Anna had a great morning run, until she found her X-husband’s dead body on her front lawn. It would be just like him to prank her. She nudged his leg with her foot. Nothing. Then she wound up and kicked him really hard in the thigh. Nothing. “Shit, Shit, Shit,” flew out of her mouth as she stomped towards her neighbor’s side door.
Her thoughts were flying. Oh, you are so the prime suspect. Maybe that stupid, little twit of a girl friend did it and dumped him here. Oh, maybe his crazy business partners got sick of his crap? This is not good. Shit! I have to cancel my morning meeting.
She knocked on the neighbor’s side door and waited.
“Hey, Curt, I hum..well..I think Jack's dead on my front lawn.”
Curt just stood and stared at her as he wiped this face to get the sleep out.
“Sorry? Jack peed on your lawn? How would you know that?” still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Dead. I think he is dead?”
“What?”
“He’s on the lawn by the rhododendrons,” as she put her hands to her face to keep from crying.
“Ah…Let me…ummm…shoes…” as they started down the drive way, “Yep, that’s Jack.”
They stood and stared at the still body for a few minutes. From across the street, Alice, the 78 year old neighbor, came out of her house to pick up the morning paper. Her coffee mug in hand tattered in her bony hand, while a cigarette perched on her bottom lip. She walked up to Anna and Curt, “Why’s Jack sleeping in the bushes?”
“He dead, I think?” Anna just stood frozen.
“Well, is anyone going to do a test?” Alice took her foot and nudged Jack’s arm. Nothing.
“Tried that," said Anna trying not to vomit.
“How about this?” as Alice’s leg swiftly flexed and landed squarely in Jack’s stomach. Nothing. Curt’s face went white as he searched for his cell phone.
“Yep, rat bastard’s dead,” Alice took a sip of her coffee and headed back towards her house.
MythKeeper
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Playing with Fire
Mother always told me not to play with fire, which for someone raised in the 1940’s and 50’s that phase meant the following:
1. Wash the makeup off your face and put a slip on under your dress, or you’ll end up pregnant. What? How does that work?
2. Go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and you’ll get into heaven. Really, I cannot skip one stinkin’ week, or I am damned to Hell? Could someone please point out that specific chapter and verse?
3. Don’t go cruising with rowdy boys (or any type of boy, for that matter), or you’ll end up pregnant. OK, fine, I’ll give her that one.
4. Don’t wash your hair while you have your period; it is bad for your health. Oh, I just don’t have the strength to argue that insane logic of a wife’s tale.
However, the following story isn’t really, what mother had in mind when she talked about playing with fire. Normally, a series of uneventful tasks linked by a life in the suburbs with a husband, 2.5 kids and a dog named Chris defined my life. I know, I know...you’re thinking Why a dog named Chris? After Chris Rock, of course. The .5kid gave him the name.
Rant:.5 is a neighbor kid who unofficially lives part-time at our house. How does an 8 year old know about the comedian? His parents. You see, these parents (and I use that term very loosely) see parenting as a low priority in their very self-absorbed lives. They don’t have time to teach or haven’t figured out how to teach the kid about diversity. Instead, they let him watch Chris Rock comedy specials to gain insight about the Black Experience. To this day, this idea baffles me. A typical weekend with these “Parents” would include hang-gliding off a cliff, tequila shots and poker games with the notion that poker is a great teaching tool for counting, determining shapes and reading (which one needs when being the beer caddy, I suppose). Maybe, it is the overwhelming attention to family traditions like Thanksgiving, where everyone determines their own dinner time by making their very own Turkey lunchmeat sandwich with the items left out on the counter. Nothing says love like “Make your own damn sandwich and while you’re there can you bring me a beer.” Perhaps, this would explain why he cohabitates with my family. Between checking on homework, family meals and marathon games of Monopoly and Rock Band, we seem to toss in a hug and a few words of encouragement.
Oh yes, playing with fire. Well, it all started when .5 kid ran into the kitchen and plowed his face straight into the side of the cupboard. This caused an antique tea cup to wobble and smash to the ground. .5's face was fine. His brain...hum…not so sure.
I quickly reached for the broom and dustpan before this event turned into a trip to the emergency room for one of the kids or dog. From the shards of porcelain, a matchbook from a night club called FireStorm in South Philly emerged. The worn, yellowed edges and missing matchsticks exposed its age. I picked it up and all of a sudden, I could swear I heard Jimi Hendrix singing “Fire” in the distance, and people cheering at his wailing guitar. This played nicely into my theory that motherhood makes you a part-time lunatic.
A day or two went by without any unusual activity. Then Tuesday around 4:30, it started. .5 ran into the house; Conner, my son, dragged a bit behind with a very sad face.
“Mrs. S. you are never going to believe what happened at the history fair today. It was so awesome.”
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
“His Abraham Lincoln assassination model caught on fire. It was sooooo cool,” .5 screeched as he dug in the cookie jar.
“What?”
With tears in Connor’s eyes, “Tony DeBella’s Pompeii reenactment exploded all over my model.”
“John Wilkes Booth never stood and chance,” .5 rooted through the pantry for some more food.
A freak mishap, of course. This is what I told my child to keep him clam and moving forward with life. This logic worked until dinner the next evening. The old crusty wooden shed sparked flames from the windows and door. “Mr. S. should there be fire coming from your shed?” .5 calmly stated as if he were asking for more peas. With this comment, everyone at the table leaped from their chairs and darted for the backyard, except for .5, who scooped up more mashed potatoes.
Several days later while cleaning up the kitchen, I came across those stinking FireStorm matches. Got that right! raced through my mind as I tossed them into the junk drawer. .5 strolled into the house for breakfast. “Lake, could you take the kitchen trash out for me?”
Rant:What the hell? If I have to be a part-time parent, .5 can do part-time chores. Furthermore, do you see what happens when you drink too many Jello Shooters? You start naming your kid after geological nomenclatures; forcing them to question your parental skills at a very young age and go looking for surrogate parents.
“Mrs. S., how can grass catch on fire?”
“Well, during a drought, the grass can get very dry, and…”
“No, I mean green grass.”
“I am not sure what you mean?”
“The grass in your front yard is on fire.”
You would think standing in the road surrounded by neighbors as the fire department extinguished my front yard was humiliating. Nope. Maybe even a stern line of questioning by the fire chef would have made me cringe. Nope. It wasn’t until .5 walked out from the crowd towards the only non-charred portion of my yard and stated the following:
“Look Mrs. S. This is really cool,” and pulled the FireStorm matches from his pocket along with a squirt bottle of full of liquor and proceeded to set the rest of my lawn on fire in front of God and everyone then I was mortified.
1. Wash the makeup off your face and put a slip on under your dress, or you’ll end up pregnant. What? How does that work?
2. Go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and you’ll get into heaven. Really, I cannot skip one stinkin’ week, or I am damned to Hell? Could someone please point out that specific chapter and verse?
3. Don’t go cruising with rowdy boys (or any type of boy, for that matter), or you’ll end up pregnant. OK, fine, I’ll give her that one.
4. Don’t wash your hair while you have your period; it is bad for your health. Oh, I just don’t have the strength to argue that insane logic of a wife’s tale.
However, the following story isn’t really, what mother had in mind when she talked about playing with fire. Normally, a series of uneventful tasks linked by a life in the suburbs with a husband, 2.5 kids and a dog named Chris defined my life. I know, I know...you’re thinking Why a dog named Chris? After Chris Rock, of course. The .5kid gave him the name.
Rant:.5 is a neighbor kid who unofficially lives part-time at our house. How does an 8 year old know about the comedian? His parents. You see, these parents (and I use that term very loosely) see parenting as a low priority in their very self-absorbed lives. They don’t have time to teach or haven’t figured out how to teach the kid about diversity. Instead, they let him watch Chris Rock comedy specials to gain insight about the Black Experience. To this day, this idea baffles me. A typical weekend with these “Parents” would include hang-gliding off a cliff, tequila shots and poker games with the notion that poker is a great teaching tool for counting, determining shapes and reading (which one needs when being the beer caddy, I suppose). Maybe, it is the overwhelming attention to family traditions like Thanksgiving, where everyone determines their own dinner time by making their very own Turkey lunchmeat sandwich with the items left out on the counter. Nothing says love like “Make your own damn sandwich and while you’re there can you bring me a beer.” Perhaps, this would explain why he cohabitates with my family. Between checking on homework, family meals and marathon games of Monopoly and Rock Band, we seem to toss in a hug and a few words of encouragement.
Oh yes, playing with fire. Well, it all started when .5 kid ran into the kitchen and plowed his face straight into the side of the cupboard. This caused an antique tea cup to wobble and smash to the ground. .5's face was fine. His brain...hum…not so sure.
I quickly reached for the broom and dustpan before this event turned into a trip to the emergency room for one of the kids or dog. From the shards of porcelain, a matchbook from a night club called FireStorm in South Philly emerged. The worn, yellowed edges and missing matchsticks exposed its age. I picked it up and all of a sudden, I could swear I heard Jimi Hendrix singing “Fire” in the distance, and people cheering at his wailing guitar. This played nicely into my theory that motherhood makes you a part-time lunatic.
A day or two went by without any unusual activity. Then Tuesday around 4:30, it started. .5 ran into the house; Conner, my son, dragged a bit behind with a very sad face.
“Mrs. S. you are never going to believe what happened at the history fair today. It was so awesome.”
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
“His Abraham Lincoln assassination model caught on fire. It was sooooo cool,” .5 screeched as he dug in the cookie jar.
“What?”
With tears in Connor’s eyes, “Tony DeBella’s Pompeii reenactment exploded all over my model.”
“John Wilkes Booth never stood and chance,” .5 rooted through the pantry for some more food.
A freak mishap, of course. This is what I told my child to keep him clam and moving forward with life. This logic worked until dinner the next evening. The old crusty wooden shed sparked flames from the windows and door. “Mr. S. should there be fire coming from your shed?” .5 calmly stated as if he were asking for more peas. With this comment, everyone at the table leaped from their chairs and darted for the backyard, except for .5, who scooped up more mashed potatoes.
Several days later while cleaning up the kitchen, I came across those stinking FireStorm matches. Got that right! raced through my mind as I tossed them into the junk drawer. .5 strolled into the house for breakfast. “Lake, could you take the kitchen trash out for me?”
Rant:What the hell? If I have to be a part-time parent, .5 can do part-time chores. Furthermore, do you see what happens when you drink too many Jello Shooters? You start naming your kid after geological nomenclatures; forcing them to question your parental skills at a very young age and go looking for surrogate parents.
“Mrs. S., how can grass catch on fire?”
“Well, during a drought, the grass can get very dry, and…”
“No, I mean green grass.”
“I am not sure what you mean?”
“The grass in your front yard is on fire.”
You would think standing in the road surrounded by neighbors as the fire department extinguished my front yard was humiliating. Nope. Maybe even a stern line of questioning by the fire chef would have made me cringe. Nope. It wasn’t until .5 walked out from the crowd towards the only non-charred portion of my yard and stated the following:
“Look Mrs. S. This is really cool,” and pulled the FireStorm matches from his pocket along with a squirt bottle of full of liquor and proceeded to set the rest of my lawn on fire in front of God and everyone then I was mortified.
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