So, we nearly died marching in the 4th of July Parade. Nothing like standing in 99 degree heat for an hour and a half in front of a marching band, then marching a mile... slowly. I believe the Vietnamese did that to POW's. Someone ahead of us had the genius idea to buy 7 gross of Tootsie Rolls and instead of tossing them to the crowd, scatter them like chicken seed down the center of the route. FYI? Tootsie Rolls transform into sticky dog crap in the heat.
I live in an old, charming community of century homes. Our neighbors are mostly old people who have lived in their houses for 30+ years, who garden a lot while they wait to die. We get a lot of stares because we're young and heavily tattooed and have little kids. We try to speak softly to our neighbors because we scare them enough, and for the most part they have accepted us as Those Crazy Kids who come and go in their fancy cars and walk like a circus down the street with all those poodles. We have given them, in turn, nicknames like:
Big Baby and Co.
The Mumbling Irish
That Old Man
The Mobster House People
The Broken Toilet House People
The Precise Gardener
Those Assholes Who Threw An Entire Damn Tree Over My Fence
Cecelia's Half Way House For the Crazy
The Beautiful Gay Men With Dogs
The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower
The Nostril
Of all these people, the one we fear the most is The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower. Rumor has it that he has the city service department and the city inspector on speed dial and reports his neighbors for everything. I am fairly certain he is behind the great "You Must Replace Your Lovely Sandstone Sidewalks For No Apparent Reason Other Than To Break You Financially" incident of 2011. And the numerous calls to the city saying we put our trash out too early. (That is a goddamn lie. We put our trash out in the middle of the night because we always forget. Then, when we are already in bed, we argue over who is getting up to take the trash out. We have never ever had the energy to put our trash out before 5pm. We are still generating trash until bedtime. Fucker.)
After the parade, all I wanted to do was go to Lakewood Hospital and see if they could hook me up with a sensory deprivation tank and and I.V. But my darling daughter wanted to run through the sprinkler waving flags and singing patriotic songs. So I set her up in the front yard and lay, melting, in a folding chair under a tree. I had just started enjoying her craziness and ability to make up verses to the Battle Hymn of the Republic while leaping patriotically, when The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower walked across the street and stood in front of my chair and said....
I don't know what he said. I was too busy freaking out. My concerns were the following:
1. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I was fucking hot and I took off all my underwear, then put on my WalMart special Mexican house coat. I could not have looked less classy if I had been sitting on a couch on my tree lawn. But in my defense, I was trying to sweat freely and avoid wet underwear wedgies. He comes rolling over looking like he was going to a fucking garden party.
2. I was pretty sure he was coming over to bitch about the "Dana-sized" pile of sandstone that was still sitting smack dab in the middle of my front yard, classing up the place even more. I kept my old sidewalks on principle because I love them and decorated the 5 ft tall pile last Christmas like a giant wrapped present, complete with over-sized bow. I understand the community had mixed feelings about my ironic statement.
So, after tucking my snap front Mexican house coat around me, to avoid accidental crotch shots, I tried to calm down and focus on what he was saying. And so the dance of subtle insults began...He made small talk about the holiday. Bla bla bla. He asked about the crowd in our front yard prior to the parade, stating "it woke him up." I countered with "it's a group of Catholic school children celebrating freedom." Then he asked whether or not we needed help finding good contractors to work on our house. Translation: fix up this shit hole because I am itching to report you. Touche, gestapo. Touche.
I countered with, "You know, everyone else around here finds the howling of your dog offensive, but we LOVE it. I know most people call and complain about the constant and unrelenting howling coming from your porch, but I think it's music to my ears. What a charming ambiance you create on this end of the street."
Checkmate, dick hole.
And then. Then my darling daughter wandered over, covered with grass and clutching a handful of muddy America flags. She introduced herself and the gestapo asked how old she was.
Anne: I'm 9. I'm in the 4th grade.
Gestapo: That's great! What do you want to be when you grow up, Anne?
Anne: (throwing both arms in the air) I want to be... A CREEPY SALESMAN!
Gestapo: (stuttering) I'm sorry, what did she just say?
Me: ( high pitched squeal that precedes donkey laugh)
Anne: I WANT TO MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE!
Then she began laughing hysterically. And I began braying like a donkey. And you know what? She did make him uncomfortable. He awkwardly excused himself and scurried back across the street, disappearing inside his door as if we had Ebola. That's how a half naked lady in a Mexican housecoat and a muddy child drive evil from their presence on Independence Day.
I love that child. And I wonder what nicknames the neighbors have for us. Hmmmmm....
~dana
