Well, after 25 years of working for her, he must have already seen it all because he didn't even blink; he just turned away and started dusting off the light bulb he was holding.

Meanwhile, I am standing there speechless, fighting the urge to giggle uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation, wishing I had a video camera because people really think I make this stuff up, and thinking to myself: I just got flashed by my 70-year-old Crazy Landlady. If I didn't need therapy before, I'm gonna need it now.