This morning was one of those moments. I had slept in because, well, I can. Considered sunrise, delivered the paper to the prophet, it started raining a wee bit and then my thought process turned in the direction my still sleeping hounds and comfy bed. Hello again rumpled sheets, push over comrades...
I woke later when a neighbor texted me and inquired as to whether I would like to walk up to the store with her. I answer sure, why not and proceeded to promptly fall back asleep because I will continue to maintain most considerate person ever status. The next thing I know, I wake up to screaming. Seriously loud angry male screaming. I'm a little disoriented because I would stake my life on the fact that it's the super friendly Ohio boys behind me. These guys aren't the smartest of fellows and one of them is an awfully sloppy drunk but overall they are very cheery and decent enough neighbors.
Side Note: I have recently fallen back in love with P&J. Someone handed me half their sandwich the other day after a good long hunger making swim. I bit into it, my heart just about stopped in my chest and forgetting I was in the company of others I softly whispered oh... where have you been and why did we break up? Just a second while I scrutinize the J. My J never stands for Jelly. Fucking Jelly. All uncooperative and lumpy. It's so noncommittal with how it oozes out of your sandwich and tries to stain something you appreciate in life. Like that wayward pup you can't get rid of no matter how hard you try and then you just have to call the whole thing quits even though in the beginning everything seemed like it not only fit perfectly but was going to work out just fine. My J will always stand for Jam. It spreads out perfect every time and never attempts to destroy your tasty moment just because it lacks in consistency. That's just simple integrity if you ask me. And what beats integrity? Nothing, that's what. So now when I have a case of the snackies I make myself a P&J. Not only does it have protein, but my goodness, it's filling. It also really helps with my all time cooking low. Perfection. I fully enjoy the jam bottle cap that reads: REJECT IF BUTTON IS UP. I always picture someone coming across a jam up button and screaming I REJECT YOU at the bottle of jam, who had been able to keep it together until that point, because it knows man... it knows it's button is up. It's just been playing it cool hoping no one else will notice. The mortification instantly turns it into a sobbing mess and it runs from the room to hide itself in shame. Rejected jam up button therapy would ensue and it would consist of at least one day a week of rejected jam up button support groups. I mean, what is the purpose of a bottle of jam that not only no one will eat but sometimes they aren't even recycled? Just thrown into the trash with a yucky suspicious look forever carved into their little jam brains. The injustice is positively heartbreaking! All these totally purposeless bottles of jam trying to swallow the fact that life is unfair and saying over and over again it truly wasn't their fault their button was up, it was that stupid thoughtless jerky kid who stocks the shelves and thinks he's funny and never once considered that he might be destroying the life of a good wholesome and trustworthy jam bottle. And they'd be right. But no one would care because the world is full of sick fucks who make buttons go up on purpose and the rest of us, well, we just don't speak jam bottle now do we?
I peek my head out the curtain to tell them to slow down and take a breath when I realize they are screaming at my neighbor who is passively sitting at the side yard table. She's quietly saying things back and it's obviously hitting a nerve or a thousand and they start in about that she needs to leave because she's so obviously a crack smoking druggy whore. They have been screaming awful awful things at her the whole time I was getting ready to head out, but for some reason that one just didn't sit right with me, so I stick my head back out the curtain and say hey, come on now fellas, let's be fair here... she's an alchoholic, not a crack whore, I mean, she doesn't even look like a crack whore, they're all sickly skin and bones. Interestingly enough I still have a friend and it really cooled the whole thing down. I might have to have a little talk with the boys to see what the hell their deal is because this is truly new behavior. She swears up and down that all she wanted to do is tell the younger brother who is hiring, but shit, I have a hard time believing anyone who drinks that much and I am so into the Barbara Streisand thing lately...
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