I haven’t ranted in a while. Call it summer-induced euphoria. Call it smooth-runnings. Call it what you will, but whatever it is–it’s not right. If I don’t regularly rant, it’s possible that I will forget how. Oh gosh, the very thought sends shivers up my spine! You know how you hear about those old people who have lived nice, well-mannered lives and then at 89 start drinking heavily and talking like sailors? The reason? Not enough ranting in their youth which leads to rant build-up. And then a misdemeanor. Or a medically-induced coma.
So, people, it’s time to purge.
Now, I just have to pick a topic.
I have a few ideas about how we should all JUST LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, but I feel that part of leaving Britney alone means refusing to talk about her.
I could easily rant about the way my self-tanning lotion is doing a C- job on my legs, but I think what I’d really like to talk about today is our fence. Or our lack of a fence. That we have paid for. Two months ago.
Our neighbor is installing it himself. At least that’s what we he said he was going to do. Two months ago. When we wrote him a check. That he promptly cashed.
I know what you’re doing right now–you’re saying that it was dumb to give him the check until after the work was complete. It’s like the most basic rule of commerce. But, then take a minute and think about how you would have nothing to read today. See? I’m always thinking ahead.
So, day after day, the non-fence sits there. And day after day, the neighbors hose their dog’s excretions onto our lawn. Killing it. And we say to ourselves, “Soon there will be a fence, and it won’t be worth going over there and throwing spatulas at them.” Things can be so awkward after you’ve thrown a spatula at someone.
Ryan has asked him a few times, casually, for a timeline. The guy is really good at timelines. This week he is going to dig the trenches. Next week he’s going to pour the cement. The next week, he’ll install the fencing. It’s a really nice timeline, isn’t it? That’s what we thought. FIVE WEEKS AGO. THEN AGAIN, THREE WEEKS AGO.
Yesterday, I suggested that we get a ream of butcher paper and put up a make-shift fence. We could write on it with poster paints: YOUR FENCE HERE.
If somebody gave you a check for a job, and you cashed it, wouldn’t you want to complete the work you have been paid for instead of getting dressed up every consecutive weekend and going out? Wouldn’t you feel stupid every time you saw the people (who paid you said monies) standing and staring at the non-existent fence? Wouldn’t you be consumed with torturous thoughts of people throwing spatulas at you until it was finished?
OF COURSE YOU WOULD.
Oh my gosh, that felt great. I’m going to be such a nice old lady.