For living in such a small, safe community, my weekend was unusually fraught with peril. Actual peril.
Friday, Hugh and I purchased a new flat screen television to replace the television that had been with us since the early years of our marriage. Upon finalizing the purchase, Hugh loaded the new television into the back of the Tahoe and sent me merrily on my way back to work while he drove in the opposite direction to deliver cabinets to a nearby housing development.
By the time I got home at the end of the day, I had completely forgotten about the rather huge box in the back of the car and was therefore quite shocked when I opened the rear door only to have the behemoth television box leap out of the rear cargo area clearly intent on doing me harm.
I narrowly avoided being crushed by my new electronics, is what I am saying. See? Peril. In my own garage.
Saturday, I attended a fancy-pants charity event at the local golf course where I discovered, to my horror, that my modeling service would include walking down a circular staircase while wearing four inch heels. And, skin tight dresses. Dresses with trains.
And, four inch heels; did I mention the four inch heels?
People. Walking while chewing gum has been my undoing on more occasions than I like to admit so you can imagine the anxiety produced by this particular task but; I did it. I’m not saying I did it well but, I did it. Panicking the entire fucking time, I assure you.
All that peril pales in comparison to my Sunday morning shopping trip with The Girl, though.
How could a holiday shopping spree with a pre-pubescent girl be at all perilous, you ask?
You try shopping with a pre-pubescent girl who is all kinds of jacked up on the Starbucks sometimes, my friend, and then ask that question. I dare you.
Because, if I thought my daughter talked a lot before the Grande peppermint mocha (and, I did), the volume and rapidity of conversation that followed its consumption was enough to blow my mind.
Pre-pubescent girls + Caffeine = a combination not to be trifled with.
Try it sometime. At your peril.
Speaking of pre-pubescence and things fraught with peril, this morning, The Girl mistook the pattern in her underwear for a blood smear and freaked the fuck right out. We are talking shower scene from Carrie freak-out, here. It took me a good minute to calm her down enough to realize-and to laugh at-her mistake.
On an aside, I hope to God she is at home when she does eventually start her period because that type of reaction happening in school would scar every sixth-grade boy for life. Some of the girls, too, probably. Hell, I’m an adult and I’m scarred.
And, I digress.
Anyway, last night we capped off the Weekend o’ Peril with a virtual lock-down of our small community when a carjacker from a town to the North of us ended up on our streets after the car ran out of gas. The owner of the car, who had been along for the ride, was unhurt and able to give a pretty good description of the carjacker as well as to indicate the direction he took off in. So, of course, the entire local police department, sheriff’s department, a tracking dog and two helicopters were dispatched to hunt him down.
Like an episode of COPS, minus the soundtrack.
And, I would say that it was exciting but it wasn’t, really.
In fact, it was a total buzz-kill for me since Hugh
I mean, I could have taken the bath, I suppose but; I was just the teensy-tinsiest bit afraid that the car-jacker would choose our house to break into and, I theorized, if that happened he would naturally try to steal my new television set.
People, I did not escape death at the hands of that electronic bitch just to hand it over to the first thug who comes along; I was fully prepared to beat him bloody with a four inch heel while screaming like a pre-pubescent girl who just saw blood in her panties for the first time if that was what it took to protect that television set from harm.
I mean, there is peril and then there are priorities.
Thus endeth the Weekend o' Peril.