Saturday, April 7, 2012
I ain't no Matt McConaughey...
And if that is who you are looking for - go here:
Otherwise, just stick around and let me, covered in shit, be your guide through this wonderful afternoon. Everything was pretty peaceful - Gabe cooked some chicken with jerk sauce, Gray rested from a long afternoon at the swimming pool with her friend, and I decided to change and wash sheets (a rare occassion at the Bennett Household, one worthy of a glass of red wine, and perhaps a couple of beers) - all fine until on this wonderful spring day, the sounds of bickering children cut through my screen like a fart on an elevator. I live in the low rent district (comparatively speaking) of this part of town - it is a new townhome subdivision, and it has a gate, and a pool, and we have walking trails and security gaurds and all of that planned community bullshit that us middle class folks like. My view happens to be of the next step up home - the single family homes, in another planned community - and my luck just so has it that immediatly behind me within 50 yards - is a pool inhabited by two of the most spoiled, poorly behaved, and regularly beaten children I have ever witnessed. When I say beaten, I do not mean in the clothes hanger and wooden board sense, but I am pretty sure those kids get a swat at least once a day for some unknown reason - and based on what I have to listen to right now, I am pretty sure that there is a good one coming. I imagine their names - the two little ones - to be Cedar and Sequoia, and with their haircuts, and their generally metrosexual swim shirts and trunks, I cannot really tell if they are boys or girls. I can tell that:
1. They are apparently related.
2. They are also related to Cain and Abel.
3. One of them or both of them will end up in prison.
How do I know this - because drowning is not a sport. Hitting your sibling with the garden sprinkler square in the face is not a tradition. Standing on the edge of the pool and telling your parents that you are going to pee pee in the water near Cedar is not something most normal children would do. My guess is that they are hopped up on adderall, or it's nearest pediatric friendly cousin, have just downed a half dozen Capri Suns and Fruit Rollups, and are raring to have a good knock down drag out fight. Just so you know, you cannot see my view, but at least you can see the windows that act as Bose Wave Radios throughout the backside of my house.
Note the "air conditioning" unit in the window. I find that to be a nice touch, one of these days, I will get around to nailing sheets over the windows, but for now, the wooden blinds and the box fan are all the accoutrement that I need for my palace. Besides, the box fan keeps air circulating throughout the house, particularly when I have the other two fans in my son's window and daughter's window. I have recieved one letter concerning the use of them from the HOA, but I am guessing they have since relinquished the rule on "no box fans that make your townhome look like a trailer park residence shall be used to cool or circulate air throughout the home" attitude. As far as nailing sheets to the windows goes - I don't really have any extra sheets, so that would be a total waste. I guess I could tape aluminum foil to them, and give my house that "I am a fucknut crazy lunatic" look...
Anyway, back to the kids in the backyard. They have been silenced by the enforcer, which I imagine is an au pair from some small eastern european country that sounds like you are spitting when you pronounce it properly. I don't think I have ever seen their Dad, and based on what I hear from the two angels, have to think that there is a large amount of golf being played on the weekends.
I digress. Digging ditches is a tough line of work. This may sound a bit bitchy, but my hands are intended to work on spreadsheets and such. My back is not quite the manual backhoe operator that it once was. My palate is easily tainted by the smell of septic waste and black water. Note the picture below:
That is what is left of the two inch blister I worked into my hand last weekend. It hurts like a son of a bitch, and aside from the lidocaine cream, really makes it difficult to eat anything with salt or vinegar in it. Nope, these hands were not properly conditioned for the task that I was ill prepared to tackle - we did get it done - and as you can see from the picture above, I carried with me not only the pride of being covered from head to toe in bodily fluids and having a Squiggy hairstyle naturally appearing after the first fourteen hours - but by the proof positive in my hands.
Anyway, back to the Matt McConawhatever thing. How in the hell does he do that? I have to think that all of us have ample opportunity to work out, eat right, you know, the things that we are supposed to do - but it just seems unnatural to me to be able to do that - but perhaps that is all he does. Maybe he does not have to get up with an alarm clock, or go to work, or even think about the next sheet washing cycle - I am sure he has concerns, but most of them are probably related to what white linen shirt and tight blue jeans he is going to pick out, or what catalog he is going to scan through when he takes his next constitutional to buy matching outfits for his children (I am not sure that he has children, just guessing, because for a while there, everyone in the movies had to have some kids to make it on to the cover of People). It is almost surreal to me that there are folks who don't really have to worry about much - they pay people to do that for them.
To hell with it, I am becoming a scientologist. I am guessing that is what does the trick...