Flame Thrower, or Rotten Eggs?

Before we get our selves in a twist regarding the reference above: This is just a fantasy I have about how my driveway should be dealt with.  I am officially over the edge about the driveway.  The rotten eggs might be workable.  I’d probably feel too guilty if I actually incinerated someone.  HOWEVER MUCH THEY DESERVED IT.

I was going to write about how it thundered all night long last night, much as it did on another September night eight years ago.  Completely out of season and unusual here, but symbolically? Yes indeed.  And I was awake for the entire thing because the Partner is still not well.

Then, the phone rang and I learned that a dear  friend had died this week.  I was going to write about her incredible grace, gallantry, bravery and humanity facing a travail that most would have found too much to bear long ago.  I got to see her a few weeks ago, because the Partner’s quick eye noticed her at the grocery store.  I got to give her a big hug then, at least.

So, perhaps I will write about those things.  When I am not so angry at the stupidity surrounding me.  This anger  involves- and I bet, Gentle Reader, you will not be surprised to learn….the driveway from HELLLLLLLLLLL.  AGAIN.  

So, despite on and off rain, there’s a garage sale across the street.  Parking across the street and on our side too.  So where does an idiot wench, about whom we now write,  park? My driveway.  Not in the parking place she could have backed into BEHIND the driveway, no, smack dabby dab in the middle.  There were three small children in the back, who eventually started screaming at the top of their lungs when I.W.’s partner, after lengthy perusal of yard sale, which was all toys, learned to her dismay and surprise that they didn’t take checks for seventy five cents.  But that was later.  Having spotted the blockage of the driveway at the outset of this festive encounter, I walked out and asked her, politely, and in my Jin Shin Jyutsu t-shirt for God’s sake,  to please not block my driveway.  Her response? Was that I was a crazy bitch and she wasn’t moving. They were just going to be a while and I wasn’t going anywhere.  She wasn’t moving.  I was crazy.  And a bitch. Etc. So, I said, you can’t back up, please, and not block my driveway? More of the same.  Thank you for being so cooperative and setting such a good example for your kids, I said.  She said something unprintable.  At this point she noticed all our neighbors were now out staring at her with obvious distaste and an air of let’s get ‘er boys! call the cops!  She backed up and managed to take two parking spaces.  Several people tried to park behind her, couldn’t because there wasn’t enough room, and left.  Our other side neighbors arrived home and squeezed their small car in behind her, narrowly missing the car behind them, which belongs to my other neighbor and is quite the Hot Corvette. He saw his car about to be smashed and entered into the fray.   Small car neighbors got out of their car and asked I.W. if she could move her, still idling, car up a teeny bit.  Mr. Corvette waded in saying, if my car gets hit somebody dies.  Finally I.W.’s Portly Partner wandered back from across the street, kids screaming with no toys, got in the car, flipped me off, and at long last they left.

I confess to puzzlement.  And dismay.  And? I’m really sick of this.  I can’t get out of, I can’t get in to, my own dratted freaking driveway that I get to pay extra rent for because of the Privilege of Having a Driveway.  Not even.  So I’m thinking that while mayhem will not help anything, of course, and we all have to try , as Gandhi said,  to be the change we want to see in the world?  A stash of rotten eggs might be perfect.  Oh, you’ll just be here a little while? Perfect! WHUMP. Right on the windshield.   Really.  Because the meter maids never come in time, except for the periodic person who parks there drunk and leaves, so that the car’s still there an hour after I call the police to come because someone’s blocking my driveway.   I’m open to better ideas.

4 responses to this post.

  1. Very sorry to know about your friend. At least the merciless universe owed you a final greeting before the final departure.

    As for the idiot wench…
    You could be really polite and invite her into the house after preparing an appropriate greeting.

    Or quietly call the cops if it happens again. An acquaintance once snapped a quick photo on her camera phone and called the cops during a very similar incident. The car got towed on the spot. Though I imagine in the above scenario, the boys would protest.

    Sometimes it’s better to not get directly involved. As you said, you’re not paying extra just to have the place be abused by someone as their own personal Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot.


  2. As always, Boozilla laughed! Unerring selection of visuals. The picture was Much Appreciated!. I actually had something a bit bigger in mind but the range of this is more appropriate.

    Perhaps I should learn how to use the camera on my phone. Ahem. While I’m swishing my spiked tail. I’ve got several nice candid shots of my steering wheel, after all.

    Generally it IS better not to get directly involved. But, silly bear, I forget and think that everyone is REASONABLE. Why I would think that is mysterious. Also, the traffic people are off on Sundays, so it would have been a good hour before anybody showed up. They have Important Things To Do, You Know. IMPORTANT. Quite often involving Starbuck’s. But more on the standoff between good and evil later.

    And, yes. Death is always hard, although it shouldn’t be I suppose. No surprise, etc. But there is a big empty spot. Hurts.


  3. It’s true. Never underestimate the severity of man’s inhumanity toward man.

    As a bear, you already know how touchy people are when one of you wanders onto a back yard. Well it’s sometimes the same or worse with humans (bears usually get relocated these days after being greeted with a tranquilizer instead of hot lead).

    My dad passed away March of ’03.
    Something occured to me that I, regrettably, didn’t realise until a couple of years afterward. People attain a sort of immortality as long as you remember them. A sort of “Earthly afterlife”.

    How you die or when you die is irrevelant compared to what you did while you were here. And what you were like in character. Your “Earthly afterlife” will depend on these just as much as the spiritual one if there is one. As long as you’re remembered for these, then you’re not really gone for good.

    And speaking of bears, I’m reminded of how he used to tear into ice cream containers. And he snored a lot, which at times did sound like a bear/wookie. The jury’s still out on that one since they’re both pretty hairy (wookies and my dad that is). Or a lawnmower… it sorta depended on what angle his head was at.


  4. This is quite true, the earthly immortality. Plus the DNA we carry around from each other, memories in the immune system as well as the heart and brain, as it were. So nothing ever really ends, in a way. It transmutes, perhaps, but it is always “here”. I am sorry about your Dad. Tearing into ice cream cartons is a good sign, usually.

    It has taken me many years to realize Just How Disturbing The Appearance of a Bear Can Be. People can be so……what’s the word? Ahem. But, as an ambassador for bear detente, I keep trying. What else is there, really?


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