Pain, Rain and Meter Maids

Last week the floods poured forth and we had the best garden-drenching downpours for about three days.

The only crappy part was that I had to go to school on all three of those days. The biggest issue with torrential rain, is, of course, torrential frizz. (Stupid frizz.) I woke up, already running twenty minutes late, with my hair running away from my head in all the cardinal directions, and knew that, at last, my favorite little city was getting some precipitation.
I leapt out of bed, accidentally dumping doggie in the floor in my haste (stupid dog.), and promptly cracked my shin into various and sundry fractures on the bottom of our bed post. (Stupid bedpost.)

Another twenty-eight minutes later and I was pulling on to campus, at this spot I know that usually has open meters. The catch, of course (stupid catch.), is that these meters are for precisely one hour of time, whereas my class is, of course, for one hour and fifteen minutes. Now I have three options: 1) arrive late, skip the first fifteen of class, 2) leave in the middle of class to feed the meter, or 3) leave class early. Now, why, you ask, don't I add option 4) park elsewhere, and if you asked that question, you've never gone to a university before. There is bupkis for parking. People park in spaces that tricycles couldn't fit into...much less actual spaces for normal-sized vehicles.

So I find an empty meter and pull in, just as the meter maid slowly drives up next to me, mean mugging and eyeballing my meter, hovering close by, in case I should possess the audacity to run to class without first paying the (stupid) meter. She was also seeking to ticket those meters around me that had already expired. I glared back at her and snapped my umbrella open, making it look as menacing as opening an umbrella can look. She rolled her eyes at me. I sneered at her and stalked off, stepping into an ankle-deep puddle as I did so. (Stupid puddle.)

As my class began winding down to the last twenty minutes, I started getting nervous. When was the evil harpy meter-witch going to circle around again to check the meters? I started to sweat. The class was taking too long, and the teacher just kept talking...droning on and on about nothing. I started tapping my foot, glancing at my watch. I packed up my books, zipping my bag loudly, hoping the teacher would get the hint. She didn't.

So at exactly one hour, fifteen minutes, the class was concluded, and I shot out the door, pushing past all the gabbing bystanders in my way. (Stupid bystanders.)

I raced out the front doors, into the still falling rain and toward the hill. My cellphone began to vibrate. It was Kev, "Hey babe. How was class?" he asked me. Just then, from my view point at the top of "Cardiac Hill" I saw Meter Witch turning onto the street where I was parked, my meter surely expired. "Gotta run," I panted out, jamming my phone into my pocket, snapping shut my umbrella and hauling arse toward my car. I splashed through mini-rivers, the rain pelting me from every direction. I became angrier and angrier with each fat droplet of water that touched me. As I reached the bottom of the hill only eighteen feet away from my vehicle, she pulled up next to my car and hopped out, evil ticket-writing gear at the ready. I knew something had to be done immediately.

In one split second, I decided that, as when you are in the wild, and confronted by wildlife of the sort that you'd rather not be confronted with, you should wave your arms, make menacing noises and appear larger than you really are. I chose that same tactic and employed it with gusto.

I yelled, "Hey!", and waved my arms frantically, all the time still bearing down on her like a steam locomotive.

I must say, I am sure that I looked like something unholy, racing toward her with water flying out around me, my hair like something seen in an Amazonian tribe, nostrils flaring, all mascara having long since deserted my lashes for the prime locale of my chin, and brandishing my umbrella like an assault weapon.

But no matter. Whatever it was about the astonishing sight of my person, she stood gawking at me long enough for me to rush up, and with two clicks of the remote, unlock my car, heave my stuff in and sneer at her again. She glared at me and sauntered slowly back to her car (calling her flying monkeys off as she went).

Once we were both behind our respective steering wheels, I glanced over at her again, she mouthed, "Next time".

I grinned, looked straight ahead, and started my car.

Here Snakey, Snakey

So today I was just about to take Mae out to play in the front yard, when our path was crossed by a very large black snake, glaring at us and giving us the forked tongue. (At this point, you may assume that a general chaotic panic ensued in my household. There was much scrambling about, raised voices, and more than a few curse words.)

I screamed. Shrilly, and with ample volume enough to bring the entire neighborhood running.

Okay, maybe not the entire neighborhood, just my husband. "It's a s-s-sn-snake!", I stammered out, clinging to his t-shirt. "Mmm-hmmm," he affirmed, nodding his head. So then I demanded to know what were going to do with it, I mean, after all, it was trespassing.

We decided that the best plan would be for me to stand inside our glass-front door, continue to emit small squeaks of fear and stare googley-eyed at the snake while Kev went to look for something with which to encourage it to leave.

Kev dashed off to the basement. I held my breath, watching the python slither through my hostas. (I'm sure it was a python. Anything over 1.5 feet is termed "a python", I think.)

The seconds ticked by, and finally I heard my darling, knight-on-white-horse racing back up the basement stairs. I knew he had armed himself for battle.

"All I could find was my wake board," he panted. I frowned. "I fail to see how beach equipment is going to do the trick. What are you going to do, surf it out of the yard?" I was less than impressed.

Kev decided to re-survey the situation. He stepped back out to have another look at the snake. He decided that because of the diamond shaped markings on the snake's back, that it was a "Copperhead" in nature. Now, of snake identification, I do not pretend to be an authority. Unless it is a pair of boots, or a nice wallet, I am decidedly uninterested in anything in a snakeskin. All I really needed to know was that it was indeed a snake, and it was indeed on my front stoop.
"Okay, so it has to die," he said, his face grim. "Fine by me!", I readily agreed. (*Let me state here that I love animals, and in general bear no ill will toward snakes. However, when a terrifying and poisonous reptile supplants himself in my yard, I have no qualms in having him whacked. And with great expedience, too.)

Kev dashed off again to find a real weapon. I continued to clutch my dog and tremble.

He came racing back, bearing heavy shovel,and burst out the front door with all the energy of a man defending his family from a vicious invader. He struck the snake one time with the shovel. (I was watching the battle through the safety of the glass door.) It turned around and coiled up, prepared to strike.

Kev shrieked (in a very manly way) and leapt back inside. That was when I noticed our hippy-ish next door neighbor out watering his yard. I got his attention, (ie. I screamed to the top of my lungs for help) and waved him over (ie. made frantic gestures). He trotted across the two yards, grinning. "What's up?", he asked. I pointed at the horror on the ground. His eyes lit up. "Oh wow. That's a beauty of a rat snake. They're great for catching the field mice in your yard. Oh, you hurt it. Can I have it anyway?" I looked askance at Kev. "Yeah, take it with our blessing", we told him. Our (slightly off) neighbor scooped up the still lethal-looking snake into the shovel and carried it toward his own yard, crooning and talking to it the whole way. When he reached his yard he tenderly lowered the shovel and dumped the snake into his grass.

I stared agape. His wife pulled into the drive, moments later. I scampered back inside, watching her reaction as he pointed out the newest inhabitant in their yard. I'm not entirely sure, because I couldn't hear the conversation, but judging by the look on her face (sheer terror) I think she would have preferred that we kept our snakes to ourselves, instead of being so neighborly.

Kitchen Devastation

Hubby made his first attempt at his own special hot sauce last night, using peppers from our own garden. I was upstairs, since Kev seemed to think that my presence in the kitchen would hinder his creative genius. The sounds of progress heralded his first attempts into the culinary arts...I was nervous, but hopeful.

Then.......silence.

A complete absence of noise from below-stairs.

As many of you with small children will attest, when your child goes very quiet in an area not within your immediate line of vision, it is not unreasonable to assume grave mischief.

The same is true of my husband in the kitchen.

I flew down the stairs, turned the corner, and raced into the kitchen.
A LAKE of hot sauce covered the counters, dripping in puddles on the floor. Red, oozing goo dripped from the cabinets and flowed across the stove. After a quick survey of the devastation, my began to smart. Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. My nose began to burn and run.

My tears were not due to the mess made of kitchen, oh no. Habaneros, Anaheims, Jalapenos and sweet peppers had all gone into Kev's secret, special, potent sauce.

He had, in effect, manufactured pepper spray. And it was all over my kitchen.

The First Quarter

I am twenty-five today. An hour into my "mid twenties" and I'm feeling an anxiety attack coming on. I want to be able to laugh about growing up/getting old but I don't know. This quarter-of-a-century thing really has me stressing.

It's occurred to me that for this first part of my life I was living automatically...and I've wasted time. I have always cared so much about what everybody else thinks. No, make that: I've always cared so much about what the wrong people think. I've lived on auto-pilot.

This is a very scary realization.

So, then this is a threshold for me. I'm on the brink of something huge here, I can feel it. I feel like I don't have enough time to say and see and do all the things I want to. I feel this restless urgency to...get started...

I've never really pondered my birthday before. Maybe it's just the "25" thing. Who knows?

It feels like New Year's Eve.