Last night, after we put Junior to bed, Chuck and I were sitting on the couch, enjoying the mulletfresh air through the open window, when we heard some people yelling.
We stepped outside just in time to see a woman (I use the term loosely) throwing her boyfriend’s clothes out the second story window. Apparently the degenerate wasn’t helping with the bills and she was tired of carrying his sorry ass.
You know what? Fine. Kick your loser boyfriend out. But don’t chuck his unmentionables on the sidewalk across the street from my house. We live down the street from a church! Nuns walk on those sidewalks and really, nuns should not have to step over people’s underwear. I actually think there might be something in the Bible about that.
Yes, here it is, page 112: “Thy sisterly nuns shalt not be made to hoppeth over soiled loinly briefs in horrible hick towns.”
After witnessing the neighbor's debauchery, I told Charles that all I needed was one sign and we were putting a "for sale" sign out front.
I believe in signs. I really do. Right before our wedding I was having cold feet (and hands, arms, nose hairs, etc.) and I asked for one sign that marrying Chuck was the right thing to do.
The next night I got stuck behind a truck pulling a boat on the highway and do you know what the name of the boat was?
I kid you not. (I got a good look at the name because I was, ehem, tailgating really badly.)
So today, after we did our little faucet-fixing dance, I reminded Chuck that I’d be on the lookout.
And lo and behold at 2:30 p.m. I got a call at work from Brink's. The motion alarm in the basement was going off. Was I home? No. Was anyone home? No, Junior was at Grandma’s (probably taking his first steps). The Brink's guy said he’d call the police.
I flew home, half-pissed that we might have been robbed again and yet half-happy that this might mean we had a one-way ticket out of Mulletville.
Sadly, they didn’t send the hot Italian cop. Instead, a squat, hairy man in a too-small uniform walked around the outside of the house with me, checking the basement windows. Everything looked fine. He looked annoyed. We went inside and checked the basement door. It was still locked. He told me to stand back (which would have been pretty hot if he’d been the Italian guy), then he opened the door.
Two enormous fluffs of fur ran screeching past his feet.
Those good-for-nothing fat cats had sneaked into the basement this morning when Charles turned off the circuit breaker for the oven (remember it caught on fire?—he's finally fixing it) and chose not to move until after we’d left for work (they were probably exhausted from all those stairs).
Despite my profuse apologies, the officer was not amused.
Well you know what Officer Odoriferous? I am not amused that I hoped my house was hamburglered again so we’d get to move. And I bet those sweet little nuns weren’t amused they had to kick some deadbeat’s boxers aside to get from their cars to the church door.
There is a serious lack of amusement in this town and I’ve had it.
Send in the clowns. The contortionists. The zebras. Now.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.