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Beau B Fincher

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Member Since: Oct, 2007

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Grouchy Morning
By Beau B Fincher
Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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Day in the life of a stay-at-home Army wife.

Grouchy Morning

     The loud hum that escaped from my husband as he dreamed, kept me up all night, and I ran out of coffee yesterday.  This morning the sound of the water cycling through the fish tank is like a lullaby and I seem to be drifting away from much needed studying.  The clock shows it’s only 10 a.m. and already I need a break.  Pain begins to migrate up my spine as I sit on the couch, hunched over like Quasimodo, to use the laptop.  We are too cheap to by a computer desk so it sits on the second hand coffee table, which is significantly lower than the thrift store couch I am parked on.   I guess I could just set it on my lap but the heat makes me feel as if I am going through menopause.  My front door is propped open, a sign that I am home, and an unspoken invitation to stop by, but only if you need something. I live in housing on an Army Post.  Imagine a large, upright, rectangle divided equally into eight identical sections, now place three of these rectangles in an area the size of a football field with enough room for about forty cars.  Packed in here like sardines, we form our own little melting pot and I wish I had a giant strainer.  I venture outside for my mid-morning fix of smoke-enhanced fresh air. My box, I mean home, is located in the lower right corner of the rectangle, by choice, in an attempt to avoid contact, as much as possible, with anyone who doesn’t share my DNA.  Twenty feet from the front door is the only tree on the street, which makes a great place to sit on hot days, but it attracts every damn kid in the neighborhood for some reason, sort of a meeting place I guess.  The dog next door will not shut up; I wish I could just shoot it in the fucking head but I don’t really feel up to being incarcerated.  I can tell that it is Wednesday; because the neighbor Mike is wearing his orange shirt.  Apparently, he has a limited wardrobe and usually wears things in order, perhaps it’s because all of his money went to pay for his new truck.  He is washing it today and the only sound I hear is the water hitting the undercarriage. The parking lot is nearly empty on my end except for one other stay-at-home mom and Mike, whose wife is on active duty, so he stays at home with the dogs; what a real man!  He claims he is in the process of joining the Navy but I heard the real reason he is home is that he was fired from his job at the local Sonic.  Who gets fired from a fast food restaurant?  Today my caffeine shortage, along with sobriety, keeps me from filling my veins in order to make this place tolerable, so I hope Mike doesn’t see me.  I plop down in my lawn chair that is perfectly positioned so that the noxious smell of dead fish, coming from the neighbor’s trash, doesn’t kill me.  If it’s not the fish in the trash out front, it’s the flytraps hanging in their yard out back.  They will be moving soon; I bet I started crossing off the days on the calendar before they did.   As I light up, my obsessive-compulsive tendencies force me to count the windows on the buildings across the street, there are 30, just like last week.  Today only two are open, which is rare because many people around here turn into contortionists in an attempt to see and hear everything.  The sound of a power wheels is approaching. Obviously, someone is too big for it because I can hear the sputtering of the strain on the battery.  It’s the little, homely boy, still in his pajamas.  If he knocks down my yard lights, I will be pissed.  He stops in front of me and stares; blinking as if he has some kind of tic.   He parts his lips to speak but the words seem to be stuck in his throat. Good, the last thing I want to do is make small talk with a lisping kindergartner.   I don’t say anything so he parks the thing and walks toward the tree; he is probably going to pee on it.   It wouldn’t be the first time.   He must have some major issues, and I want to tell him to go away, but I don’t.   I wish I could put up an electric fence around my yard; I am tired of the brats knocking down my lights and leaving their crap all over the place for me to pick up.  Last week the trash men carried off a bike, it was laying out front for more than a week and some how it ended up with the recycling.  HeHeHe! It’s not my problem; they should learn to pick up their stuff.   Uggghhhh! This kid keeps staring at me as if he is waiting to see something amazing. Maybe he can see the horns, I don’t know, “just go away”, I say under my breath.  Great! Just my luck, Mike sees me and before I can make a dash for the door, he turns off the hose and, as if he is reading from a script, he asks for a cigarette.   My line, perfectly rehearsed, is that this is my last one.   Now I have to go out back with that barking excuse for a pet for the rest of the day, so I don’t look like a liar.   Most days if Mike is out front, I avoid going out all together which makes me feel like a prisoner with him as my warden.   Yeah, he wishes, pervert!   As he turns and walks away, I mumble for the loser to get a job.   I toss the butt out into the yard and go back inside, slamming the front door, CLOSED! 

 


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Reviewed by Jane Sutton 1/7/2008
Haven't we all had days like this! Great description - "Packed in here like sardines, we form our own little melting pot and I wish I had a giant strainer." I can't tell you how many times I have also wished to have that giant strainer. It was a fun read and I loved the story.


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