I did not lie in yesterdays post. Notice the trashcan has fallen down. I was going to pick it up for the picture, but I was scared he would come out cacti a-blazin’ and outline my body with “do not cross” tape and reflectors.
FYI in this neighborhood they will cite you for not promptly bringing in your trashcan from the edge of your driveway, but apparently it’s okay if you throw it in a hole and tie it to your tree.
Everyone says their neighbors are insane…well so are mine. Each one of them a whack-job, and G-d only knows what they have to say about me. At the very least I’m the inappropriate exhibitionist who walks her kids to carpool in her underwear every morning, pulling down her t-shirt hoping to cover the cheeks protruding from her On Gossamer thong.
As you are probably aware, I live in Florida. You know, palm trees, severe humidity, hurricanes, prehistoric insects, the whole bit. Bearing this in mind, one of my supremely crazy neighbors is cultivating a pretty intricate desert-esque cactus farm, each one jury rigged to the other with a series of ropes, boating lines, and phone wires. Like a house of cards, or some other profound metaphor, even a slight gust (which as everyone knows never happens in Florida) would disrupt this fabulous display of “anti-tropics”. Last summer he planted a single leaf and then proceeded to encircle it with 8 stakes and do not cross tape attached. My neighbors and I eagerly waited to see what this leaf would become. He watered it, patted it, talked to it, got it high, and now it is a small bush. Fascinating, I know.
Today I drove by and found that he is digging a hole to China on the actual town property beyond his sidewalk. I’m told it’s called a swale, but don’t hold me to it. For the past couple days there has been police tape between a tree and a chair tilted back ever so carefully on a 37degree angle (I used a protractor), next to a kitchen trashcan with 3 long reflectors sticking out of it. I thought it was out for bulk trash pick-up, but now it appears he has “McGuivered” some kind of pulley system and is digging a trench around it. I am not sure if he as at war with the people across the street, but I feel maybe I should warn them as I think he may start shooting his cacti out of a cannon.
The man two doors down from me is running a crack den that offers a free car detail with every rock sold. I am sure of this as he has maybe 8 kids all of different descent, clearly the product of his crack ho disciples. There is a slew of hopped up Bentleys, Benz’s, and Hummers getting detailed outside of his house on the weekends. I was going to turn him into the association for running this drug ring, but I really liked the job his detail guys were doing and decided to hire them instead.
My next door neighbor is straight out of “Arlington Road”, you know the movie where the neighbors were terrorists and set up Jeff Bridges to look like the unabomber. First of all they spend a fortune every year on a 4th of July fireworks display that would make the Grucci family jealous. This extravagant celebration of our countries independence is very shady, as they are British. They are also anti-Semitic. I know this because they fought with me about our property lines. Oh, and also because they had a 4ft replica of a WWII German plane with a huge Swastika on it, which they fixed in the driveway of our predominantly Jewish neighborhood for like 3 weeks. I don’t talk to them much.
Two doors to the other side I have a woman who asked my carpool and the 5 other elementary school carpools on our street not honk in the morning as it wakes her middle school children. I said that might be a problem and suggested earplugs, a sound machine, or to just deal with it like every other person not living in Century Village. Now her husband gets a sadistic joy out of driving by my house around 9pm when my kids are asleep and beeping all the way to his house, passing 3 carpool houses along the way. Today I made a lovely introduction between them and the “Arlington Road” people, I’m sure they’ll become fast friends. Now if I can just get the cactus guy to attack their house all will be right with the world… or at least my block.
So I am finally getting a long overdue pedicure.This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting?I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom.Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”
The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on metal.Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish.This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule.It implies that your “me time”is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.
Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was starting a new trend in French pedicure.Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.”“I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer.Then she looks up at me and asks if I am aware there is a Pokemon sticker on the bottom of my foot.“Oh, my son was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it.“Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10.Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.
I lie, well shimmy, back trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage.I can’t seem to relax.I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.”I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough.She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event.She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).
“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall.I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos.In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture.I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture.The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.
I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage.I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil.Then she literally beats the tension out of me.“Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.”She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name.No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless.Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades.She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck.Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair.I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket.No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing an good orthopedist can’t fix.Why do my attempts at tension release always seem to stress me out?