Ok, I’ll admit it. I’m hoping to lure out lurkers. I’ll stoop to just about anything.
The object of the game is to guess what this is:
While I won’t tell you what it is (thereby defeating the purpose of the game), I WILL tell you that it came into my possession this afternoon, and that it caused me MUCH grief and consternation. It’s about three inches long and sharp as all hell (which was the source of the grief it caused). When all is said and done, it will have been worth close to a hundred bucks.
I have NO idea what your prize would be if you guess correctly. It would have to be something pretty inexpensive, though, ’cause I’m out a c-note already.
Kizz posted this morning. Go here and read, then come back to this post. Go ahead – I’ll wait.
Kizz lives in New York City – Brooklyn to be exact. I sometimes wonder about whether Kizz witnesses such things and just chooses not to tell those of us who love her or if the worst she ever sees really is just the occasional crazy homeless person.
I have to admit (not that it’s any surprise to Kizz) that I used to worry about her safety. I’ve been to visit her numerous times (and we’re due for another very soon) and I remember feeling overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity and concrete and diversity that I found there. The reality of her day to day life is SO different from mine – or so I thought until I smartened up and really looked around.
Last week in my neighborhood – or, at least, in close enough proximity that I was immediately aware of it – two young men were killed in an horrific traffic accident.
They were turning left on a green arrow when a pickup truck raced through its red light and broadsided them. No one knows how fast the truck was going because there were NO SKID MARKS – he never even tried to stop.
Both men – one was 37 and the other was 17 – were pronounced dead on the scene. The driver of the truck suffered minor injuries. He was high on prescription drugs of some sort and was, it’s been reported, in such a big fat hurry because he was on his way to score some heroin.
There is a big hoo-ha going on about the resignation of nearly the entire administrative staff at a local high school. No one is quite clear on the details, but I’ve heard that drugs, alcohol and possibly weapons are involved. And don’t think that I don’t know that I’m essentially taking my life into my own hands when I head to our local Wal-Mart. It’s really only a matter of time before someone goes postal in that place.
My point is that there are really very few differences between our environments. Sure, Kizz has better public transportation and I have more trees, but we both live in places that are affected by poverty, mental illness, drug abuse and a host of other social ailments. And guns. There are lots of guns around here and, though most of our guns are carried around by guys in wildly ugly orange vests, I’m certain the hunters aren’t the only ones packin’. My hope, though, is that none of my high school students are.
After about a half hour of fussing around the bedroom this morning – gathering laundry, picking up toys the girls left around, changing the sheets – I peeked in to check on Walter.
I was, I have to tell you, very disappointed to not find him in the spot he’s occupied for nearly a week.
I was worried – genuinely worried; how pathetic is THAT? – that he’d died over night, fallen off the wall, and was washed down the drain during Husband’s shower. I even went so far as to scan the bottom of the tub to see if he’d fallen but not died and was in need of rescue.
The little bugger (like the pun? And it’s not even 8:30 in the morning, People! THAT’s what two English degrees gets ya!) HAS moved from his spot, but he’s neither dead nor, it seems, in any particular need of rescue. He’s gone about four feet from the back wall of the tub to the bottom front. If you were to sit in my bathtub, he’d be right about where your knee would be, about six inches up from the floor.
I’ll keep watching him until he goes on his way and I lose the trail. I’ve got to remember to be careful with the shower curtain, though, lest I knock him off the wall and become responsible for the fate I so feared he’d suffered this morning.
The NCAA tournament began – and, in my house, ended – last night.
Syracuse lost. To hear my husband tell it, they lost in spectacularly disappointing fashion.
Am I hanging my head this morning? Am I extending sympathy for those young atheletes who gave their hearts and souls and sweat for the team?
Nope. Not even a little.
What I’m feeling is more akin to gratitude because, really, SU’s loss is my gain. What this means to me is that I get my husband back. My basketball-imposed widowhood was a single night.
I’m completely okay with that.
So, better luck next year, Orangemen. Thanks for giving me my husband back.