Thanks so much for assuming I wanted to hear those nasty ass lyrics booming from your stereo this morning. Who knew that hearing “F*ck you B*tch!” yelled repeatedly to the boom, boom, boom of an overly tuned bass would be such a great way to begin my day, especially after a night of too little sleep and a morning of too much caffeine.
I know it surprised you when I lowered my window and waved sweetly at you. Your jaw dropped as I mouthed, “Hey B*tch! How’d you know that’s my favorite f*cking song?”
Being a sarcastic middle-aged woman has its perks.
Occasionally I have delusions of grandeur, but I’m never fooled into believing they’re anything other than delusions. I’m not a brave woman. Tonight was proof of that.
I returned home to a dark, empty house after an afternoon at the movies and some heavy-duty window shopping. Studly Doright wasn’t yet home, and I didn’t expect him to return for several more hours. As usual I parked my car in the garage and walked around the car to the door.
Before opening the door I heard a beep-beep-beeping sound. Carefully I turned the knob and edged the door open. The entry alarm was going off. We’ve lived at Doright Manor for a year and a half and the alarm has never even peeped. Slowly I backed away, shut the door, and retreated to my car.
I’m not going to lie, my hands were shaking as I dialed 911 while simultaneously backing the car out of the garage. The operator was professional, and thorough, and didn’t sound like she thought I was being a paranoid idiot.
Then I had to wait. Outside. In the dark. Okay, I had my lights on high beam, but the dark outside of that bright halo seemed particularly threatening. I called Studly and told him all that had transpired. As we talked I noticed my phone battery was on the verge of going dead and hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. Signing off, I felt utterly alone.
By the time the officer arrived, a seemingly endless twelve minutes after I initially called 911, I was convinced that I should sleep in my car until Studly got home. Hey, it’s a small SUV, I could get comfy in there. As long as I didn’t have to use the restroom I’d be ok, right?
The second Deputy Perkins appeared I felt immense relief. He and I approached the back door and could hear the incessant beeping. My heart was thumpety-thumping, providing a nice rhythm section for the alarm.
I turned on the light just inside the back door and with trepidation walked to the flashing alarm, expecting it to read something along the lines of “Danger, Danger, Run for Your Life!” Instead, the words Power Outage were displayed in large LED letters.
Sheepishly I grinned at Deputy Perkins, “Honestly, sir, we’ve had disruptions in power before and they’ve never set off the alarms.”
To his credit, and the credit of his entire department, he was so understanding, and if he thought me crazy he had the decency not to say so out loud.
He also insisted on going through Doright Manor room by room to make sure no one was hiding there. Thankfully all he found were the two cats who were both fairly frazzled from having listened to the annoying alarm for heaven knows how long. One had expressed her displeasure by puking on a bathroom rug.
Now I’m sitting here sipping wine and contemplating the excitement of my evening. I’m still fairly filled with adrenaline from the fright. I know I’ll crash soon, but until then I’ll be doing something constructive. Like having more wine.
Patches has assured me she’s ready to serve and protect.
Peace, people!
I wrote this piece awhile back for my youngest granddaughter who was two at the time and couldn’t understand why her older siblings got to ride the big yellow school bus and she didn’t.
Harper D is now three, and today was officially her first day of Pre-K, but I thought it would be fun to revisit this mostly true poem.
“D Wants to Ride”
The big yellow bus came to D’s house today.
Garrett got on the big yellow bus.
McKayla got on the big yellow bus.
D could not get on the big yellow bus.
“You must be three, and you are only two,” said Garrett.
“You are way too little,” said McKayla.
“I am big,” said D.
“I can count,
I can sing,
I can climb,
I can swing.”
“Just one more year,” said Garrett.
“You will be a big girl next year,” said McKayla.
“But I AM a big girl!” Insisted D.
“I can play,
I can dance,
I can run
Really fast!”
“D,” said Garrett, “Be our baby for awhile.”
“D,” said McKayla, “Stay little for awhile.”
D thought and thought. “OK,” she said.
“I will be your baby for one more year.
I will still count and sing, climb and swing.
I will still play and dance and run very fast.
But next year I will get on the big yellow bus!”
“Bye, D,” said Garrett.
“Bye, D,” said McKayla.
“Bye big yellow bus!” said D. “I’ll see you next year.”
with each moment
the forest changes
from deeply shadowed to
sun-dappled peek-a-boo,
from deathly still to
alive with the flutters
of cardinals and the
skittering of squirrels.
the darkness is there
even in the midst
of the brightest day;
the scurrying of
unseen creatures
disturbs the silence,
glimpses of white
magnolia hint at light.
How is a pariah like a piranha?
Neither are welcome dinner guests.
Give social media credit
where credit is due.
Pariah status becomes easy
for users to accrue.
Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook,
and Instagram, too
Provide pulpits for all
who have hatred to spew.
narrow lined paper,
college-ruled;
perpendicular
red boundaries,
front and back.
only left demanded
observance, right
a mere suggestion,
a hint of moving on.
what use could we
make of tangible
margins, neat
demarcations to
guide our steps?
as points of entry
and departure ever
providing checks
and balances.
For the first time in my adult life I’m watching a debate in the company of people who have similar political views. I’m pretty vocal, so it’s gratifying to be around folks who are just as vocal, and perhaps more so, than I am.
Bernie Sanders seems to be a big favorite in this crowd, with Hillary Clinton a close second. Thunderous applause breaks out at their every word. I feel sorry for the remainder of the pack, for hardly any applause at all comes their way.
I have a strong sense of fairness, and it seems as though moderator Anderson Cooper hurries the other debaters along, barely noticing their contributions to the debate; although, to be fair, I’ve had several glasses of wine.
Who will emerge as the debate’s winner? I love Bernie, but I’ll confess, any of these guys would be preferable to anything the Republicans have to offer.
Praying for Eyebrowz 