So I worked in the flower beds yesterday afternoon in an attempt to at least start the season grass-free. We’ll see how long it lasts. And I’m not done yet.
My yard work followed a too-short nap, which was needed after a very non-restful overnight Saturday. I dread drinking holidays in this college town, even more so when they fall on a weekend. Sure enough, at 12:30 I was awakened by the first wave of drunks walking back from the bars downtown. I got to the window in time to see one of them attempt to stand atop the fire hydrant in the front yard (and to wonder again if we would be liable for his broken ankle or nose) and see another one run across our front yard to our side driveway. By the time I flew downstairs, the motion detector had been activated at our back door, illuminating a young man urinating in our back yard. Summoning my inner Barbara Stanwyck, I opened the door and yelled, “Get off my property, you no-good varmint!” or words to that effect. While I don’t doubt that Barbara would have appeared outside in her nightgown (I did), I think she would have had a rifle (I didn’t) and probably wouldn’t have had a bite guard in her mouth (I did). I hope my performance was memorable.
I’d like to say I spent the next three sleepless hours productively, but because I was mad and couldn’t breathe — yet another head cold — I mostly moved from room to room in search of restful peace and quiet.
And the man of the house? Never heard a thing.