Random Mitzi
I just got an email from some on-line dating service for "real mature singles 50 and over." I realize I just had a birthday, but, um, just how the fuck old do you think I am? That ain't Centrum Silver I choke back every morning with my coffee.
And I'd like to send a big THANKS A LOT to Dawn for the now continuous replay of "The Backyardigans" theme song in my head. You're the best, Toots. I owe you. And I do mean, I owe you.
Julie's most recent post mentioned a trampoline in a neighbor's front yard. Which made me say a little thank you prayer that we don't live where we used to. I don't know if I ever mentioned the trampoline gang from hell, but I will now because I'm procrastinating. And it's kind of a funny story.
The house Ben and I lived in until this past spring was what one might call a "mother in law's house." A small 2-bedroom structure built around the garage of the main house at the back of the property. Not only was our bedroom directly above the garage, it was also directly east of the alley. Across the alley, a hodgepodge of bad apartments and duplexes. The duplex directly across from us had, for reasons we still can't determine, a trampoline in the yard.
There were no children living in that duplex, as far as we could tell. But there were children on that trampoline. You betcha. Every freakin' night. Every weekend. I would guess their ages ranged from 12 to 15, and they were the most horrible little punkasses I ever encountered. And the trampoline was their gathering place. They fought on it, they made out on it, they screamed obscenities on it.
It made me crazy. I would glare at them from the kitchen window, yell threats of police reports from my bedroom window, and once, when a girl of about 14 threatened to kick my ass, I very nearly took her up on it (thankfully, Ben stopped me from making a middle-aged ass of myself). The trampoline was my nemesis. I wanted it gone.
Ben and I would spend nights in bed hashing delicious plans for the trampoline's demise. We could sneak out in the night and cut a huge gash in the center of it. We could unhinge the springs on one side, just enough so that the first little fucker to climb on would have a nasty surprise. We could douse it in gasoline and burn the sonofabitch down.
We didn't actually do any of these things. Instead, we moved. Across the street and away from the alley and the trampoline.
When we moved, Ben's ancient couch didn't move with us. I put my foot down on that ugly ass thing. It was older than me and a hundred times more useless. This decision caused Ben's pack rat mother considerable agony, especially when she heard my plans for the couch involved a spot on the curb and a trip to the landfill. She called everyone she knew trying to find a home for that couch, but when she came up empty, Ben and his brother hauled the thing to the curb.
Later that afternoon, we drove down the alley and noticed the couch had been hauled to a position next to the trampoline. We could only imagine what kind of STDs were breeding on it by then. We shuddered.
The next morning, we drove down the alley and were met with a shocking sight--the couch now sat in a sad heap of trampoline remains. Apparently, the Apple Dumbass Gang got some great idea to hoist the couch up onto the trampoline and see how high they could bounce on it. It seemed the trampoline, like us, finally decided "enough is enough."
The owner of the property cleaned up the mess and had the couch hauled away a couple of days later. The trampoline was not replaced. The hood rats found somewhere else to cause mayhem.
All within days of our moving.
The irony of this is not lost on me.
Anyway--that's my trampoline story. Ta-daaaaaa...
Bob managed not to get himself sent home yesterday, but he did learn a valuable lesson--never, ever take a swing at your mother while her husband is in eyeshot. I don't know what crawled up his ass. He was lying on the floor watching Spongebob when I asked him to hand me his coat so I could hang it up. His coat was lying on the floor about 6 inches from him--he would barely have had to move. Instead, he argued with me. "I'll do it when I want to." I threatened to turn off the tv. He got up, grabbed his coat, and stomped off to his room. I told him to stay there until he could act respectably. He ran out about 20 seconds later, mocking me with "ha ha! I'm out!" I told him to go back. He ran past me and took a swing at me as he passed. And that pissed Ben off--bad. He yelled at Bob to get in his room or he was going to be put in his room. Well, Bob didn't care for being yelled at by Ben one bit (the shock factor--Ben never raises his voice, like, ever). So he cried for a while and then got his shit together. He was sweet to me the rest of the night.
Fucking weird. I will never understand children.
And I'd like to send a big THANKS A LOT to Dawn for the now continuous replay of "The Backyardigans" theme song in my head. You're the best, Toots. I owe you. And I do mean, I owe you.
Julie's most recent post mentioned a trampoline in a neighbor's front yard. Which made me say a little thank you prayer that we don't live where we used to. I don't know if I ever mentioned the trampoline gang from hell, but I will now because I'm procrastinating. And it's kind of a funny story.
The house Ben and I lived in until this past spring was what one might call a "mother in law's house." A small 2-bedroom structure built around the garage of the main house at the back of the property. Not only was our bedroom directly above the garage, it was also directly east of the alley. Across the alley, a hodgepodge of bad apartments and duplexes. The duplex directly across from us had, for reasons we still can't determine, a trampoline in the yard.
There were no children living in that duplex, as far as we could tell. But there were children on that trampoline. You betcha. Every freakin' night. Every weekend. I would guess their ages ranged from 12 to 15, and they were the most horrible little punkasses I ever encountered. And the trampoline was their gathering place. They fought on it, they made out on it, they screamed obscenities on it.
It made me crazy. I would glare at them from the kitchen window, yell threats of police reports from my bedroom window, and once, when a girl of about 14 threatened to kick my ass, I very nearly took her up on it (thankfully, Ben stopped me from making a middle-aged ass of myself). The trampoline was my nemesis. I wanted it gone.
Ben and I would spend nights in bed hashing delicious plans for the trampoline's demise. We could sneak out in the night and cut a huge gash in the center of it. We could unhinge the springs on one side, just enough so that the first little fucker to climb on would have a nasty surprise. We could douse it in gasoline and burn the sonofabitch down.
We didn't actually do any of these things. Instead, we moved. Across the street and away from the alley and the trampoline.
When we moved, Ben's ancient couch didn't move with us. I put my foot down on that ugly ass thing. It was older than me and a hundred times more useless. This decision caused Ben's pack rat mother considerable agony, especially when she heard my plans for the couch involved a spot on the curb and a trip to the landfill. She called everyone she knew trying to find a home for that couch, but when she came up empty, Ben and his brother hauled the thing to the curb.
Later that afternoon, we drove down the alley and noticed the couch had been hauled to a position next to the trampoline. We could only imagine what kind of STDs were breeding on it by then. We shuddered.
The next morning, we drove down the alley and were met with a shocking sight--the couch now sat in a sad heap of trampoline remains. Apparently, the Apple Dumbass Gang got some great idea to hoist the couch up onto the trampoline and see how high they could bounce on it. It seemed the trampoline, like us, finally decided "enough is enough."
The owner of the property cleaned up the mess and had the couch hauled away a couple of days later. The trampoline was not replaced. The hood rats found somewhere else to cause mayhem.
All within days of our moving.
The irony of this is not lost on me.
Anyway--that's my trampoline story. Ta-daaaaaa...
Bob managed not to get himself sent home yesterday, but he did learn a valuable lesson--never, ever take a swing at your mother while her husband is in eyeshot. I don't know what crawled up his ass. He was lying on the floor watching Spongebob when I asked him to hand me his coat so I could hang it up. His coat was lying on the floor about 6 inches from him--he would barely have had to move. Instead, he argued with me. "I'll do it when I want to." I threatened to turn off the tv. He got up, grabbed his coat, and stomped off to his room. I told him to stay there until he could act respectably. He ran out about 20 seconds later, mocking me with "ha ha! I'm out!" I told him to go back. He ran past me and took a swing at me as he passed. And that pissed Ben off--bad. He yelled at Bob to get in his room or he was going to be put in his room. Well, Bob didn't care for being yelled at by Ben one bit (the shock factor--Ben never raises his voice, like, ever). So he cried for a while and then got his shit together. He was sweet to me the rest of the night.
Fucking weird. I will never understand children.
posted by Mitzi Green at 9:36 AM
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