Shooting at Peeping Toms with Shotguns and Beating Flashers about the Head with Broomsticks

My alarm was set for 8:30.  At 8:23, there was a pounding on the front door.  Grrrr!  At least it roused me from the nightmare I was having about forgetting to take the kids to their 1:00 orthodontist appointment scheduled for today.

No, I didn’t answer the door.  As usual, we all dropped to the ground, peeked through the window, but didn’t recognize the man standing there. I’m not letting a stranger in the house.  He could be a lunatic.  Not likely, but always possible.

My second Man Thing Project* in 2013, after cleaning off the washer and dryer drums, is to install a peephole in the front door.  This skulking around peeking out of windows is getting silly.  You probably think I’m being overly dramatic, but if you lived in the neighborhood I lived in until I was 12, you’d be skittish, too.  It was the neighborhood I’ve written about before where the high school across the street set loose Doberman attack dogs every night on the campus grounds.

I remember the time that there was a guy on the roofs of row homes we lived in.  The row homes had flat roofs and two skylights in each roof—one in a bathroom and one in a bedroom.  The peeping Tom was going from roof to roof peeping in at people through the skylights.  Miss Lou, the lady down the block, got out her shotgun and shot at him until he ran away across the rooftops.

Then there was the other guy who was wearing nothing under his trench coat.  That time Miss Lou chased him down the street beating him about the head with her broom handle.  She stopped beating him when the broom handle broke.  True stories.

Miss Lou was tough and fair and generous and protective and an all-around Good Person.  Even though she barely knew us, she let my family stay in her house for three weeks when we had bought a new house but our old one sold before we could move into the new one, so we were temporarily homeless.  She told us later that all of her friends shunned her while she was letting white people live in her house.  But Miss Lou didn’t care about color.  She saw people in need and she gave.

Poor Miss Lou.  She was shunned on all sides.  When my mom took Miss Lou out to lunch in our new neighborhood to thank her for letting us stay in her house, the wait staff refused to serve them because Miss Lou is black.  This was in the 1980s, people.  Insanity!!

Incidentally, Miss Lou also made the Best Soup Ever.  When I was twelve I told her, “When I grow up and get married, I’m going to serve your soup at my wedding.”

And I did.

Back to today:  now that I was awake, we got up from crouching on the floor and had a nice slow morning.  I amused myself by playing with a new photo app on the iPad and posting cheesy pictures of myself on Facebook.  Then, I made the kids chocolate chip pancakes and sat down to eat my reheated leftover tuna helper for breakfast.

The phone rang before I could eat the first bite.  It was my regular dentist changing my appointment time for tomorrow.  I updated my calendar….and noticed that the boys’ Orthodonist appointment was at 10:10.

10:10?  I thought it was at 1:00!  What time is it now?

9:58!?  Noooooooo!  And the orthodontist’s office is a 20 minute drive away!  Am I still in the middle of my nightmare??

Being late because of circumstances out of my control: not fun, but acceptable.  Being late because of my own ineptitude: unbearable.  I hate being late.

You’ve never seen three people move so fast, I called the orthodontist while booking it across the front yard to warm up the Subaru.  Yes—the Subaru is having trouble too.  The van is in the shop and the Subaru acts funny unless you pre-heat it.  We all changed clothes in under 2 seconds flat, I grabbed a banana for breakfast, and away we went.  We were only 8 minutes late.  Shew!

It wasn’t until 7:45 tonight as I was on the treadmill jambling, that I remembered I was supposed to go to a friend’s house tonight at 6:30 to check out the lighting in her house for some pictures I’m going to take next week.  I had to make a groveling phone call to her about my no-show.  Ugh.

In between all my missed appointments, there was another knock on the door.  It was about 5:30, just when Darling Husband gets home.  I couldn’t see who was at the door, but saw headlights in the driveway and assumed it was Darling Husband, maybe having forgotten his house key.  But it wasn’t Darling Husband.  It was Brandi.

She handed me a package of her amazing snickerdoodles.  Just like that!  She just handed them over!  I didn’t have to beg or look pathetic or anything.

She said, “I made a batch for Gerhard and Janet.  I told Kevin, (her husband, Kevin from Photo Club)  ‘Jackie lives on the same street as Gerhard.  I’d better take her some, too.  If I don’t, she’ll smell them and come looking for them.’”

Brandi is now my Best Friend Ever.  Yes, Best Friend Ever status can be bought with a package of cookies.

————–

*Man Thing Project.  I’ve realized that Darling Husband putters around doing mysterious Man Things about the house: nailing down loose nails in the floorboards, oiling door hinges, checking the fluids in the car…stuff like that.  In 2013, I’ve decided to learn how to do these things, too.  I’m forming a list of Handyman Things he can teach me.

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Picture of the Day:

325076_3905411520513_843839802_o

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4 thoughts on “Shooting at Peeping Toms with Shotguns and Beating Flashers about the Head with Broomsticks

  1. Of course,you know I have a number of home repair books. I also have appliance repair books.
    I have the books, but not the will to use them.As I get more able, I can feel the will to do stuff that I’ve been putting of for four years coming back.

  2. Wait, wait, wait… you expect me to beleive your Subaru is having problems? That can’t be true. It just can’t! (Love my Subaru!) Kind of makes me questions the veracity of the rest of your “true” stories. 😉

    • Well, it is from 1894 and has a good 198 million miles on it. Or is it 1994 and 198,000 miles?

      But, regardless of the Subaru, you are a wise man for questioning the veracity of my stories.

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