Ann Ipock: Ipock-a-Lips - Dumb and dumber (or would that be, dumbest?)
It was to be an impromptu get-together. I hadn’t seen my friend, Jessica, since Katie’s wedding in October, though she lives a mere ten houses away. Isn’t that just the way it is? I see a friend from Atlanta more often than I see Jessica.
I cleaned my house as fast as I could – I’m no longer into piles. I wrote a column about that many years ago, titled, “My life is ordered by piles.”
Now it’s ordered by Ziploc bags. Lots and lots of Ziploc bags in all sizes – pint, sandwich, quart, but mostly gallon.
I’m so addicted that I often buy Ziploc freezer bags not because I’m going to put my stuff (aka junk) in the freezer, but because they’re heavy-duty.
When you’re carrying around bulky items like huge rolls of mailing tape, sharp scissors, breakfast bars, fingernail polish, etc., you don’t want the bag to burst, right?
So, as I said, I stuffed everything into Ziploc bags and threw the bags in the closet. Though it took over an hour, I stood back and admired my creativity. Shoot, I was feeling downright smug.
Every time I go to Jessica’s house everything is in perfect order – including her monogrammed pillows, her monogrammed place mats, her monogrammed wine coasters and her monogrammed puppy, Sassy Martini.
Not really, but Jessica probably has a collar for Sassy that is indeed monogrammed, with rhinestones – if I know that duo as well as I think I do.
I ran out to buy a bottle of wine, some crackers and a wheel of brie at WalMart. Okay, don’t judge, y’all. I was in a hurry and they have my favorite Riesling at the best price anywhere, plus it’s the closest store.
As I pulled out of the garage, I started thinking, ‘We’ll definitely sit on the front porch since the back yard is a mess. It looks like Sanford & Son back there. Not only do I have miscellaneous empty flower pots all over the place, I also have a worn-out bench that’s about to fall over (the wrought iron is fine, but the boards that would hold my bottom or anyone else’s, are, well, shall I say, warped)?
But the real eyesore is our privacy fence that our illustrious, police-like home owners association – which is headed up by a local real estate company – is supposed to maintain.
Notice I say ‘supposed to?’ I called them three months ago (my second call as they never returned my first one) to say that one of the boards of our privacy fence had broken off and there was a huge hole.
Though hub-Russ wedged a piece of plywood into the hole, it was a temporary fix and not a tight fit. It looked awful, I complained to the lady on the phone, but the worst part was, I told her (I swear this is true): I’d noticed more squirrels than ever in our front yard and I believed that broken board was part of the problem. She simply said, “Really?”
Now, on hindsight, I’m thinking she probably had me on the speaker phone, having invited the entire real estate staff – rentals and sales – since I obviously said something really stupid (again, in hindsight.)
And now I ask you, who or what is warped? Oh! And I put a brick between the lowest horizontal board and the grass to do my own part to keep those critters at bay.
Fast forward to that night when I told Russell of the conversation.
My point was (and I did have one) they promised to come fix it right away. But I never got to that part because Russell was rolling on the floor with heinous laughter spewing out of his mouth. What was so funny, I asked him?
He stood up, grabbed a Kleenex to wipe the tears from his eyes, and said, “Ann, think about it. You’re talking about squirrels.”
“Yeah?” I asked him, waiting for further explanation. “What, are you suddenly a friend of Alvin, now?”
This time he talked slower, like I was hard of hearing, when the only thing wrong with me was simple stupidity (on hindsight).
“Ann, first off, a squirrel is not a chipmunk. But, just think about it, those squirrels can climb the fence. Just like cats.”
“So?” I asked.
Then it hit me. Aw, man, did I feel D.U.M. I mean D.U.M.B. (the B stands for blonde. )
But don’t tell him. Because I simply said, “I know that.
Did I say squirrels? I meant to say snakes.” Anybody knows a squirrel won’t hurt you; but when I was a little girl, my Daddy killed a copperhead in a ditch.
Now that is something to really be afraid of. But a squirrel?
With that, Russell shook his head – for about the sixteenth million time, in thirty-three years of marriage, and walked off.
Well, all I can say now is, he’s right. But, of course, so am I.
Ann Ipock – “Life is Short, I Wish I Was Taller” firstname.lastname@example.org www.annipock.com.
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