Of Simple Renovations and Other Traps Set by Satan

Simple? Allow me to describe this simple reno. It started in early August. I had the bright idea that seventeen years of living in this house now required a major cleanup job. I’m not talking about knocking out walls and building rooms. I’m talking about cleanup, paint, refurbishment of already existing walls and fixtures.

First of all, flocked ceilings. I truly would like to know who the sadistic, lazy ass was who invented this stuff. What person has not looked up at one time or another at the discolored popcorn hanging over their heads and said, “How do I fix this?”

Well, dude-meister on YouTube said to tape a spackling knife to the nozzle of a shop vac and vacuum the ceiling. It seemed to work well enough, but it took days—even with a dear friend and co-writer helping me. A little bright white paint later—also applied by JJ Gasparin—and the kitchen and dining room had new ceilings. It took me longer to do the hallways, but that’s because I don’t have JJ’s goliath height and nine-foot reach. I’m 5’4”. I had a ladder.

Then there were the kitchen cabinets. I think they were installed at some point in the 70’s. I’ve been using the kitchen for seventeen years. People who know me know I cook. Really cook. From scratch and everything. Hence the expensive appliances I purchased back in April. I deserve the best—at least that’s what I told my husband when he balked at the price. (It’s the new appliances that started this mess. They looked like three Cadillacs sitting in the middle of tarpaper shacks.)

But I digress. Back to the dilapidated cabinets. I had restored the finish a couple of years back, but it was no good. They were worn, scared and in need of replacement—but who has the money, right? So, I decided it would be best to paint them.

Ever wanted to know what it takes to paint finished wood cabinets that live in a house where someone cooks for real? Well, first, you have to degrease. That is, you scrub. You scrub until your fingers bleed. No, really. They bleed. I even bought one of those horrendous, bad-for-the-environment, skin-melting chemical compounds guaranteed to make the mess disappear. Yeah, no. It didn’t work. I was down to Brillo and brutally hot water. My fingers bled. Taking pity on me, the husband even decided to help on one of the many days I worked the project. After that day, he realized just how hard the work was and decided to see to our meals.

Then the doors and hardware have to be removed, and every square inch has to be sanded. Thoroughly. The hardware went into the trash. I refused to clean it and put it back up. No way.

Oh, and here’s a lesson: While your mother is in to help with the painting, don’t allow your 15-year-old daughter and her 18-year-old cousin to paint the cabinet doors in the garage. With the door open. With their long hair unbound. With the little doggie running wild over the freshly-painted panels. If you do this, you will spend the next week re-sanding and repainting, that is, after you scrape all the hair and dirt off. I’ll admit, the puppy prints were somewhat cute, but not on kitchen cabinet doors. Also, when you tell them to be careful not to get paint on the inner side of the door, make sure they understand you. Apparently, that instruction translates to, “Don’t worry. Mom’s just kidding. Make as big a mess of it as you want.” Thusly translated, you get smears and globs to look at when you open the doors. I’ll fix that mess later. I don’t know how, but I’ll fix it.

Once all the painting was done there was the reassembly. Allow me to describe this special ring of hell. First of all, the old-fashioned hardware is no longer available. One cannot simply buy the same hinges and put the screws in the same holes. Oh, hell, no. You have to figure out a way to apply the new hardware, perfectly line up each freaking door and shove the screws into the wood without an extra set of hands to help hold it in place—and in my case, no experience doing same. If you make a mistake, you have to take it back down, putty the holes, repaint and scream. In that order. (The scream is necessary to inform all those in the household who don’t bother to help that they should stay far away lest they get a cabinet door drilled into their backs with Mama’s handy-dandy power driver. It’s very effective.)

Owing to various levels of frustration—or rather my inability to function at the level of frustration the hardware issue caused me—it took me a couple of weeks to accomplish the reassembly. This was frustrating on its own. Then it was time to go through everything I had removed from the kitchen and dining room and decide what would go back up on the walls and what would be disposed of. In the end, some things went to the attic, some to the dump, and some to charity. I went to the store and bought all new decorations. Three items, in fact. Just three that would enhance the gorgeous mural my daughter painted for me some weeks before. I chose three giant flower wall hangers done in brightly painted steel. They’re pretty cool-looking and very simple. Picture perfect and finished.

Except for the countertops I had to order and the new chandelier that’s still in the trunk of my car.

By this time, August and September are gone. There is still the guest bath and the living room yet to go. Oh, joy. I’m so out of steam.

Living room redo started with the removal of some furniture for disposal. I had planned to donate it all, but unfortunately, the day I moved said pieces outside to be loaded on the truck and hauled away, we got a tornado. I was on the phone when it hit. (I work from home, for a health insurance call center, adjusting claims and quoting benefits for healthcare providers.) The nice gentleman with whom I was speaking, judging by his accent, was from somewhere in the Middle East. It was obvious he had no experience with tornadoes as when the sirens and radio alarms started going off and I told him I had to get off the phone to seek shelter, he became a bit miffed. I had hoped to get the humongous desk under cover before the storm hit, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted his information, so I tried to throw it at him quickly. He failed to get it all and told me to repeat. Just then, the wind crashed through my open window and sent the desk flying. I told him I wasn’t going to die for his information and to write more quickly next time. I disconnected and dove for cover—after closing the window and making sure I knew where the dog was.

Buh-bye desk. Fortunately, that was the only damage. Sigh. It was a nice desk. Past tense.

Screw it. Off to the dump with what’s left. Sounds like a job for super husband and his trusty sidekick, the princess. He was not pleased. When he started to argue, I gave him the look. I think I’ve explained in a previous post about the look. It’s enough to drop the most stalwart of men and children in their tracks. Funny how it doesn’t work on other mothers, though. Anyway, he clamped his mouth shut and hollered for the kid to help. They were off, and I was scraping ceilings again. Oh, what sheer joy. Before and after work, scrape ceilings. Remove things from walls, scrape ceilings. Patch holes, repair cracks, scrape ceilings. Sand patches, scrape ceilings. The walls are now ready for painting, but first, the ceilings have to be painted.

In the bathroom, I used the same paint I’d used in the other rooms. For the living room, I wanted something a little more dull and flat, so I bought a different kind. Today was the day. Today I was going to get my new countertops delivered. Today.

I took today off so I could be ready for the installers. I also had to paint the damned ceiling in the living room.

O . . . kay. So the day did not go so well. The installers arrived on time. The plumbers arrived yesterday to disconnect everything. I had spent a couple of hours clearing everything out of the way and removing items from cabinets. Bar stools and chairs were carried out to make room, and I was ready. They showed—two very nice gentlemen with winning smiles and good attitudes. I knew this was going to be great. I was excited. Face it; the old counters are more than 40 years old. They are a hideous wood-grain laminate that is currently disintegrating into horror. My horror. Embarrassing horror. No way I’m cooking Thanksgiving Dinner for the multitudes with this mess.

They pulled all the counters out. There was much noise. There was much grunting; then they began pulling things out. I should also mention that I told them about the nightmare of getting all the cabinets and walls repaired and painted, and I told them the penalty should they mar same. They were very careful.

Then they brought in the first new piece and put it in place. It was gorgeous. I was so pleased. While they were outside wrestling with the really big, main piece, I decided to look inside the now-exposed corner lazy susans. Well, I discovered where the mice had gotten into the kitchen last year during the first freeze. I also discovered where they had nested and grabbed the vacuum. I had it all cleaned up and had returned to my work in the living room by the time they had returned.

They came through the front door with a behemoth of a counter top. I stopped them. That wasn’t the sink I had ordered. It was wrong. I glanced at my naked kitchen with no plumbing. I looked back at them. Their faces fell. They were no longer smiling. They looked at the orders. Yep, the sink was wrong. The massive manufactured, fitted stone counter top had the wrong sink, and I was less than pleased. I tried to remain cool about it, but I didn’t want it. There was a real reason I had ordered the perfect sink. I needed it.

A few phone calls later, the crestfallen men loaded the thing back onto the truck. They decided to bring back that hideous old piece of crap I wanted so badly to be rid of and set it in place—leaving one stretch of cabinets with no cover at all.

Now, I have no plumbing, one missing counter and old, dilapidated crap. Not. Going. To. Tear. Their. Hearts. Out.

Shake it off. Paint the ceiling. Yell at the manager later.

So, back to that different paint I bought. Um . . . Dutch Boy, what the hell were you thinking? You tried to “out-technology” the competitors. You should have just stuck to making paint. Why do you have to make something with “color-changing technology?”

Here’s what happened. I used all the paint—ALL the paint—on just one third of the ceiling. I ran out while I was applying the third coat on one corner. Yes, I said third coat. The paint didn’t cover well at all. When it changed color from the hideous pink to what was supposed to be a flat white, it turned light brown. Well, hell. My old, popcorn-flocked ceilings were brown. That’s why I had gone to all the trouble of scraping them off.

Damn.

Off to the store to find something better. I talked to the paint guru. He recommended a different Dutch Boy. I had used this brand many times and had always been happy, but I was leery. Still, I took it home and got to work. In most places, it only took one coat. I really like that. In most places.

I was almost finished when a large glob of paint dripped and hit me square in the right eye. Let me tell you, people; there is no hell like the ninth ring of paint clinging to your eyeball. There is no known eyewash that can remove same. The horror! The humanity! The cursing . . . I invented words. My eye currently looks like a large cranberry with a brown spot in the center. Grand.

Back to work. I finished at last, or so I thought. The now-dry technological failure kept bleeding through on the first third. No matter how good the rest of it looked, that first third looked dirty.

Sigh.

Damn, again.

Okay, another major disappointment. The sun was down, and I was tired. I called it done for the day. I decided to let it go until Saturday when Mom is to come to help me paint walls. I would just do a quick coat and move on to walls.

I took up tarps. I took a shower. I moved remaining furniture around to make it livable.

Then I looked up. I heard a sound faintly reminiscent of dried leaves crackling and looked up. I should never have looked up. The ugly brown bleed-through paint was cracking. It was flaking. It was falling. The only place on the ceiling it was doing it was where that first gallon of crappy “high-technology” paint was bleeding through. Apparently, the only thing the paint doesn’t stick to is ceilings. No, really. It’s true.

It clings to my skin, which I have scrubbed raw, my hair where it has become permanent, the hardwood floor where it was tracked by the husband, and the inside of my right eyelid, where it is still burning. If you put it on your ceiling, it just comes off in big flakes.

I’m going to let Mom deal with it. I also have half a mind to sic her on the counter top people. I’m so done.

I also broke my crock pot.

And I’m out of tequila.

Another Day in Paradise (Or a Study of the Effects of Tequila on the Human Mind)

System updates—we’ve all experienced the incredible euphoria of that announcement. You get the nicely worded email at work and you know your life will soon turn to crap. We got the emails on Friday. The updates were to take place over the weekend, which meant Monday would be a new adventure through the Nine Rings of Hell. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Well, here in Illinois, it’s called the Seven Gates of Hell. Those gates can be found near Collinsville, Illinois, along Lebanon Road as you travel toward Troy. Legend has it there are many horrors facing the unwary traveler at the stroke of midnight. You can find out more about it here: http://nightfallunlimited.com/?p=6.

But I digress. This is not what I’m writing about, so back to the subject at hand.

Anyway, Monday rolled in with all the troubles we would normally expect . . . and a few we didn’t. By 5:00 P.M., I was ready to pull my hair out, but I shucked it off and clocked out. There’s a trick to shutting off the work day. It took me years to figure it out, but I’m usually successful at it now. Monday was behind me and life was good.

Until Tuesday.

I’m getting to hate Tuesdays almost as much as Mondays. Still, like everyone else, I slogged through slow systems, internet interruptions and a constant barrage of client issues—each worse than the last. Like Gloria Gaynor, I survived. (Oops, just showed my age.)

Then dawns Wednesday. On the scale of hated days, Wednesday usually ranks fairly low. We all hate the camel that demands you guess what day it is, but hump day signals the downhill slide to the weekend. Unless it was this day, this Wednesday.

Like a moment from my pre-teen life, I rolled over when the alarm went off and begged, “Mom, just five more minutes,” and went back to sleep. Yeah, brilliant move, that. I woke again fifteen minutes before clock-in time. Man, don’t you just hate it when that happens? It was a mad dash to the bathroom to splash water on my face and pass a brush over my teeth.

The kid pounded on the bathroom door, entreating entry. Tough. I was late. She had to grit her teeth and struggle through the minutes until I emerged and ran back to the bedroom to toss off the nightgown, make a stab at making my bed and throw on whatever mismatched clothes I could find on laundry day. (Okay, laundry day was Sunday and I didn’t get it done. Don’t judge.)

I took three minutes for eggs over easy and to set water on for tea, then it was a mad dash to the office.

Relax, people. The office is at the front of my house. I clocked in exactly on time . . . I think. It was kind of hard to tell since I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too busy trying to get the systems up and running.

I work with a VDI system. I’m told that means Virtual Desktop something-or-other. My dear friend, Joey Walnuts, says it means, “A totally #$%@ up day in techno hell,” but those are his words (and colorful symbols), not mine. All I know about it is it has no hard drive, you cannot save anything on it and if it doesn’t like something you do, it locks up and you have to start all over. I was on my third start-all-over when I started drinking tea like it was going out of style. I had to get awake, and quick.

My first phone call from a doctor’s office looking to get an issue fixed was answered with a rough voice and a sneeze. I apologized while my caller blessed me and I jumped into the work day. Then the #$%@ up (again, Joey’s words) VDI kicked me out. The poor caller had to wait ten minutes while I got the stupid thing up and running again. She helped with humorous comments about stunning technology and stellar savings on our valuable time.

We laughed through the call and on I moved to the second. That’s when the dog went off. There’s a new neighbor in the maple tree out front. He’s a squirrel we named Sly because he’s a tricky little fellow. Sly mocks Lucy the Bichon and Lucy is not one to take such an affront lying down. Sly has been known to climb onto the screen where the dog likes to nap and chatter derisively at her. This day was no exception, but I digress again.

The caller started laughing as I apologized for the loud and intemperate animal snapping, snarling and barking at the disrespectful little beast hanging from the screen. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand how one small ball of white fluff can make so much noise.

I made it through the call. The dog got through it unscathed even though I had threatened to cook her up on the barbeque grille out front. She just snorted at me, barked at the window one more time and went back to sleep.

The next call was even more fun when the internet went out and I lost the caller. I have a lump on my forehead where I pounded it on the desk in frustration. I knew when I saw the Mediacom truck drive by my office window it wasn’t going to be good. For the next forty-five minutes, the internet was up and down until I finally called the company and was told they were doing maintenance on the lines. Well, that’s great. I’ll just take a couple of hours without pay while you all have a good time. She apologized and said it wasn’t supposed to disrupt service. I told her to call her guys and get them to fix it immediately or I was going to walk over and find them. I made her understand this was not a scene she wanted her guys to experience. Five minutes later, it was up and running with no further interruptions.

Lunch time.

I fixed a lovely meal of tomatoes with basil from the garden, pan-seared salmon with dill sauce and iced tea. It was a nice meal because I needed strength to get through the rest of the day.

I came back to work and the VDI was down again. Okay, so Joey was right. It truly was behaving like a #$%@ up tool. Fortunately, it only took a few minutes to get running again and I clocked in on time. After slogging through a few more calls with slow systems and a worsening attitude, I reached for chocolate to keep myself out of the liquor cabinet. I had dreams of a mojito or a shot of tequila with a nice wedge of lime. I abstained. Regretfully.

At break time, I got a bag of ice for the growing bump on my forehead and took a swing at Sly with a ball bat. Hey! It’s not your miserable day. It was mine. And don’t worry. The squirrel was much faster.

Back in the house, a large and fearsome wasp was making himself at home on my desk. I discovered this when I came back in after chasing the fluffy-tailed monster away from my house. Mr. Wasp was sitting on my headset. Without my headset, I cannot do my job. I work for a call center, for crying out loud. I have to take calls.

Ah, the bug zapper. Of course. After a quick run to the gazebo to get an apparatus that looks like a badminton racket—but is decidedly more deadly—I came back to fight the now-infamous Battle of the Headset. The wasp was the aggressor, I swear. I had no choice but to defend my home and my livelihood from the creature. After knocking over a vase of flowers, toppling a shelf of books, smacking a cup of tea all over the carpeting and destroying a desk lamp, the wasp was cornered in the window against the screen. I had him now.

This ingenious zapper is activated with the touch of a button. Aldis sells them for less than $2.00 and I bought several. They make a satisfying snap, crackle and hiss when you slap them against bugs. It smokes some, and it smells some, but it’s vindication against troublesome insects. The wasp was no exception. It smoked and smoldered and fell down dead in the windowsill. Yeah! That’s right. I won and the wasp died a horrible death. I have no remorse. I just wish I’d removed him from his final resting place and flushed him down the toilet. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Anyway, I was late. I had to get back to work. Lo and behold, the VDI was up and working—for the moment.

By 4:24 P.M., it was down again. Another call to the help desk and it wasn’t fixed. At 5:01 P.M. I ended my work day with a slam of my chair against the wall.

Enter tequila. As I contemplated the evening menu and the family arrived home, I pulled out a lovely bottle from my collection of fine tequilas. Just as I uncorked the bottle, I heard the worst screaming of any mother’s life. My child had gone outside to the gazebo, stepped on a wasp and remembered why I always tell her to wear her shoes. Too bad she didn’t actually put her shoes on before heading out.

Our home has become the center for vengeful wasps since the now-infamous Battle of the Headset. They’re all bent on retribution for the terrible crime of having slaughtered one of their own. They exacted that vengeance on my child. This shall not stand!

After some quick first aid and a hug to the shuddering, devastated child, I grabbed all the weapons I could find and went after the enemy. Now, those who know me know I don’t use pesticides, but we keep one single can of hornet killer around because I’m allergic. One sting and I’m ill. More than one and it can be deadly. I was on the warpath and anything flying was my enemy. I found the wasp that dared to touch my daughter and made it my first target. Vanquished, the terrible beast fell from the sky like so much spent ash. Then I went after its sisters and brothers.

That done, I tried to remember what I was doing before the terrible disruption of a screaming, damaged child. That’s when I saw the mess in my office. Broken lamp pieces still lay scattered about. Books were all a-tumble. I had managed to clean up the spilt tea, but the rest had to be set right. So, as I sat in my office chair, reorganizing the mess, I heard a horrified moan behind me.

“Mom, another wasp. It’s trying to kill me.”

Sure enough, when I turned it was to see my again-bare-footed daughter tiptoeing backwards away from an advancing winged dragon that limped across the floor. I glanced at the window sill. The little monster from earlier had not truly died. It was gone and set on attacking the princess. I grabbed the bug zapper, yelled at her to get back and brought the instrument of death down on the fiend once more. It sizzled. It snapped. It sparked—and it stung the zapper over and over. When it finally stopped moving, I scooped it up in a tissue and witnessed it trying to sting the paper. Straight to the toilet and a resounding flush later, I hoped it didn’t crawl back out and try to sting her on the butt at some point. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it aloud in front of the girl because now she’s afraid of the bathroom. Live and learn.

Throwing my hands in the air, I moved back to the tequila and fixing supper. I wanted to pour the wonderful elixir into a pretty glass, but . . . my daughter’s cell phone rang again.

 So, getting back to earlier in the day, one of the issues I had was the cell phone she left in my care. It rang several times an hour. All. Day. Long.

Okay, she’s a young, new teenager with a cell phone. But this isn’t one of those times. You see, someone has been systematically harassing my daughter. It’s not a bully or someone from her school. It’s not anyone from the community. It’s a spam caller of some sort. The number is (458)201-2338.

That’s right! I posted it.

It’s okay. This number is all over the internet with warnings about spammers or fishers trying to get personal information. The number called no less than sixteen times and I was no longer on the clock. They had called eight times on Monday and ten times on Tuesday. I intended to answer this time, as I had done on my lunch and break.

These people don’t even know who they’re calling. They ask for a name that doesn’t belong in this house. When you ask who’s calling, they start stuttering, acting as if they can no longer hear you and disconnect. Well, this time I wasn’t going to allow such. I answered the phone. The heavily-accented voice asked for “Mr. Dawn”.

The next sound he heard was a maniacal laughter. Then I launched into a tirade that had my injured child backing out of the room.

I yelled, "Don't you act like you can't hear me. I know English isn't your first language, but I know you can understand me. This is my child's phone. I've already reported you to law enforcement, several consumer fraud agencies and my attorney. You call again, it's grounds for prosecution. If that doesn't work, I'll come find you. Say I won't. I'll find you and we'll talk face to face. Am I making myself clear? I will travel to India, Indonesia or whatever exotic country you live in, but I swear I’ll find you. I will not stand for anyone—I mean, anyone—harassing my little girl. Do you understand me? Do you? Answer me!”

The voice on the other end had grown very small. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, pal. You terrorized my child. Do you know what that means here in the good ol’ states? We don’t stand for such cruelty, such unwarranted bullcrap.”

“I . . . hello?”

“Don’t you dare act like you can’t hear me. You hang up before I get all this off my chest and I’ll reach through this electronic cellular line and snatch you bald-headed. You called this number no less than fifteen times, today—sixteen, counting this one—and you have yet to give me any information about why you’re disturbing us. Why did you call?”

“Hello?”

“Find a teacher. Learn to speak my language if you want to get anywhere with my species. In the meantime, get bent.”

There was a resounding click. I managed to yell all of it at the poor man on no less than three breaths of air while the child was moaning and backing from the room and the husband was storming in to demand to know what was happening.

I was beyond angry. I was searching for a new victim—until I happened to touch something on the iPhone in my hand. There was the answer to the dilemma, staring me in the face. I had the option of blocking the number. What a dumbass! I hadn’t even considered the nifty little phone could do such a thing. I blocked the number and started to laugh at myself. All that drama and all we had to do was block the number.

Okay, so we live and learn. It was a funny thing. After yelling my heart out at the hapless call agent from the Philippines or Taiwan or wherever, I felt much better. It was most cathartic. All the stress of the day washed itself away on that poor man’s hide (or ears, as the case may be) and I was a new woman.

The tequila, now forgotten—and still un-savored—sat on the liquor cabinet with all its contents intact. Supper was prepared, my mood was lighter and my husband and child were cowering in fear. It’s the same effect tequila has on my brain, but I didn’t need it. It was a good day after all.

I love this day

Okay. Maybe “love” is too strong a word, but it sounds nicer than “loathe”.

Back-story setup: A few weeks ago, my much-beloved neighbor succumbed the economic climate and decided to sign her beautiful home over to the bank rather than continue to struggle making ends meet. It was a tough decision and I hated to see her go. So now her home is empty and the two-story, much-used playhouse out back is fair game.

Which brings us to the present day—a day, I might add, which started before 6:00 AM. The playhouse is right outside my bedroom window. Some neighbor boys decided it would be fun to get up before the freaking sun and play construction worker. They borrowed some of their dad’s tools and went to work.

WTF? It’s not even sunrise and the little brats are hammering and pounding away at this thing. The resulting noise pollution woke first my child and then my husband and I. Of course the neighborhood dogs joined the chorus. Before long there was a cacophony of racket designed to rob everyone of much-needed Saturday sleep-in time. I suddenly decided I hated little boys.

Now, I try to be a good neighbor. I don’t yell and go into fits over such things because it’s not good for local relations. I growled a bit and grumbled and stumbled to the bathroom to wash my face.

Once I got the glue off my eyes and managed to get the kid away from the TV, I glanced out the window. The boys were carrying firewood away from my wood pile. Damn. How many times do I have to tell them it’s not safe? How many times do I have to remind them to leave stuff that doesn’t belong to them alone?

After a yell out the door to tell them to put it back and keep clear of the pile, it was time to start in on the house. Holy crap! The kid was only up about fifteen minutes before me. How the hell did she do that much damage in so short a time? Time to hit the warpath.

Sensing the trouble in the air, my husband wisely decided to take his family out to breakfast. Good thing, too. He was next on my hit list.

Back home, I saw the mess in the garage. I could barely get the car in, and with so much water standing in the yard, gardening was out, so it was time to clean the garage. The things I found! I won’t even go into it, but suffice it to say, I was pretty angry at the state of affairs—especially when I discovered how much of the junk in there belonged to all the neighbor boys. It’s all neatly piled in the yard now with a sign that says take it home by Sunday night or lose it forever.

Taking a break from the garage work, I decided to slog through the yard and see how much damage was done by all the rain. That’s when I found the big pile of trash the kids had carried from the playhouse and put in my yard. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so angry, seeing as how they had filled my burn barrel (thinking it was a trash can) and piled the rest neatly in three huge piles, but damn! This was the last straw. Time to talk to the parents.

So, I got all the firewood out of the playhouse (in seven trips) and stacked it back up. I drove down the road to speak to the very hot and hunky Ken about his children. No luck, no one home. Double damn.

I got back home to discover someone—during my short absence of five minutes—had nailed my mailbox. It was lying in the road, gasping out its last breath. Triple damn. My mail was scattered in the mud.

After asking my child if she had seen anything and watching her blasé shrug, I threw up my arms in disgust. The mailbox—looking a little worse for wear—is back on the job. It only took a sledge hammer and the vent of my growing frustration to put it back in place.

Back in the house to fix lunch, I discover the little hurricane had been at it again. When I went looking for her, I saw her clear down the block at the bad neighbor boys’ house. I had just told her not to go over there. Of course the little twit spilled the beans—since they were now home—about how angry I was. Time-out time. “In your room until I tell you to come out.”

The lunch done, house back in order and supper on the table, there’s a knock at the door. By this time, I’m very tired, very cranky and ready to let someone have it. Hot Ken was at the door with one of his errant boys in tow. Shit. I don’t want to deal with this now.

There’s a long discussion, ending with the boy being sent out back to clean up the trash and promises that I’ll be able to get some rest tonight. Hah! Believe it when I see it. I know his boys. Then he took a look at the big old dying tree in my yard and decided it needs to come down. Now! Oh, hell. That’s all I need to deal with. He volunteered.

This tree is situated between the corner of my house and the corner of my other neighbor’s garage. The only place to safely drop it is in the street. To fell it correctly takes real experience. Hot Ken? How do I know his capabilities? The man was nearly salivating at the prospect. Apparently he’s a closet lumberjack.

Of course, the thought of watching his muscles bulge as the sweat trickles down his naked chest is tempting, but I declined his offer. I really don’t need a lawsuit on my hands.

Supper’s cold by the time he left. So, after nuking, we finally sit down to eat. I’m no longer hungry. I’m just tired. The kid is whining. The husband is bitching. The cat is howling. The neighbor boys are hammering away in the playhouse again.

I need a drink. Or a valium. Or a really big gun…

The Wonderifical Magicada Rises Again!

With a sound reminiscent of a campy 50’s sci-fi movie, the invasion has begun. It started out innocuous enough. I noticed just a few brown exoskeletons strewn about when I made repairs to our stone-inlaid patio. As I lifted the stones to add sand, a few creepy-looking creatures poked their heads out.

My daughter jumped back in fright. When I held up an iridescent discarded wing, she demanded to know what it was. Like all good, honest and forthright mothers, I told her it was a faery wing. Her hazel eyes grew big as silver dollars. “Really?” she whispered.

She grabbed her butterfly net and went faery hunting.

After finishing the patio and pressing my husband into service, we installed the gazebo that acts as my out-door office. After all the work I did, after all the running from wedding receptions and grad parties, after entertaining visitors between bouts of gardening, patio repairs, gazebo building and house cleaning, my poor ol’ body was aching. Sleep did not come easily—compounded by the still on-going graduation party two doors down. They had a live band, followed by a kick-ass stereo system that kept the neighborhood rocking until 2:12 AM. I’m not sure why the music died down at that particular time, but judging from the mass exodus of roaring engines, I’d say some of our boys in blue may have decided to break up the shindig.

Whatever the cause, the effect was I could finally close my eyes. Which lasted until 3:59. On a holiday. Can you say, “Cranky”? I can, in a lot of different tongues and gestures—not to mention numerous grunts. At 4:02, I stumbled to the living room, set flame to nicotine and turned on the tube.

There was a strange buzzing sound. Thinking the kid had left her game console on again, I stomped over to yank the plug out of the wall. The buzzing remained and it was growing louder. After deciding it was my lack of sleep, I turned up the volume on the set. This action seemed to antagonize the source behind the noise. It had ceased to be a buzz, graduating to a dull roar.

Tinnitus? In an unattractive move, I wiggled a finger in each ear, but the sound got louder. Screw it. I dressed and left to hit the grocery store before the morning crowds.

You ever get that sickening feeling when your shoe goes crunch on the concrete? That’s what I experienced when I stepped from the sanctum of the garage to the driveway. My first thought? “Oh, gross!”

Scraping the squished carcass from the bottom of my shoe, I cast a wary eye about the place. They were everywhere, on the screens, falling from the trees, crawling on the ground. One landed in my hair. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing quite as humorous as a sleep-deprived, limping woman doing the “get-it-off-me!” dance in her driveway at 6:00 AM.

As I said, the invasion has begun. Brood XIX, they call it. Like that bad 50’s sci-fi flick, horrendous-looking black creatures with huge wings and blood-red eyes glared at me as if I was on the menu—hundreds of them. A chill ran over my weary bones.

Back home from the store, I stowed the groceries and made for the sanctuary of my Fortress of Solitude. My mother bought me a lovely fountain a couple of years ago, which babbles happily, but I can’t hear it for the song of the cicada. Yes, it’s that seemingly mythical emergence of the 13-year cicada—otherwise known as the Magicicada.

Some might call it beautiful, but my child would call it terrifying. It’s most prominent features are the afore-mentioned eyes. They almost glow in the early morning light. The ground, trees, gazebo, deck and garden plants are bejeweled with their discarded skins. (Who among us didn’t collect those bug shells and stick them to our clothes when we were kids? Go ahead. Try to deny it.)

So, I wanted to find out a little more about our friends of Brood XIX. Ain’t Google a wondrous thing? Here’s what I found out:

1. They’re basically harmless, but can, on occasion, mistake human limbs for tree limbs and bite. They’re not venomous, so not to worry.
2. If it’s not warm enough, they won’t emerge, mature or mate. That would account for the late emergence. Winter here was very harsh and has only recently released its grip on the landscape.
3. Their strategy is called “predator satiation”. This means they produce such numbers that anything enjoying the taste of these thumb-sized insects will soon fill up and be unable to eat anymore. As I recall from my childhood days on the farm, voracious chickens will snatch them up as fast as they emerge until any hen going after another tasty bite suddenly stops and thinks twice. Another one just won’t fit. Our Bichon snacked on a couple this morning. Yuck.
4. Many cicadas emerge crippled or sick. There’s a known fungus which attacks and kills them. And still, they produce enough numbers to repopulate for the next emergence in thirteen years.
5. Cicadas die off in sufficient numbers that their rotting corpses will create a rancid stench. Ew! Better start planning the buggy funeral now. In six weeks your yard will be littered with winged cadavers.
6. They live on liquid found in twigs and branches. This is their only food source. You know what that means, right?
7. You guessed it! They pee. They pee when they fly, meaning hats are no longer optional.

So, dear readers, when you go out into the world over the next few weeks, wear hearing protection, prepare for the crunching of their bodies underfoot (i.e. wear shoes or get gooey bug guts between your toes) and beware of golden showers from the sky.