Monday, August 3, 2009

On life in the Midwest.

This evening I am folding laundry like a good little woman, when I get a text message from my neighbor Crystal which reads "Hey drunk grandpa just ran into ur house with his moped". I think I misread the email, because at first, I was merely amused. You have to understand that the neighbors directly across from me resemble something like the Waltons Meets Jerry Springer (I always hear the banjo music from Deliverance every time I look that way, "you sure do have a purty mouth". After giving it some thought, and receiving a phone call and a visit, I went out to inspect the damage. He had ran up into our mini-side yard, hit our house while missing the gas meter by about 2 feet. I was incensed. My four-year old routinely takes that route when going out to his sandbox. I could have strangled the drunk old coot (a phrase I seldom have opportunity to employ).

Went camping last weekend, went well until it began to rain. New/old pop-up had apparently lost its weather proofing directly above the area that I intended to sleep. I knew when I got in (Aaron took the inner side of the "bed") that something was amiss. Aaron assured me that it was merely dampness from the humidity. I didn't buy it, but bedded down anyway. I suppose I shouldn't complain, after all, it was only at my head and feet that the water truly gathered. As I lay there, having visited the in-laws glorious pull-behind, I realized that I had to pee. All day I went a grand total of 3 times. I went just before bed, but lying there listening to the steady drizzle seemed to inspire my bladder to grander heights. In a normal camping situation, I would have decamped for the tree line, handy roll of t.p. deftly tucked under arm. This campground, featuring electric outlets and gravel drive, has no such tree line. As sure as I am sitting here, if I would have tried to cop a squat behind the camper, there would have been some idiot with an iphone at hand, and my rear-end would have been gracing You Tube by morning. I resigned myself to trucking down the lane swathed in a Colts throw. At least I had the latrine to myself (pretty sweet considering stalls were only equipped with curtains as opposed to costly doors). I figure the next time we camp, its should be in Texas. I hear they could really use the rain.

Finally, a word to the socially inept. I, like most fifteen year olds, appreciate the novelty of text messaging. It is a nifty method of spouting off drivel whilst doing something more important. Unfortunately, text messaging is not the appropriate medium for certain types of information sharing. One should never text certain things simply because there is no intonation or other nonverbal cues that might allow one's reader to gauge mood or intent. I have discovered this first hand (certain things just aren't funny when typed). Also, there should be a list of inappropriate text subject matter. For instance: "Hey ur mom is dead", "we should see other ppl", "we need to talk about some things". That kind of stuff is best left for a more direct form of communication. Though I do suppose if one is particularly cowardly, a text message provides an easy out.

Happy dreaming (if anyone has a sominex to spare, text it to me)

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