Teenage Mutant Toads

A vicious intruder lurked outside my basement door in the garage as I opened it Saturday afternoon.  His beady eyes stared unflinchingly into mine as I yelped in surprise and jumped back. 

“Get out of the road, Toad!” I barked as I peeked around the corner of the basement door.  Jump, one of the three ugly, behemoth toads who has taken up residence in my garage this summer, didn’t move so much as a micromillimeter from the welcome mat on the garage floor. (He was not welcome.)  As adrenaline began pumping through my system, I glanced quickly around  to make sure Hop and Skip had not taken up attack positions nearby.  I did not see them, and Jump refused to budge.

I needed to get to my parked car, but there was little room to maneuver.  I could take only one step forward and then I might be able to squeeze by him on either side.  I tried to scare Jump by bravely taking a step closer before moving back again.  He didn’t even blink his warty eyes. I stomped my foot on the floor.  I had no idea which way he would hop so I kept my distance.  Again, there was no movement.  I stomped even harder.  He didn’t care.    It was an official stand-off.

I knew if he hopped on my foot, I would be Jump’s dinner.  Despite my involuntary screaming, if the toad moved, he would continue his assault, proceeding up my leg and torso, before plunging his toady teeth and flickering fang into my jugular vein, causing instantaneous death for me.

I contemplated heading out the front door to circle the house and open the garage door to access my car to avoid the confrontation, but I also knew Hop and Skip liked to chill in front of the garage doors while waiting for crickets to invade their lair.  I decided to sprint past Jump as one attacker would certainly be better than two.

I, therefore, bolted out the basement door into the garage, shouting, “Stay away!”  Jump never jumped.  He stayed his ground.  I zipped past him faster than a bee can sting, and raced to open the garage doors for my get-away.  I intended to get out of Dodge…I mean, the garage…as fast as I could.

Why Hop, Skip, and Jump live in my garage escapes me.  I would think they’d like the pond up over the hill much better.  Armed with a rake, I’ve bravely tried to rake the toads outside, but they just turn around the corner of the rake, and hop back inside the garage.  I admit I inadvertently backed over a fourth toad with the car earlier in the summer, so I would think they’d consider the garage dangerous. 

Why can’t Blackie, my Black Snake who also lives in the garage, eat them?  Blackie and I have a deal – I don’t see you, and you can eat all the field mice and icky things you want.  I would think, then, Blackie could eat the toads, too, but he hasn’t.  Are they too big for him to eat?  Are they poisonous?  Does Blackie like lean, mice meat better?  Or….*gulp*….is Blackie dead?  Did the giant toads kill him in a garage take-over?

Some folks may think I’m certifiably quackers, but let me say in my defense, most of us are afraid of something.  Fears are not always logical.  Some people are afraid of the dark, snakes, heights, clowns, or storms.  I’m afraid of things that hop, like grasshoppers, rabbits, raptors, and giant, ugly toads.  If they would hold still, I’d be fine, but that unpredictable hopping freaks me out, and I invariably scream.

Do toads croak when cold weather arrives?  If Hop, Skip, and Jump migrated south for the winter and never made it back to my southeastern Ohio garage, I’d be singing, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu,… to you, and you, and you…,” and that would leave me with just the car-eating groundhogs around here.  Go South, Toads!

Garbage Day

Garbage men in neighborhoods across America are not whom they seem to be.  They may look like ordinary garbage men, but  these seemingly innocent beings revel in torture, and I suspect they are actually Stormtroopers working for the Empire.

Two months ago, probably under the orders of Emperor Palpatine, Darth Maul switched my garbage collection day…again.  Forecast information obviously predicts multiple windy days, and possible rains, on a majority of Wednesdays in Nashport for the next several months.  

While people are still at work, therefore, the driving Wednesday winds can hurtle empty trash cans into streets for school buses, Fed Ex trucks, and other assorted vehicles to hit and smash.  Because of the fury of the winds on Wednesdays, empty trash cans can roll through fields and entire neighborhoods never to be seen by the owner again.  Much lighter trash can lids can be blown to Siberia, or even Naboo and Alderaan.

Following the orders of the Emperor, the Stormtroopers use “mind games” as one torture technique for those putting out their trash.  Palpatine intends for all to succumb.   For several weeks after the collection day changed, the Storm Troopers roared up to my house to gather trash between 11:10 A.M. – 11:19 A. M.  This was merely a trap.

The following Wednesday, my sweet dreams and sound sleep ended violently at 6:53 A.M.  The banging metal, crunching, and sputtering sound of the garbage truck in front of my house reverberated in my ears, jerking me awake.  The Stormtroopers arrived early.  My garbage, to the Emperor’s delight, was not outside in time.

Why do I not put my garbage out the night before, you wonder.  Ah!  It’s part of Emperor Palpatine’s torture.  As he said to Luke, “Your feeble skills are no match for the Power of the Dark Side.”

If I foolishly put my trash out the night before pick up, night varmints slink through the darkness to wildly rip open the garbage bags, scattering trash and garbage all over the yard and road.  If anything is still in the garbage bag after the initial attack, evil, marauding crows arrive with the first streaks of light to stab the plastic bags with sharpened beaks to finish the job.  At such times I hear faint sounds of the Emperor’s laugh being carried by the wind.

Trying to fool the night creatures is no use.  Even duct-taping lids to garbage cans to keep trash safe is no obstacle for raccoons who find taped lids more entertaining than 10 year olds find playing Minecraft.  The Emperor smiles when anyone is stupid enough to put their garbage out the night before.  As he has said in the past, “Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.”

Recognize the Stromtroopers for who they are.  Do not give in to anger and aggression, or the Dark Side will take over, and turn you into Stormtroopers who must follow the Emperor's orders.  Keep your composure during the Garbage Wars, and proudly declare your allegiance to the Jedi.  May the Force be with you.

No Mo Crows!

Driving up and down Route 60 North, and in many fields and neighborhoods in northern Muskingum County, the site of a horde of evil, giant crows swooping down upon unguarded garbage bags, massing in the trees, and lining fields is fairly common.  They are everywhere.

When I heard the obnoxious screeching of many crows one morning last week, and the singular cry of a red-tailed hawk, I rushed to my back window, only to discover that depraved, black invaders had surrounded my poor hawk in the bottom of the driveway, overpowering him fifteen to one.  Those bastards!

I flapped the curtains and the crowd of bullying marauders flew off in a big, black cloud, leaving the hawk sitting by himself, dazed, for a few seconds.  The hawk looked around as if wondering how he had been saved, and then took off.

Red-tailed hawks hunt small rodents, and now in the northern part of this county, they are being terrorized.  Crows do nothing except poop, and are often so proliferative, they destroy crops.  So, they eat a few grasshoppers; so can my cat.  Spring is coming and the crow population will be increasing, along with all their pooping on people and everything else.  Already crows are running into cars on the Vets Memorial Bridge, and people have  complained to me about the crows ripping into their trash bags, scattering trash across yards.  Rotting garbage invites skunks, rats, and other critters.

These crows created such a problem in Coshocton County, that measures were taken to force the pooping curmudgeons out of Coshocton, and the crows now have taken up residence here in Muskingum County.  How long will the Muskingum County Commissioners harbor these fugitives?  I highly recommend you make a call to the commissioners, like I did, voicing concern and asking for a resolution to this problem before it becomes even worse. 

It's Complicated!

So often in today’s society, we explain relationships on social media as “complicated.”  Most of us seem to understand this term “complicated,” and all that it can imply. 

My car and my phone refuse to talk to one another.  I don’t know what happened between them.  It's complicated.   One minute they were friends and talking, and the next there was only silence.   Even after a week, they both continue to ignore each other.  Both of them are available.  Their bluetooths are on, but they don’t care.  I've begged them to break their silence.  They don’t want to communicate.  Nothing I do seems able to change their minds.

I realize I’ve survived for more than half a century without having a cell phone or a talking car.  I tell myself to suck it up.  I should just grit my teeth, and pull over to answer or make a call on my cell phone if I need to do so.  I remind myself, at least, I have a mobile device, but their folded-arms, silent treatment annoys me.

I admit it.  I’m spoiled.  I liked pushing a button on the steering wheel and talking to the car.   The fact my car and phone refuse to speak to each other has begun to anger me.  They are not the only ones involved.  I feel helpless.  I can’t help them, and I can’t help myself.  I’ve checked the communication settings on both. 

Do modern life and relationships really have to be this complicated?  There’s only one thing left to do to solve this standoff.  I guess I should make an appointment with a counselor who excels in relationship problems.  Maybe he can help my car and my cell phone communicate.  This problem seems to be more than a misunderstanding, and I certainly don't wish a divorce on anyone.

We need an appointment with a relationship specialist.  The car and the phone, and I, all need help. Otherwise, I can't be responsible for what I might do.  Help us, Boy Wonder, before it's too late.  Counsel us.

The Bank Won't Take my Money!

Banking is a routine ritual in everyday life.   Sometimes it creates a momentary, mundane breeze, but seldom does a banking storm erupt.  After visiting my son in the big city several weeks ago, he asked me to deposit the $80 I wanted to give him for the computer parts he had purchased and installed on my computer.   He did not want the extra cash hanging around.  He’s a modern child who uses his credit card for most needs, paying it off in full each month.

Throughout his college years, I, the Mom, have deposited many dollars into Boy Wonder’s checking account. It’s what a mom does.  I have his banking card.  So, the following afternoon on my way to work, I drove up to his well-known bank and its drive-through window, as usual, with his bank card to deposit money into his account. 

After sending in the canister with the check card and the $80 to deposit, the Teller at the Drive-up Window smugly informed me I could not deposit the four $20 bills into my son’s account.   Shocked, I asked why.  She only offered the excuse that the bank could not take cash.  I explained I had deposited money into my son’s account many times, but she simply held her stance, reporting the bank could not accept cash deposited into someone’s else’s account.

Baffled over a bank not accepting cash, and infuriated because I didn’t want to be late heading into work, I drove around the bank to the front, parking the car, and hurried inside.  I approached the first bank officer in her little office.

“Yes, that’s right,” she espoused.  We can’t accept cash.  We can only take a money order or a check.”

Money orders cost money, so I obviously did not want to use a money order.  “You mean I can’t deposit cash into my son’s account, but I can write a check out to my son and you will take it?”

“Yes,” she smiled with her pasted-on, blank, banker look. 

I waved the four $20 bills in the air.  “This is real money!  Real money!  You won’t take real money, but you’ll take my check?  Why is that?” I inquired.

“We have to know where the money is coming from,” she replied.

I wanted to respond, “It’s coming out of my ass because I’m giving it to an asshole of a bank,” but I refrained.  There were other people around.  Instead, I patiently explained as if I were talking to a two-year old, “I’m not withdrawing money.  I’m depositing.  I’m a mom.  I’m depositing $80 into my son’s account, like I’ve done many times.  You’ve never objected to real money before.“

“I’m not a criminal,” I added.  “I didn’t rob a bank so I could come over to another bank and deposit stolen money into my son’s account.”

 She, and the bank, needed to know "where the money is coming from?"  Did she think I was a drug dealer and this was drug money?  I had news for her – drug lords make far more than a paltry $80, and they don’t deposit into someone else’s account.

As she trudged back to her office with her false smile pasted on, I plopped down onto a nearby bench and angrily wrote out an $80 check to my son. 

Holy Sheep Crap!  The kid had changed his last name to my maiden name last year.  Had he changed his name on his banking account?  Had he changed his account number?  I would never be able to explain that to these odd ducks.  Almost panicked, I decided to write the check to the kid using his first name, his original last name, and his new last name to cover all the bases.   I simply wanted to deposit money into the kid’s account.  Explaining would only make matters worse.  In anger and trepidation, I stomped toward the teller’s window. 

Another bank officer and his office were in the direct line to the teller.  I stopped in the open door and waved my $80 in the air, like it was flapping in the breeze.  “You can’t deposit cash into someone’s account?  This is real money,” and I waved it again to prove my point.  “You can hold it up to the light, or you can take your magic yellow marker and see this is real money.  I’ve never heard of a bank refusing to take real money!  You’ll take my check, but you won’t take my real money? That is definitely stupid and asinine.” 

By this time I had built momentum and evolved into hurricane-force winds. “This rule is asinine and stupid.”  I was pointing my finger at this juncture to emphasize the words “asinine” and “stupid.”   

I continued.  “I realize it’s not your fault, but the banking big wigs who made this decision to not take real money are asinine and stupid.”  Again, I pointed and jabbed my index finger in the air as I spit out the key words.

I finished making my point and pointing, “This whole idea is asinine and stupid!” and I marched over to the teller to deposit the check.

“I’m sorry.  I was the one helping you at the drive-up window, and I forgot to tell you that you could use a money order or deposit a check,” she gushed. 

I couldn’t stop myself from repeating the words that succinctly explained this situation.  “The fact this bank will not take real money is asinine and stupid.  I’m not depositing thousands of dollars in unmarked bills (if they have those?) into my son’s account.  I’m not withdrawing.  I’m depositing.”

 I continued, displeasure dripping from every word.  “I am so glad I do not keep my checking account here in this bank,” and I collected the deposit ticket, in case the bank tried to stiff me, and I stalked out the door.  I’m sure gale force winds began to swirl behind me.

Since when did real money become so undesirable and obsolete?  What kind of weirdos manage our banks?  I’ve heard of a material world.  Maybe this has become a paper/plastic world?  In the meantime, just give me all your cash, your real money, and I’ll take care of it for you! 

Crime of the Week

Another winner drove a car around town yesterday with the following posted in red shoe polish on his back window: "Honk if your horny." Is there no end to heinous grammar atrocities in this Nation of Nincompoops?

Any dimwit knows "you are" = "you're." "Your" shows possession. The only possession I see here is the possession of a car, little education, and a non-caring, indolent attitude. No wonder the car was parked in a handicapped spot.

"Here I Am. This is me." (~ Bryan Adams)

I have a secret.  Most guys won’t find this monumental, but gals will understand the importance.  I can’t use a curling iron.

Let me rephrase that.  On the few occasions I’ve attempted to use a curling iron, the results go beyond disastrous.  Since I can’t enslave my layered, wavy tresses into the curling iron with any precision, wild hair ends sprout out and erupt in all directions when I unleash the barrel.  I look like I have stuck my finger into a light socket.  Perhaps you’ve seen pictures of mad scientists, or pictures of folks with hair attacked by static electricity – they have nothing on me.  You could rat my hair to its highest, and spray it, but not even that can compare to my curling iron coiffeur.  Each hair on my head springs out of the curling iron into an individual stance, all pointing a different way.  Kids and cats usually run at the mere sight of me emerging from a session with my curling iron.

This week then, when my hairdresser, Michelle, had fixed my hair…with her curling iron, I received 17 compliments about my hair at work from gals as well as guys.  “Your hair looks great!”  “I like your hair.” “Wow!” 

Yes, one day every five weeks, my hair looks wonderful…because Michelle does it.  The other 34 days, I fix my own hair.  I do not use a curling iron.  I cheat, and I use a heated curling brush instead.  That’s the best I can do, and obviously, my hair does not look nearly as good, but I’ve tried.  I have my own Cindy style of wild Irish hair, tamed down a bit with the heated curling brush.  On the days I fix my own hair, my only consolation at my lack of curling iron skills is that, at least, I don’t look like an electrified Bichon Frise.