Next Rest Area 17 Miles

Late this afternoon I was confronted with the ugly reality of someone carrying on a dual existence, right under my nose. Maybe not so much who but what, is the object in question. I happen to glance out the window to see a Fed Ex truck turn into the driveway. Oh yeah! I think to myself. I must be getting a surprise late Mother's Day gift.

When the arrival of the gift bearing man takes longer than anticipated, I look again to see what took the Ex out of express. Wait a cotton pickin' minute. I can't believe what I'm seeing. With darting movements, the FedEx guy leaps from his truck and sprints toward the port-o-john.

What?? Is he delivering a package in there? Does someone need toilet paper? Mylanta? After a few tense moments he emerges and hops happily back on his truck. Wait a minute! He just used the plastic roadside bathroom. Eeww! And I was hoping people would think they're just yard ornaments.

It's bad enough I have Siamese port-o-pots in the front yard, but now our house has become a local rest area? It's one thing to know she's providing services during the day,but at night also? To complete strangers?

Who else has been using the facilities? What-is it like a homing beacon for the transportation industry? Just how many people know about the roadside commode? Do they send secret underground messages to alert the needy of its whereabouts?

Where will it end? Bus drivers? A car full of screaming kids? Then again, maybe Mr. FedEx is on to something. I bet if I sent the kids down the drive to use the bathroom, I could seriously cut down on my cleaning time, the water bill, the toilet paper bill and the overall wear and tear of the bathroom. How much easier would it be just to trot the little tots down the driveway to take care of business?

Yes, something tells me I'm on to something good. Tomorrow I will post a sign on the regularly used bathroom door that refers all occupants to use the brightly covered outhouses at the end of the drive.

I bet if I added a vending machine and a newspaper stand I could make a fortune.

A Rude Awakening

At last the house was quiet. I should've had two hours of uninterrupted solitude coming my way. However, there's nothing like being roused from a mid-morning nap by a sound so shrill it can only be compared to the landing of an air craft carrier. Add to that the shaking and rumbling of the earth's underbelly that moved the house with a sickening thud.

"Dear God,save me!" I wailed, grasping to keep antiques from tumbling to the floor. Except for I don't have any antiques but I grabbed a picture frame and some used candles. I was still groggy and a little bit resentful of losing nap time.

Another loud crash shook the walls, throwing me off balance. It was all I could do to maintain my dignity as I screamed, "The Apocalypse! The Apocalypse is upon us!"

When I looked out the window I saw the mother of all construction toys. She was a beast. The plus size version of the other track hoes. And then...

There they were. The state sponsored squatters. The people who have pitched their cement tents five feet from the house in January and haven't left. They just keep bringing in more and more people and bigger and noisier toys.

And here was the giant of them all. It did the work of 200 men. It stretched to the sky and left tracks in the soil at least 20 feet wide. Eagerly the giant clawed at the ground churning and chucking mounds of dirt.

The Lilliputians cheered as the mother load picked up giant cement pipes and "lowered" them into the black hole. I say "pipes" because they number at least 20 and they have to weigh a couple of tons each. I know because I tried to push one over.

I say "lowered" because it was more like recklessly launching them into the ground. Like a horseshoe. A two ton horseshoe. Swell.

Not one to give up some peace and quiet so readily, I grabbed a book and tried to ignore the ruckus outside, despite the white caps on my coffee.

Maybe next week will be quieter. Maybe next year. Maybe in another county.

How to Prevent an Accident

In a weird twist of fate I got out of the house with only one five year old son. We set off to the store to do a little shoe shopping. That's one advantage of having twins. Just one pair of feet will do nicely for both.

We climbed out of the van and began walking hand in hand through the parking lot. All of a sudden, Ethan starts jerking around, twisting, hopping and contorting himself while trying to get through the maze of cars to the store entrance.

"What are you doing?" I ask. "Why can't you walk normally?"

"If you step on a crack, you break your mother's back," he sang out with sing-song glee. "Don't you worry mom. I got you covered," he said, continuing to leap and jerk with added concentration.

It took us five minutes to get into the store, but we made it. If only more of life's accidents could be prevented with a catchy jingle.

And then there were TWO.

At least it's a sporty shade of teal. I mean, if I have to look at it each and every day, it's a nice bright color. This is the original facility. They have now installed a secondary restroom on the premises, a mere, 75 feet from the original. There are two port-o-johns SEVENTY FIVE FEET from each other! That's more male restroom per square foot than anywhere in the country. Seriously, why must they have two commodes located in such proximity to each other?

If they weren't across the road from each other I'd swear it's just in case one runs out of toilet paper mid-job.

Of course, neither is hidden from sight. They are both on the edge of the road, almost facing each other. One is very close to our mail box. I only check our mail under the cover of darkness when I'm sure no one is in there.

I guess I should view myself as one of the privileged. Now when I give people directions to our house I say, "Drive down the road until you see a pile of dirt. Slow down, on the left you'll pass a brightly colored plastic bathroom. Just after that, on the right is another. Make an immediate right once you pass the matching set of outdoor toilets. Use caution upon entering the driveway carefully so as not to unsettle the port-o-pot.

The Gorge of Eternal Peril

No one is exempt. The residents of this little house awoke one morning to find their spacious, grassy knoll cruelly removed and in its place a jagged precipice of despair. So long furry friends...

Room with a View

This is what I get to see (and hear) looking out my kitchen window every morning. I don't know who this guy is. I call him Max. I call them all Max.

Subliminal Advertising

Just how much influence does the road construction crew and the adjoining port-o-john have on my kids? I never really wondered until I heard my eight year old daughter hurl these insults: "Don't be a bladder mouth," followed by "shut your pot hole."

Now that kind of talk is not tolerated in the house, but, definitely kudos for creativity and coining a more descriptive phrase.

WWMMCD? What Would My Mother's Chiropracter Do?

In the past three weeks I seem to have developed either sporadic leprosy or an allergic reaction to who knows what. I have no idea what the catalyst could be. The circumstances surrounding the outbreaks have no commonality except that I was breathing.

It all started at Wal-Mart. I was supposed to be grocery shopping when I spied the ubiquitous yellow clearance sticker beckoning me to the jewelry section. Right there between the giant hoop earrings and Ying Yang key chains, my ears started to swell. Not being accustomed to the swelling of the ears, it felt like my head was changing into an Edvard Munch creation.

Then my lips started tingling and swelling into Angelina Jolie proportions. You'd think this might be a good thing, but no, this did not look good. Everything turned hot, like I was standing in the sauna, except I still had clothes on. When the hives appeared, and I began scratching every inch of exposed skin, I decided to forgo the groceries and go home. Mind you, I still bought the earrings.

Half way home I began wheezing and gasping for breath. By the time I walked through the door I was doubled over in abdominal pain. My husband was understandably disappointed there were no groceries.

A quick trip to the local ER establishment confirmed I am indeed allergic to “something.” With a prescription for steroids and one epi pen later, I was on my merry hive-free way.

I’ve had five or six of these phantom allergy induced anaphylactic reactions. While I can’t pin point the culprit, I have learned not to take Benadryl right before I’m supposed to teach a class and, word to the wise: DO NOT move leg when using an epi pen.

I’m simply at a loss as to what could be causing these odd reactions. Perhaps it’s the unearthly business going on next door. Perhaps I’m allergic to dirt mounds, beeping trucks or men in yellow hats earning prevailing wage. I’m thinking that maybe I could get some compensation from this here big sewer project. Part of that compensation would include Botox and liposuction. Let’s face it, this whole mess has caused premature aging and emotional eating binges.

When I told my mother about my allergic reactions, her first response was,” I bet my chiropractor could help.”

“What will your chiropractor do for my mystery allergy? Twist and contort me like a wet towel until he can snap the antibodies right out or maybe make me an organic necklace to ward off bad allergy spirits?”

“He could help build a wall of tolerance.” I’m beginning to wonder if my mother has transferred some sort of divine quality onto her bone cracker.

I resisted the urge to point out that if one doesn’t know what one is allergic to, how will one build a wall around it and just how many walls will one have to build before I’m tolerant to whatever it is that I’m intolerant to?

“Are you sure you’re not thinking of an exorcist? Maybe you’re thinking he could scare the allergy right out of me.”

“Don’t make fun of chiropractors. I’m going to call mine to see if he can help.”

I have no doubt she will. Meanwhile, I’m going to call an allergist.

New playground equipment??

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.

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?

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.

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.

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...