A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 24, 2001 || 1:05 am

Welllll, Nash Bridges is on, so I am forced to come out here and bathe you in sunshine. You lucky little webjetter you.

You know what? I just checked the drivers on my modem to see if they were the latest version or not. Don’t laugh, fool, because two years ago I couldn’t have done that without three books open in front of me as well as tech support from the modem manufacturer in my left ear and tech support from my ISP in the right.

I said, “Don’t laugh, fool…” Don’t you realize how far I’ve come?

This weekend was an outside weekend. We hit the doors at 8:15 ay emm Saturday morning and didn’t roll back in until 11 pee emm, sunburned and smelling of fresh air and margaritas. With the threepack away on visits yesterday and half of today, we kicked up our heels. I felt so rejuvinated by all the non-stop activity that I bounced out of bed this morning and started working on the yard. Save for a couple of one-hour breaks, I stayed out there with the dusky smell of earth and crisp smell of flora mingling wonderfully in my head, singing tunes by Robert Johnson and Nina Simone and the Violent Femmes to myself happily. I battled weeds and hauled small limbs and lobbed back woefully-neglected bushes. To my delight, I found a magnolia tree coming along quite nicely over in the side yard and I trimmed back some limbs from a neighboring pine so the four-foot magnolia could be blessed with some sunlight. God must’ve been paying attention to my efforts, because as I sit here pounding this out, a rainstorm is unfolding. I am covered in scratches and mosquito bites and my nose and forehead are the tiniest bit of pink and I am at peace. I feel like I caught up with myself this weekend.

Marvel, for this is not the norm. I myself marvel because I don’t know how it happened, exactly. It just did, and maaaaan, does it feel good.

As I was mowing the impossibly-big-for-a-push-mower back forty, I noticed the neighbor d00d and his pal Doolittle taking part in the time-honored Southern tradition of “Eyeballin’ Yer Neighbor”. Didn’t really bother me, as one of my last neighbors was a thirteen-year-old with a tendency to unabashedly gawk. Coupled with observations/questions like, “I noticed that your light was on until 3 ay emm last night. What do you do when you stay up so late?”, he fully prepared me for any and all sorts of neighborly invasions in the upcoming couple of decades. (Does that make me disaffected or unaffected? Wouldn’t YOU like to know…)

I was mowing, as I said, with a push mower and was only slightly conscious of their eyeballs making the laps with me. Sam and Scout arrived home and joined me outside to help.

I killed the mower in order to give them instructions on picking up the larger of the sticks that the trees insisted on sloughing off into my grass-cutting trajectory and I hear a snide comment from the peanut gallery. It was something along the lines of, “Ain’t never hearda nobuddy needin’ to be told howta pick up a stick.” snortsnort Thank you, Rife With Sarcasm Gang.

I calmly asked my children to go inside and grab a snack. Scout looked at Sam and smirkingly said, “Uh oh.”

After the kids were out of earshot I turned toward Our Daring Duo and called out, “Hey, Donny, you wanna watch it. I’m not above carting on down all grassy and sweaty to the Baptist church where I know your wife and kids are shovelling up seconds on the potluck fare. Wouldn’t that just be a riot? Be even funnier when I tell her that Doolittle’s here on a Sunday and that the day’s entertainment is to ogle me while I’m on my knees pulling weeds. Don’tcha think, D?” Doolittle’s left cheek sorta twitched. I went in for a glass of water and by the time that the kids and I emerged, the Daring Duo’s lawnchairs were empty.

Lemme tell you a little something about Don. He’s the kinda prick that will let his lawn go until you get out to mow yours. It’s then (as if it were a competition) that he climbs onto his riding lawn mower and zips mockingly around the yard while you are panting and heaving that pushmower all about your own grounds. And never once does he take a couple of pity laps around your yard as you would if the situation were reversed. So much for heppin’ a brotha out.

He has a kid that has brown teeth and throws his potato chip bags down in my yard and brags to my son about his criminal-in-training exploits and his lack of respect for all grown-ups in general.

One day Sam came home shaking his head. When I asked him what it was about, he said, “Oh David and Brandt are sitting on their bikes at the corner. When I asked them what they were doing, they said they were hollering at hot chicks going by.” I raised an eyebrow. My right one, to be exact. The right one’s always good for that sort of thing.

“That’s so stupid, Mom. I mean, if you think someone is hot, why not just introduce yourself and talk to them like any normal human being? Hollering from the seat of your bike looks real dumb.”

Moments like those make you wanna do an Apollo Creed victory shuffle, play-at-home parents’ version. Danny, you are raising Just One More Idiot in the Overwhelming Sea Of Idiots. My child has common sense, nyah-nyah.

Anyway, the day came to a close with Frito Chili Pie a spirited Captain Underpants book and an impromptu pillow fight where Mathias amazed us with his ‘playing possum‘ skills. He unfolds a sneak attack like no other can.

After everyone was in bed Maxim and I watched ‘Waking the Dead‘ and agreed that it’s a winner. Doesn’t Billy Crudup look like he could be Jimmy Smits‘ younger, better-looking brother? And is that Jennifer Connelly an android, or what? She never seems to age one bit. I have two words for her, though: pixie cut.

This stream-of-consciousness thing is now annoying even me, so I’ll take my leave of you. Big, stanky, sloppy wet kisses to you all.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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