Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
It Gets Personal...
Show down at the OK Corral. WooHooohooo. I slowly drove down my driveway pulling to a stop at the mailbox. The outlaws parked in sequence on a hill overlooking the valley. Me in my mini-van, they in their big trucks. I slowly opened my door. One plaid shirted man made direct eye contact with me. It was on.
He cautiously yet confidently opened his door. Out plopped a large, booted foot. I stood up, feigning bravado, holding my lipstick case. He stomped out of the truck, cooler in hand, no doubt holding his lunch containing meat, lots of meat.
I sprinted toward the mail box, grabbed the mail quickly, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I hopped back in the van, locked the doors and glared out the window. He was after me I'm sure; trying to flag me down to ask me to agree to being airlifted into our house instead of using the driveway. No way. I won't budge. I'm made of steel. Or at least a strong aluminum.
In defiance I peeled out of the driveway, spraying gravel and dirt clods in my wake. I pictured the outlaw dropping his lunch cooler to shield his face from the full frontal assault. As I glanced back, I could see I hadn't sprayed as much as I thought, on a count of my mini van is 10 years old. And the outlaw wasn't so much coming after me as he was headed to the port-o-john.
Still, one must have an active imagination to survive this onslaught. Wait until I find my water guns.
He cautiously yet confidently opened his door. Out plopped a large, booted foot. I stood up, feigning bravado, holding my lipstick case. He stomped out of the truck, cooler in hand, no doubt holding his lunch containing meat, lots of meat.
I sprinted toward the mail box, grabbed the mail quickly, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I hopped back in the van, locked the doors and glared out the window. He was after me I'm sure; trying to flag me down to ask me to agree to being airlifted into our house instead of using the driveway. No way. I won't budge. I'm made of steel. Or at least a strong aluminum.
In defiance I peeled out of the driveway, spraying gravel and dirt clods in my wake. I pictured the outlaw dropping his lunch cooler to shield his face from the full frontal assault. As I glanced back, I could see I hadn't sprayed as much as I thought, on a count of my mini van is 10 years old. And the outlaw wasn't so much coming after me as he was headed to the port-o-john.
Still, one must have an active imagination to survive this onslaught. Wait until I find my water guns.
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Nightly Reminder...
Enter Phase: I’m Never Going to Get Any Sleep. Since we are so far out of the city, the night sky is the only light we are accustomed to seeing. Likewise, the familiar frog croak or dog bark is pretty much the only noise we country bumpkins like to hear. It’s beautiful yet poetic and almost haunting in its stillness. Late one evening I heard a rumbling, a whirring, and a strange audible reckoning deep within the woods behind our house.
I let our dog out to investigate. She didn’t return. After watching X-files with no lights on,(actually, it was the 10 o'clock news with Simone Wilkinson, same thing) paranoia crept into my psyche. I waited in vain for the noise to effervesce; it couldn't be ignored. My dog was nowhere and I became convinced that the undetermined sound had inexplicably snatched my little hound and was now hovering in the area like a Barbara Mandrell stalker.
As the dawn of light gave way to reason, I realized the humming, gurgling noise was a souvenir gift from the Marysville Pipe Dream committee. A compressor. A compressor the size of a mini-van ran all night in preparation for the next day’s work. ALL NIGHT. The fetid little beast never quit. So at night we are lulled to sleep by the hideous hum and hiss of a compressor and morning’s wake-up call is the back up signal of giant trucks.
However will we cope when they are gone? They are leaving, right? RIGHT?
I let our dog out to investigate. She didn’t return. After watching X-files with no lights on,(actually, it was the 10 o'clock news with Simone Wilkinson, same thing) paranoia crept into my psyche. I waited in vain for the noise to effervesce; it couldn't be ignored. My dog was nowhere and I became convinced that the undetermined sound had inexplicably snatched my little hound and was now hovering in the area like a Barbara Mandrell stalker.
As the dawn of light gave way to reason, I realized the humming, gurgling noise was a souvenir gift from the Marysville Pipe Dream committee. A compressor. A compressor the size of a mini-van ran all night in preparation for the next day’s work. ALL NIGHT. The fetid little beast never quit. So at night we are lulled to sleep by the hideous hum and hiss of a compressor and morning’s wake-up call is the back up signal of giant trucks.
However will we cope when they are gone? They are leaving, right? RIGHT?
Life or Lipstick
Enter Phase Hole-In-One: After weeks of shoving and drilling, Plaid Shirt Nation has arrived right next door, as in the corn fields to the right AND the cow pasture to the left of our house. I get to see men in yellow hats traipsing the ground from dawn to dusk. Why, one morning, when there was a heavy fog on the ground, I had no idea there was a little conglomeration of men in my back yard until the fog lifted. Suddenly, Poof! There they were. I sure am glad I closed the blinds in the bathroom that morning.
As the back hoes, earth movers, rock shakers and wood chippers work diligently in Tonka Town; our quiet little slice of heaven has turned into a nearly fatal disaster. One morning, driving down my own driveway, I crossed paths with a dump truck and was nearly broadsided. Somehow, our driveway has become a busy intersection through which the big trucks cross to get to the field on our right. There they created for themselves a little dumping ground, a ceremonial graveyard for the ravaged farmer’s property.
They dig big holes, fill the trucks with dirt, drive across the driveway, dump the dirt and drive back for free refills. The only thing in their way is OUR HOUSE. In order to enter and exit one’s place of residence, we prefer the method of OUR DRIVEWAY, through which we exit the giant pit of destruction.
Men in big, yellow, beeping trucks always get the right of way, even in one’s own property. They should’ve put up caution signs in our driveway; perhaps a crossing guard.
The lesson I learned that morning was two fold: 1. Don’t wait until I’m in the car to put on my lipstick. Seeing a yellow behemoth bearing down in one’s peripheral vision is not good for makeup application. 2. Always look both ways before crossing MY driveway.
As the back hoes, earth movers, rock shakers and wood chippers work diligently in Tonka Town; our quiet little slice of heaven has turned into a nearly fatal disaster. One morning, driving down my own driveway, I crossed paths with a dump truck and was nearly broadsided. Somehow, our driveway has become a busy intersection through which the big trucks cross to get to the field on our right. There they created for themselves a little dumping ground, a ceremonial graveyard for the ravaged farmer’s property.
They dig big holes, fill the trucks with dirt, drive across the driveway, dump the dirt and drive back for free refills. The only thing in their way is OUR HOUSE. In order to enter and exit one’s place of residence, we prefer the method of OUR DRIVEWAY, through which we exit the giant pit of destruction.
Men in big, yellow, beeping trucks always get the right of way, even in one’s own property. They should’ve put up caution signs in our driveway; perhaps a crossing guard.
The lesson I learned that morning was two fold: 1. Don’t wait until I’m in the car to put on my lipstick. Seeing a yellow behemoth bearing down in one’s peripheral vision is not good for makeup application. 2. Always look both ways before crossing MY driveway.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Proud Mary Keep On Flushin'
Enter Phase 2: Project Runs-way: The folks in plaid shirts and hard hats started across the street and now must come over, under, or through our road in order to get to the other side. I suppose the good news is they don’t have to rip up the road to lay the sewer pipes. I may have been a bit disgruntled had I been forced to take a 15 mile detour to drive 200 feet.
Oh no. The good news is that they are able to work 24 hours a day to drill underground. Day and night. Night and day. Their bright lights shine like a beacon from the mother ship. They shoveled and shoved and shoved and shoveled their way under the road until they could put those enormous pipes in the ground. Then they gave ‘em a big shove, just like a giant enema. Yep. An enema for mother earth. They shoved those giant sewer pipes right underneath the road, straight to the other side. Neato.
Oh no. The good news is that they are able to work 24 hours a day to drill underground. Day and night. Night and day. Their bright lights shine like a beacon from the mother ship. They shoveled and shoved and shoved and shoveled their way under the road until they could put those enormous pipes in the ground. Then they gave ‘em a big shove, just like a giant enema. Yep. An enema for mother earth. They shoved those giant sewer pipes right underneath the road, straight to the other side. Neato.
The Princess and the Pee
*Contains explicit lyrics. Viewer discretion advised. By this I mean my mother, who, to this day refers to buttocks as a "muumuum." Given the nature of the topic, certain language must be used to facilitate a more poetic flow.
Wow. It’s been forever since I’ve had the opportunity to think and write clearly. For the last three weeks I’ve been awakened bright and early. Not because I’m so excited for the day to begin. When I roll out of bed to turn off what I think is my alarm, I’m thrown into a state of confusion, like a soap star with amnesia. I try to turn off the beeping but to no avail. It is in my head, my ears; I’m going mad. In the darkness I flounder for familiarity. Careening into walls, I hear myself shrieking, “What is the noise? Why won’t it stop? What is happening to me?” I cover my ears in horror and throw myself headlong into my pillow to stifle the madness.
That’s how my day has begun each and every day for the past three weeks. Maybe I exaggerate, but it’s believable. I’ve been awakened by a high pitched BEEP-BEEP-BEEP over which I have no control. It is neither my alarm clock nor an infernal biological clock. It is the result of the Marysville Pipe Dream.
I’m sure everyone has heard the, “Hey I’m driving in reverse so get out of my way you idiot” beeping when big trucks are trying to back up. I get to hear it every morning right under my bedroom window. It is earthmovers, dump trucks, back hoes, cranes, shuttle launchers, bull dozers, tourist buses, presidential motorcades and helicopter landing gear all part of the unearthly dirty business called Marysville’s new sewer treatment drain pipe. Said pipeline must travel along our yard and dump into the creek behind the house.
Let me review the events leading to the Project Roto-Rooter. Last fall they (and by “they” I’m referring to the minions employed by the construction capitalists employed by the city of Marysville) started digging across the street. It was inconvient, but not unlivable. They ripped out the community sledding hill and fastened a Port-O-John in the most indiscreet place, but other than that, nothing too intrusive. I can tell few women are working this job otherwise the Port-O-Pot would not be right next to the road, but somewhere out of sight, say, behind a heaping brown mound. By that I mean actual dirt.
Mind you, where we live on Watkins Road there is nothing, no one and no noise for at least 1500 feet in any given direction. There are cows, and except for the odd morning when they come up to our door, they keep their mooing to a minimum. I honestly thought that the business across the street was as good as it was going to get. No. I was sadly mistaken. This was only phase one of the Mayor’s Great Porcelain Throne Judgment.
Phase Two to Come...
Wow. It’s been forever since I’ve had the opportunity to think and write clearly. For the last three weeks I’ve been awakened bright and early. Not because I’m so excited for the day to begin. When I roll out of bed to turn off what I think is my alarm, I’m thrown into a state of confusion, like a soap star with amnesia. I try to turn off the beeping but to no avail. It is in my head, my ears; I’m going mad. In the darkness I flounder for familiarity. Careening into walls, I hear myself shrieking, “What is the noise? Why won’t it stop? What is happening to me?” I cover my ears in horror and throw myself headlong into my pillow to stifle the madness.
That’s how my day has begun each and every day for the past three weeks. Maybe I exaggerate, but it’s believable. I’ve been awakened by a high pitched BEEP-BEEP-BEEP over which I have no control. It is neither my alarm clock nor an infernal biological clock. It is the result of the Marysville Pipe Dream.
I’m sure everyone has heard the, “Hey I’m driving in reverse so get out of my way you idiot” beeping when big trucks are trying to back up. I get to hear it every morning right under my bedroom window. It is earthmovers, dump trucks, back hoes, cranes, shuttle launchers, bull dozers, tourist buses, presidential motorcades and helicopter landing gear all part of the unearthly dirty business called Marysville’s new sewer treatment drain pipe. Said pipeline must travel along our yard and dump into the creek behind the house.
Let me review the events leading to the Project Roto-Rooter. Last fall they (and by “they” I’m referring to the minions employed by the construction capitalists employed by the city of Marysville) started digging across the street. It was inconvient, but not unlivable. They ripped out the community sledding hill and fastened a Port-O-John in the most indiscreet place, but other than that, nothing too intrusive. I can tell few women are working this job otherwise the Port-O-Pot would not be right next to the road, but somewhere out of sight, say, behind a heaping brown mound. By that I mean actual dirt.
Mind you, where we live on Watkins Road there is nothing, no one and no noise for at least 1500 feet in any given direction. There are cows, and except for the odd morning when they come up to our door, they keep their mooing to a minimum. I honestly thought that the business across the street was as good as it was going to get. No. I was sadly mistaken. This was only phase one of the Mayor’s Great Porcelain Throne Judgment.
Phase Two to Come...
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