>I was awakened this afternoon by the sound of Mexicans pressure washing the outside of our building, right next to my bedroom window. This instantly made me think “oh shit” because it was wide open. I fell out of bed and shut it just in time.
Must be the smartass note I left on the front door of the Mill Creek office did some good. Yesterday, I left my house (it was when I was going to Wal Mart) and the housing association had put a form letter on all the residents’ doors saying they were having a pressure washing service clean the siding on the 7th. It was the third of such letters, each of which were asking tenants to “please remove (all the shit) from their back porches and close all windows.” We’d complied up to this point – a pain-in-the-ass effort that pissed me off – but no pressure washing had actually been done. So this time I returned the letter to the ubiquitous ass holes with a simple inquiry: promise this time?
Anyway, the Mexicans spraying the building did me a huge favor. It was 1 p.m. and kickoff to the Jets-Patriots game had just taken place. I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed until halftime if it had not been for their diligent work, so I owed them a debt of gratitude, one I paid in the fashion of a hand salute from inside my living room. Undoubtedly, that’s the closest thing to a conversation I’ve ever had with one of the tortilla-fed brownies that roam the Wilmington streets in shitty cars with plastic wheel covers and frequent El Scorpio on Saturday nights. Of course, that’s not a hundred percent my fault … I only speak English.
Sara showed up an hour later, uninvited but not unwanted. After a quick shower and a shave (they happened consecutively instead of at once since shower mirrors are useless), we went down to big Harris Teeter to get shit to make wings. Neff came over right about the time David Akers was kicking off to the homosexual NY Giants team and we started the dismantling of the kitchen, a.k.a. “the cooking of the wings.” Cory and Charlie showed up a few minutes later, launching an unspoken competition to see who made the best wings.
This is getting ridiculous. I didn’t do anything worth writing about, nor do I have anything to bitch about. The coolest thing that happened all day was when Charlie and I put a dead possum from the road on Cory’s back porch. It sent an array of emotions down my spine, including satisfaction, gladness and a sense of accomplishment, since the possum was the same that had been drinking oil out of the deep fryer on our back porch on a nightly basis since, oh, we moved in. He’s no longer around and we aren’t responsible for his death, for one, plus none of the socially-shafted “damn illegals” who work for the city have to worry about picking the bloated thing up when they get to work and businessman Cory has a possum to walk around the next time he lets Shooter out. The last of these three plusses is probably the most important. Wait, I forgot that we saw a midget who thinks she’s a real person on the way over to his place … that’s a solid opponent.
I retract the statement I made earlier. The Eagles won and Cory has a dead possum to deal with in the morning. It was a great day. A road trip to Charlotte is slated for tomorrow. Sara’s going with me to take Neff to get his car and I think we’re doing some shopping. I’ll take my camera as I’m sure I’ll have lots to write about. It’s a road trip, Baby.
“Oh highway … you express me better than I can express myself.”