Daily Diatribes

I am at war with my neighbors across the street. It started out innocently enough. There is a large boulder in their front yard. In mid-September, they construct a tableau around said boulder, with three scarecrows who I presume represent the three little goblins that live in that house. The boulder is in my line of vision every time I look out my front door. Every day, I see those scarecrows. And I don’t like it.

Scarecrows are creepy. They have burlap heads, stuffed with straw. They dress in that country grunge style. Everyone knows all it takes is one good bolt of lightning to animate a scarecrow. A good jolt of electricity will connect the circuits in the straw brain and pretty soon, a gruesome minion of Satan is traveling around the neighborhood, lying in wait for unsuspecting soccer moms to disembowel. Scarecrows are completely creepy, ranking right up there with zombies, roaches and Ronald McDonald.

I made the mistake of emailing my neighbor one morning, taking her to task for frightening me. Here is a copy of the email I sent:
Amy,
I just want you to know that your scarecrows creep me out. I find them malevolent, eyeing me, waiting for the moment to strike. I imagine each time I look at them, they’ve changed position, a change so subtle no one but me notices. Maybe that’s supposed to be a broomstick the one is holding but it looks like an implement of destruction. I imagine them moving a bit at a time, stealthily moving toward my house, and then, one morning, I wake up and there they are, right under my nose, ready to mutilate me to death with their tiny torture devices. Thanks for that.

I just wanted her to know how I felt. But Amy is something of a sadist. She chuckled when she read my email and then shared it with the imps who live in her house. They found my discomfort hilarious. And so they embarked on a stealth campaign of terror, designed to frighten me to death.

The morning after I sent the email, I walked outside and discovered the scarecrows had changed position. No longer were they leaning casually against the boulder, casing my house. Oh no. They had MOVED across the street and were now perched in the flowers by my mailbox. My imagination is pretty well developed, but I knew the scarecrows had not moved themselves. This was the work of the demon children in the house across the street. I drove by mailbox and shuddered. Scarecrows. Happy little smiles painted on their faces, but dreams of mayhem and mutilation fill their nasty straw heads. I would get even.

When I came home that afternoon, they had moved again. No longer were they by my mailbox; they had inched their way up the hill to my front porch and were perched in my flowers. Enough. I marched inside, got some bags, put bags over their heads and moved them back down the hill. Secretly, I hoped they would suffocate. But it was not to be. The demon spawn found the bags hilarious! They removed them and positioned the scarecrows on my BACK DECK!! The ante had been upped and I was not going to take this lying down.

Last night, I was out running errands for MA’s biology project (which is a whole other blog in itself!) and I happened to go to the Dollar Tree. They have some truly fabulous Halloween stuff. What do you expect from the people who brought you Homies Valentines? Cackling gleefully to myself (why are all these customers staring at me??) I purchased fake, rusty, barbed wire, chains, three crows, an axe and a package of pirate accessories. Then I went home and got to work.

I painstakingly wrapped the barbed wire around the body of each scarecrow, making sure the barbs were cutting into major pressure points on the scarecrows. I looped chains around their necks. On one scarecrow, I lashed a gun to his hand and pointed it at his head. For another, I lashed the axe into the side of his head. I festooned them with crows. Then I grabbed the goddess and we made our way across the street. It was dark out, but their lights were on, so we had to work fast. We arranged the scarecrows on the front steps, facing the door. Then I ran and hid behind a hedge while the goddess went up and rang the doorbell. She raced over to the hedge and we stood there, giggling and panting.

But no one came. We had to ring THREE TIMES before they finally answered the door. They came out, saw the scarecrows and giggled demonically. I guess they felt as if their long lost family members had returned. It was NOT the reaction I was hoping for. Genuine, blood curdling screams of terror would have been a more appropriate and desirable outcome. The goddess and I huddled together, listening to the imps. They finally went in and closed the door, so we raced back across the street.

Here is what I have learned: I am too old and fat to ding dong ditch someone; I have way too much free time on my hands; and what sane, reasonable adult goes to war with a group of children? Not to mention that children are dangerous and can turn on you at any moment, gouging out your eyes and kicking you in the shins. Ever see “Children of the Corn”? Need I say more? Children are almost as scary as scarecrows.

This morning, I came out and found one of the scarecrows lashed to my mailbox with barbed wire. Hmmpphhh!! Is that all you have demon spawn? I removed it from the mailbox, tiptoed across the street and lashed it to the fire hydrant. Yes, this is what I am reduced to: a grown woman, outside in her pajamas at 6:30 in the morning, tiptoeing around with a scarecrow. Truly, it is the work of Satan and her name is….well, I won’t mention it here, but you know who you are!!

Now we are at an impasse. I am sitting at my desk and every time one of the little implets came out her front door, I strolled outside and hollered across the street. I knew what they were doing. I took great pleasure in forestalling their evil little plans. Monsters. Yeah, scarecrow wars at my house….bring it on demons!!

I apologize for the prolonged absence, but we’ve been sickly for the last two weeks. First MA got walking pneumonia, then she was kind enough to share it with me. I have been feeling unwell for over a week and am getting better in teeny, tiny increments. Dr. Renee assures me the Z-pack will work eventually, but eventually is not good enough. I need results and I need them now!! What’s the point of walking pneumonia anyway? I don’t feel well enough to be walking around, but apparently I’m not “sick enough” to lay around. Next time I’m shooting for good old fashioned “laying flat on your back in the hospital” pneumonia. At least people will bring me meals on trays.

So, I’m still exhausted and moving slowly, but my life continues its hectic pace regardless of my personal health or well being. Today, for example, I had class this morning, then a lunch date, then a meeting at the lawyer’s office for a closing, then both girls had soccer practice. I managed to work in a forty five minute nap because if I don’t lay down and sleep at some point, I’m too spent to function. I picked up my soccer carpool at the high school and there was where the day started to go wrong.

MA’s soccer buddy got in my car and we drove around the lot to where her sister parks so she could get her soccer bag out of her sister’s car. When we got there, E wailed in despair “I don’t believe this….SHE’S GONE!!!” Several phone calls later, we ascertained that the sister had not been at school all afternoon, had in fact been on a field trip at another school. Several phone calls after that, we managed to set up a meeting with E’s mother to get the bag so we could continue on to soccer.

We met at the Chick Fil A and I got the largest diet coke they serve. Pneumonia dries you out because of all the mouth breathing and hacking coughs. The diet coke tasted great and I slurped it down quickly and got a refill. E’s mother came with the bag, E changed and we were on our way.

The goddess was accompanying me because I had decided I simply could not face trying to get her to her soccer practice. It was more than I could handle. So she was in the front seat, listening quietly as MA and her friend shrieked the lyrics to pop songs at the tops of their lungs and cackled like hyenas. Hell is a place full of fourteen year old girls who sing Miley Cyrus tunes loudly and off key. I drove as quickly as possible to the field, eager to get them out of the car before my ears started bleeding. I sipped my diet coke all the way, relishing the acidic coldness of it and the way it soothed my ravaged throat.

We got to the field, the girls got out and I drove away. The goddess burst into tears. My immediate reaction was that she was suffering a brain aneurysm or possibly a leukemia induced stroke because the tears were genuine and came out of nowhere. “What’s wrong?” I asked frantically, checking to see if she was hemorrhaging from her eyeballs.
“I…I….I….muh….muh….miss….Kuh….Kuh….Kirby..!!!!!!!!!!” she wailed. Kirby is our very old Golden Retriever who now lives at the office because he can’t get up and down the steps at home. His days are numbered and a few weeks ago, we thought the end was near, but he rallied. The goddess hardly ever sees him but apparently he was suddenly the only thing she could think about. Actually, I’m afraid the tears are a harbinger of hormones to come, but since that will cause me to squall uncontrollably, I’m not going to think about it right now.

I calmed her down and said, very rashly I might add, “Well, we will just go and see Kirby!” After all, we were already out and about, reasonably close to the interstate and we could get there in plenty of time to visit. Which just shows what a fool I really am.

We drove to the highway and turned to get on the interstate, only I turned the wrong way. I have a little issue determining East from West. So we had to make a giant loop and come back around and get on the highway going the other way. And all the time, I am sipping the Diet Coke. We get on the Interstate and zoom several miles with no problem, getting to our exit in mere minutes. And all the time, I am sipping away.

We get to the exit and I realize for the first time that this was a very bad idea. Merging traffic is at a standstill. But I decide to take a chance because we are only minutes away from the office. It was about 5:40. And I was still sipping that drink.

Ten minutes later we had moved about 100 yards. Traffic was inching along. And I had consumed roughly 145 ounces of Diet Coke over the last 45 minutes. Suddenly, I had to pee. And very, very badly. At first I tried to ignore it. I picked up my phone and checked my email. I talked to the goddess. I sang along with the radio. But nothing could divert me long from the fact that I had about 3 gallons of fluid pressing up against the walls of my bladder. The more we inched, the worse it got. Because there was no escape in sight. The traffic was moving so slowly and we were still pretty far away from our exit. I began to fear the worst. I was going to wet myself.

I am ashamed to say I did not handle it well. I started hyperventilating, squirming around in the seat as if by changing positions, I could resettle the urine more comfortably into my bladder. But there was too much. I started blaming the goddess. Not proud of it, but she was the only one in the car and after all, if she hadn’t CRIED, I wouldn’t be in this fix. I moaned aloud, hoping the moaning might bring some release. Then my eyes fixated on the cup.

I knew it was a bad idea, but I was obsessed as soon as I saw it. I visualized myself pulling down my pants, squatting over the cup and LETTING GO!! I actually almost LET GO just imagining it and had to clamp my legs together. But I knew there would be problems. How was I going to get my pants down without anyone seeing me do it? How was I going to drive and squat over a cup? What was I going to do with the pee once I was done? What if….God forbid….the cup wasn’t BIG ENOUGH??? Which was highly likely in my current state.

By now, the goddess was well aware of the battle raging in the driver’s seat. She was smart enough to stay quiet. Until I told her I was thinking about peeing in the cup. Then she went nuts. “NO MOMMY, DON’T DO IT,” she cried, genuinely disturbed.

By now, I was crying a little and I said “but I think I’m going to wet myself. I HAVE to use the cup!!” I know male readers don’t understand this urgency, but after birthing three children, one of whom was the size of Montana, my bladder is no longer in top fighting form. It does not like to be denied.
“NO MOMMY NO!!!!!!!!!!” The whole notion of me peeing in the cup on the interstate was absolutely too much for her. Add the possible lifelong scars my child would bear to the list of reasons why I shouldn’t pee in the cup. But it was so enticingly empty. Wide-mouthed, styrofoam, twenty one ounces of empty space begging to be used to give me relief.

My eyes glazed over, I reached for it and rolled the window down, pouring out the last few drops of Diet Coke. “I promise no one will see me,” I said distantly, hand shaking as I pulled the cup back in. Just a few minutes my sweet child and it will all be over…all the pain will end….” I was like a crazed woman, delirious with the agony of my full bladder. I NEEDED TO PEE NOW!!!!

“Well, then I’m getting in the backseat,” she cried and with that, she unbuckled, leapt over the seat, and threw herself face-down onto the backseat. She was in no way going to be a party to this madness. My eyes were watering, I was gasping for breath, and I needed to go so badly, but looking around…there were so many cars. I knew they would see me. Hard to drive and pull down your pants at the same time without being seen. Surely the guy in the truck next to me was bound to notice me squatting with a white styrofoam cup between my legs? And if I was squatting over the cup, how was I going to work the gas and brake pedals? What if I caused an accident while trying to avoid an accident? Who in the world has enough self esteem to overcome the inevitable media coverage: Woman Causes Twenty Seven Car Pile up On Interstate While Attempting to Urinate in Chick Fil A Cup? I couldn’t do it.

The traffic continued to inch and finally, I was able to merge onto the interstate. But instead of merging onto the road, I drove along the breakdown lane like a maniac, trying to pass as many cars as I could. I was openly crying now, the goddess was shouting encouragement from the backseat and my bladder was throbbing. I knew I was going to lose control, but I had to try. Finally, my exit was in sight. I roared down the off-ramp, weaving and dodging.

“I’m stopping at the first place I see,” I told the goddess grimly as I exited the ramp.
“Go to the Arby’s mommy,” she screamed.
Good idea. I sped into the parking lot, through the car in gear and leaped out. Then I began the long, agonizing duck-walk to the door. There is no running when you have to pee that badly; you can only hobble along and hope for the best. One wrong move and all the hard work is for nothing. One wrong move and you are the laughing stock of the Arby’s parking lot. Think outside the bun: I’m peeing at Arbys.

Reader, somehow, through the grace of God and my own iron will, I made it to the bathroom. And voided for about two eternities. There was so much liquid I thought I might actually fill up the bowl and spill out onto the floor. But I no longer cared. I was beyond all reason, so great was my relief. I threw back my head in ecstasy, pumping my fist victoriously. I had overcome!!

Just like that, it was over. I slunk back out of the restaurant without making eye contact with anyone. Got back in the car and glared at the cup which was openly mocking me. I will NEVER order a large diet coke again. And next time the goddess cries, I’ll tell her to suck it up and deal with it. All of God’s creatures die eventually, sweetie, and it’s much better to die an old dog at Daddy’s office than a young woman peeing in a styrofoam cup on the interstate!

I have this illusion that I haven’t aged a bit. Mentally, I am hovering somewhere around age 20; so long as I don’t look in the mirror, I can fool myself. Well, and if I avoid squatting. Anytime I squat, people scatter because when my knees pop, it sounds like a drive-by shooting. I’m a college student dammit! I tool around campus with my backpack, griping about homework with the rest of my peers. I can almost believe I am young.

Then reality backhands me across the face. That college thing? It ain’t your Momma’s college, or mine either for that matter. I have a paper due next week. Back in the day, I would purchase a Blue Book which is nothing but a Big Chief Tablet for college students. I would carefully hand letter my essay onto the lined pages, using my very best handwriting, trying not to screw up. Or, if I was feeling really fancy, I would feed a sheet of white paper into my typewriter and type the paper. On the appointed day, I would rush to class and present the professor with my work. The professor would then proceed to mark it up with a red pen and return it to me so many days later with a grade. It was a good system and it worked.

That was then; this is now. For next week’s paper, I purchased access to a web based program. It cost $100; blue books cost about $.27 and typing paper was even cheaper. I have to type the paper into the program, navigating between twelve different screens, and then transmit it electronically to the professor. He will mark it up with cyber red pen and then transmit it back to me with a grade. I have entered a Ray Bradbury novel.

I’m old. There are all kinds of songs on the radio I used to listen to when I was younger. Careless Whisper! You Spin Me Right Round Baby! So I think I am young, then I really listen to the lyrics and I realize I am not young at all. I am old and turning into that woman who can’t believe what these whippersnappers are listening to these days!! Has anyone heard “Let’s Get Nasty” which is rapped to an approximation of The Partridge Family theme song? Do you remember the Partridge Family? I remember the Partridge Family!! David Cassidy, Shaun’s older brother! Shirley Jones, the coolest mom ever, in her groovy polyester bellbottoms!! Ruben! Danny Bonaduce before he started snorting cocaine!! Personally, I wanted to be the younger sister (was she Tracy?) who played the triangle and the tambourines. I wanted to ride around on their groovy bus and perform!

Let me tell you, Nitty, who has taken the tune and turned it into something perverted, he wants to perform as well. How about this refrain (remember, it’s the Partridge Family tune!): Come on Girl I know just what you’re thinking so let’s get nasty…..American, Asian, girls, European, come on get nasty…..you and me should have fun together and if you got a friend then you should bring her along, two would be for me but four is even better and when I wake up everybody better be gone….” I think Ruben would have keeled over and died had he heard these lyrics. I wanted to keel over and die. I don’t think Nitty wears polyester bellbottoms when he sings this. He may not wear bottoms at all.

The technology has changed; pen and paper don’t cut it anymore. The music has changed; groovy has turned to group sex. But yesterday drove a nail right into my coffin. I decided yesterday that it was time to end the pretense of youth and check myself into a nursing home. I went in for my annual eye exam. I hate those things because I have test anxiety and I stress about answering the questions right. “Which is better….One or Two….One….Two…” intones the doctor.
“Um….well….OH GOD I’M NOT SURE!!!!!!!” I cry. “It’s too much pressure!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I’m the only person I know who really should be medicated for eye exams. Anyway, after the exam, when I stopped hyperventilating and the crying was over, she asked me if I had trouble reading.
“No not really,” I said.
“Well, you accepted reading glasses,” she said. Now I know I’m crazy, I may not be as sharp as I used to be, but I knew good and well she hadn’t offered me any reading glasses and I certainly hadn’t accepted them.
“I’m sorry, what does that mean?” I asked her, confused.
“Well, it means it’s time for reading glasses,” she said.
“But I already wear glasses,” I said naively, afraid of what she was implying.
Then she said it, that horrible word, the word that brings to mind grandmothers and Preparation H and Lawrence Welk reruns: “You need……(cue the dramatic music)……(maybe a high pitched, blood curdling scream)…………(a little hazy fade on the screen)………..BIFOCALS!!!!!!”
My head lolled back in the chair and the world went momentarily black. Bifocals were for old people. Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies wore bifocals. I do not need bifocals. I am a college student. College students don’t wear bifocals. They jive around campus singing “Come On Get Nasty”.
“Do I really have to wear them?” I asked faintly.
“Put your glasses back on,” she said. I did and then she waved a couple of lenses in front of them. Suddenly, everything was dramatically sharper and more in focus. “Do you see the difference?” she asked kindly. Sadly enough, I did.
The groovy music ended abruptly. I am not young and hip. I am old and have bad hips. I am not groovy or hip or even particularly nasty. I am a forty year old woman. “Hello my name is Jennifer and I wear bifocals.”

And so I went out into the lobby and ordered my bifocals and received yet another unpleasant shock; unlike single vision lenses, bifocal lenses cost the equivalent of three social security checks. I actually screamed “HOLY SHIT” out loud when the technician told me how much JUST THE LENSES cost. She was nice about it and didn’t kick me out of the building for screaming obscenities. I tried to tic a little so she would think it was Tourette’s. She even gave me 15% off, presumably because she knew I’d be eating dog food for the rest of the month after paying for the glasses.

I have entered the Twilight Zone. A world full of Geritol and arthritis pills and, yes, Bifocals. I am going to try and look for the silver lining though. I bet my Bejeweled Blitz score will improve dramatically once I get the new glasses. And the frames are super cute and hip. As long as no one does a nasty remake of Copacabana, I may just weather this crisis! (Her name was Shawty….she was a hooker….with yellow dreadlocks in her hair…..and a dress cut down to there….REFRAIN: At the copa…Copacabana…..bitches pole dancin’ are always the fashion at the copa…..)