The first day of spring break has arrived with a wet, clammy breath down my back, and the damned local woodpecker drilling into the chimney pipe again, hell-bent to set my teeth on edge. And he’s not even the pretty kind, just some ugly jerk from Alabama looking to score with the local ladies.
After setting a handful of wet leaves and cedar chips ablaze I hollered out a few choice words for my feathered nemesis up the flue, then set out to make myself a cup of tea to chase off the chill. I’ve had to resort to tea now that my old lady innards are reacting to java like vinegar on baking soda. I’ve also come down with a mighty attractive case of eczema on my neck …. and left butt cheek, so I’m doing the dance of the herbal tea witch to try to chase it off, since the only prescription the doctor could give me was “Try to reduce the stress in your life”. It’s a thing with her; seemingly stress is the cause of everything in my life, and the only cure is to magically reduce it.
As in, “No Shit. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me get right on it.”
Thus, I am reduced to an infusion of expensive herbal tea to clear up both ass and attitude; I’m bringing sexy back with a vengeance. I’ll let you know if it works.
Despite my rashy ass, and tea that tastes like a copper penny, life is slowly turning into something less horrific. And this despite the fact we just got the Jeep fixed, only to have the Dodge die yesterday at a most inopportune time.
(WTF Mr. Jesus? Seriously dude, your timing blatantly sucks moth balls and kerosene. Flaming stink buddy. FLAMING STINK!)
Back to the whole broken car thing; The Daughterling and I were on our way to her school where she was to give her Senior Seminar Presentation. …. which I can only define as numerous essays (I lost count after 15), science fair sized “activities”, community service hours (she did 34), applications, fees, signatures, verifications, tests, assessments, monkey with an organ grinder – jump through the hoops and dance like a bitch for our small town entertainment – bullshit – rub your morning eyeballs with glass frit then break your pinky toe on a rusty axe before falling into a vat of human excrement and vomit Project of all PROJECTS. All of which are mandatory or the child will be denied a high school diploma. This town is the only town in the county that does this. All the other schools recognized the Senior Seminar Project for the steaming pile of rabid baboon dung that it is.
Anyobtuse. After an entire year of working on this monstrosity it all comes down to twenty minutes. One second more they deduct points. One second less, she fails, and they have a huge Flavor Flav-like clock they place on the desk just as the poor kid starts, slamming a palm across the top of it to start the time once the first word crosses their lips.
(Perhaps my description of how the timing goes down was a touch extreme, but that’s how it was similarly defined in a snarky email I received after I dared question the validity of such a divinely inspired seminar. I did add the Flavor Flav bit. .. maybe.)
Anyjudgement; 20 MINUTES, by god! Or hellfire and damnation will be thrust upon us, and our loins laid barren unto the third generation! … or something like that. And forget being late, because if you’re not early you fail. Blink and you fail. If the wind changes direction and Jupiter aligns with Pluto YOU FAIL!
This town is big on FAIL.
So back to the car thing: the Durango refused to start, thus now we’re running “seminar late”, because I have to switch the insurance over from the Dodge to the Jeep, and the lady on the phone at Progressive is playing at being related to a mentally impaired chimpanzee – yet, we still manage to get there on time; ten whole minutes before her “start or you die!” time.
Then we discover the teacher she was assigned to (Read: bound by a soul oath with Lucifer, and sealed in the blood of a fuzzy, baby seal – IT SHALL NOT BE CHANGED!) … has indeed, been changed. So we run across the campus in our finery, looking like frantic gazelles fleeing from the jaws of impending death
… okay, maybe looking more like lurching gibbons in fancy hats and nude colored pantyhose – but we make it to the new “unchangeable” teacher’s room on time. Thankfully it happened to be her ASL teacher, whom my daughter is not only familiar with, but can also speak-a her language with.
Daughterling was composed, and knew her business. She sailed through without a hitch, sounding and communicating like some kind of adult who knew what she was about. She was grace and intelligence combined, interacting with her teacher beautifully, and answering questions eloquently, leaving no room for bullshit. .. this child actually knew what she was talking about!
I wanted to cry. Maybe roll on the floor a bit and drool in awe.
I didn’t. But I wanted to. I’m not sure if I was just relieved to finally have this massive hurdle over, and I can now regain a HUGE chunk of my life and time, or if the realization that my last child is no longer a child, has just sunk in.
We have moved one step closer to Utah. To Daughterling’s independence. To leaving this town.
Life is weird.
And that has been my week to date. So right now my biggest hurdle is getting this house in order to move, and finding a way to defeat the damn woodpecker. So far I’ve tried burning every noxious, unfriendly thing I can get my hands on. All I can say is these little woodpeckers have physical constitutions like freaking titanium. I am now working on a mixture of cinnamon oil, rosemary, tabasco, and wet pine cone bombs I can lite up. I’m also hoping this incontinent dog of mine will prove useful. Having a plethora of towels I go through every day on her behalf, I have reserved a particularly ratty one I’m letting her get nice and piss soaked; coated in all manner of dog filth and stink. I’ll be tearing it up and using those bits as fuses for the afore-mentioned pine cones.
If all the above fail to bring about desirable results I may resort to BBQ. I am a chef, after all, and I will resort to butchery when pressed to my limits. …. though after all the WMDs I’ve marinated the little pecker in, I might not want to actually consume it.
But I just might, out of spite, because I’m no good … and I’m thinking of embracing that part of me.