Panties, a machete and "American Idol"
Current mood: adventurous
Luke and I performed our Tuesday night ritual of taking our municipal Chicago garbage cans out to the street last night since garbage pickup is today. Said time is also when I typically remember to take a gander at the incoming US mail in the broken-off mailbox which sits atop the front porch stairs. (Lest we forget that the Chicago Police ripped the box off the siding whilst breaking down the front door to bust the downstairs crack dealers last fall.)
In an effort to further perpetuate the notion that I must live in a really, really, really rough neighborhood, I offer the transcript of the following exchange betwixt my son and myself:
Luke: "Mom, is that a machete on our lawn?"
Luke: "Is it real?"
Me: "Yes! And really rusty!"
Luke: "What's it doing there?"
Me: "I have no idea (said as I carefully picked it up by the edge of the blade, so's not to ruin any incriminating fingerprints on the handle)."
Luke: "Does it belong to the drug people?"
Me: "Probably, or someone else they've pissed off."
Luke: "Our life is turning into Law & Order SVU."
We hemmed and hawed over calling the non-emergency police number to report the machete, but logic ruled out realizing that in all liklihood, the cops weren't going to send over a forensic crime scene investigation team to dust it for prints, so into the garbage can it went.
I did the same thing a few months back with the bent up golf club that some other random, disgruntled hoodlums used to break the windows of the black Oldsmobile in the front of the driveway that did belong to the drug dealers downstairs, and shudder to think what the garbage men on our route must think of what goes on at our address.
Luke wondered if the machete was used to cut our grass, since we have neither a mower or a landlord, nor a landscaping service. Though the visual of someone cutting down our weeds and dandelions as if they were rice fields in rural Cambodia reeked of adventure, I'm not totally thinking that was the case.
After we went back inside, we eagerly watched the first night of the finals on this season's "American Idol," which I can't believe I've lowered myself to watch and find it disturbing that I give a damn about. Alas, desperate times call for desperate television viewing choices when a household is sans cable for close to an entire TV season. We're rooting for David Cook, only the less weenie-ish of the two Davids (Archuletta being the opponent) and please don't blab to my son that I didn't really call in my vote last night after the show (which I effectively pretended to, while we watched Chef Ramsey fling undercooked beef tenderloins at his staff on "Hell's Kitchen").
My mom keeps receiving cards in the mail entitling her to a pair of free panties at Victoria's Secret. She's 64 and no longer into shaking what her mama gave her undergarment-wise, so she's been passing the rewards along to me, not that I shop at Victoria's Secret either. My panty of choice is the Hanes Cotton Hipster (are you writing this down?) and they don't sell the steel-reinforced-underwire bras required to hold up my pair of girls. Still, I'm happy to roll my scrawny ass cheeks over there to claim my free! panties! Unfortunately, I keep forgetting...that is, except when the latest VS commercial is aired (during "American Idol," for example).
Me: "Remind me to go get my Free! Panties!"
Luke: "Stop that."
Me: "But I keep forgetting."
Luke: "But WHY do you say that EVERY time the commercial comes on?"
Me: "So I remember to go get them."
Luke: "You're disgusting me."
The Wizards of Idiocy known as Comcast are (fingers crossed) coming today between 10am-1pm to wave their magic wants over my cable and internet at home, hopefully putting an end to my reliance on broadcast channel entertainment and the need to use my mom's or boyfriend's computers for internet access. Let's hope.