Posts Tagged ‘BONEBOX’
This summer, my parents gave us their portable basketball hoop; after all, they have three bad knees between them. Plus, it’s just common knowledge that white grandfolk can’t jump.
Now, back in the day, before my hubby morphed into The Dingus, he was El Guapo (and ‘Elm’, ‘Elm Street’, ‘Jr.’, and ‘Marcus Welby’ – just to name a few). At 6’4” and born with uber-athletic genes, my El Guapo was quite the ball player back in high school. (I mean, his family was serious about basketball and baseball; his dad even cut holes in his pockets so he could squeeze in a little extra practice during down-time.)
As a middle-aged man, El Guapo was thrilled to receive this hoop – to share sport with his little girls and to get a little exercise, to boot.
Fab-O Dad that he is, he even lowered the hoop’s height to ‘make it easier for the M & Ms to make baskets’ (…and maybe to make dunking a wee bit easier on his creaky 40-yr.-old-self? Maybe? Maybe just a little bit?).
El Guapo has thoroughly enjoyed having the hoop in our driveway.
Unfortunately, it’s not there anymore.
A couple of days ago, the M & Ms and I walked up the street to M1’s piano lesson. M2 and I walked back to our cute’n’cozy two-story trailer to work on her homework. I have to set the oven timer for 25 mins. so I don’t get distracted and forget to walk back and pick up m’damn kid (like a did last week…oops; slipped my mind I had TWO).
When the oven bell chimed, M2 and I walked out the front door. We stopped short on the stoop, dumbfounded. There, lying cattywhumpus across the driveway, was the basketball hoop!
What the heck happened?
There was a little wind in the air, but not the freakin’ tempest that would dump my hoop to the concrete, for cryin’ out loud!
Though I desperately didn’t wanna be late to pick up M1 (especially after last week’s fiasco; my poor kids are SO ‘parentally-challenged’…), we inspected the damage.
The hoop’s pole was bent in half at its base! Even one of the pole’s support struts had been ripped away; its screw stripped and the nut and washer lying in the brown, dead grass.
I was utterly perplexed! It was fine 25 minutes ago, for heaven’s sake; WHAT happened?!
I didn’t know, but I decided to figure it out after I collected my kid.
At the end of the driveway, we turned past the shrubs between our trailer and the neighbor’s mansion. We nearly collided with another, new neighbor and his little guy.
Now, this guy is a stocky-boy, from just-this-side-of-Pudgeville. He moved in three doors down this summer. He’s an odd-bird. He’s not just unfriendly; dude is just downright rude (unless he’s a deaf mute). He will not look one in the eyes; hell, he won’t even acknowledge another’s presence, let alone greet or speak.
(But, ever Viv, my wicked wont knows no bounds; I turn on my sugar and SMOTHER him with kindness and nauseating CHEER – eh, ‘simple minds, simple pleasures’….)
His kid is only five or six, and he’s a little doll-baby. It’s too cute; he’s been practicing riding his two-wheeler for weeks.
As I drag M2 across the street to make way for the fledgling biker, I yell back over and make a huge fuss over the little fella getting really good at riding. The little cutie just beams at my praise. Chubs simply ignores me (actually, I love being ignored; that’s proof that I’m gettin’ to’im!).
We walk a few steps more up the street, and I’m kind’a relishing my little victory, and that’s when I hear it…a basketball bouncing….over by Big Fat Dad with the Ruditude.
Viv’s wheels of enlightenment start a’churnin’….
Did that fargin’ icehole bend my hoop?
No freakin’ way!
He may be mean, but he’s an adult!
Noooo! A grown man – a father – would never drive a dunk in someone else’s driveway AND then not admit to- nor apologize for having done so!
The Dingus, mi amor El Guapo, is going to be crushed! Adios, family fun!
Now, here’s The Viv, trying to be a responsible, role-modeling adult herself — trying to see God in everyone, trying to give Rudy the benefit of the doubt (that which Viv wholly doubts he deserves, but so…). She tries to conjure other ways in which her hoop could have been so verily mangled.
Raucous wayward teens bent on neighborhood destruction during the light of day?
The mild little wind rustling a few leaves? (perhaps; but the water-filled counter-balance box would have been up-ended; it was not.)
A more-than-a-bit-rusty pole base doubling over under its own top-heavy weight?
Was my hand-me-down-hoop toppled by an amoral ASSHOLE attempting to impress his kid with a half-height half-wit dunk & run?!
This Viv is goin’ down to Body Art, and gettin’er knuckles tattooed with:
Then, she’s freakin’ hijackin’ THE BONEBOX off’n Slingback Susie, and she and Rudy and SpongeBob are gonna take a little joyride — right after she jams a basketball up the sphincter’s sphincter and stuffs’im in the homemade coffin.
And if, on the way out’a the ‘hood, she see’s that little pucker-in-training fall off his fuckin’ Spiderman two-wheeler; she’s gonna honk like hell.
So, this morning, I pull in to my second favorite haunt, CVS, (my first favorite being ANY yard sale or thrift/second-hand/consignment/antique boutique) and what should my wandering eyes behold?
Only THE most incredible old HEARSE on earth – right there in the handi-spot!
I LOVE this old hearse!
(I realize we’re nearing Halloween, but this is the second time this week I’ve seen it out’n’about….)
I LOVE this old hearse!
(have I mentioned this?)
It’s decorated with morbid-cute stickers and fake foliage and a warm, fuzzy death-wreath adorns its grill; what’s not to love?
BEST OF ALL, its tag reads:
Though I do drive my dream car, my sassy red convertible bug (and you thought I was gonna say ‘Suzie,’ my ’97 Isuzu-Trooper-Beater, didn’t ya?);
THE VIV COVETS THE BONEBOX !
*As you may have already deduced, Viv has a story on the BONEBOX. She has stalked that corpse-coche for a couple of years; it is the muse for an already-in-progress YA novel (on which she’d better git her draggin’ dupey a’crackin)’. She has tried many a time, in vain, to discover its mystery driver.
Who could be behind the wheel of the tricked-out tomb-taxi?!
So, I’m trolling the aisles of the store, in search of its elusive chauffeur. There aren’t many customers, and I see no one who may be a possibility.
Now, I’m not exactly sure for whom I look, but I’m fairly certain there must be some emaciated 7-ft.- scraggly-haired-hooded-robe-wearin’-Crypt-Keepin’-zombie lurking somewhere in the well-stocked rows of pharma-heaven. I’m thinkin’ anyone wielding a scythe (NOT one of those plastic-kiddie-jobbies) will be a dead giveaway. I will positively burst into tears if the driver turns out to be the sweet old grandma perusing the $4.99 Good News Bibles (although, it appears she may soon be a BONEBOX passenger).
I spy a burly fella over in Vitamins (in his Gold’s Gym tee and spandex shorts — no doubt I’ll see him on peopleofwalmart.com someday – directly under a photo of myself); but, nope, no way; he’s not my guy. (I’m guessin’ he’s the school-bus-yellow Mustang.)
I will cry if Grandma owns the BONEBOX, but I will shit myself right there in CVS if Grandma’s ride is the Mustang; I swing through the Depends, just in case.
In Frozen, I run into my all-time-favorite clerk, Miss M. She is the sweetest little gal, and I just love her (and not just because she KNOWS my fag-of-fancy and is the one who slides my pleasure across the counter). I sidle up to her, scope for eavesdroppers, and in hushed-tone, let her in on my little recon mission.
As Miss M. returns to the register, I make a final, disappointing sweep.
That’s it. There is no one else in the store.
Did that creepy coffin-chariot drive here by itself?!
I high-step it to the checkout. Hearse still here? Check. Did Miss M. see anyone leave? Nope.
Now, while Miss M. checks-out some other lady, I’m keepin’ an eye on the register and the door, squatting behind the As Seen on TV! and New! Maybelline metallics displays, keeping an ultra-low profile in my red polo, hot-pink John Deere ball cap and reflective yellow raincoat. (I SO should’a been a spy…is there a ‘peopleofcvs’ website?)
The woman checking out is short and stocky and in her mid-late forties. She has Sally Field’s Steel Magnolias-helmet-hair, and though she’s sportin’ a stylin’ black ensemble (low, black patent-leather heels, slacks and a black tunic with, I think, tiny white flowers), she’s some meek’n’mild school secretary or a volunteer at the library.
Naw, she’s no BONEBOX driver, either.
Who the holy-heck is mannin’ that hearse?!
I must know!
Now it’s a frickin’ QUEST, Gawd-damnit!
There are only three cars left in the parking lot, and one’a’them’s mine! C’mon!
Panic-stricken, fearing I’ve somehow missed someone else, I leap up and bolt to the back of the store via its gray main path (my head flooded with the fuckin’ Munchkins advising me to ‘Follow the yellow-brick road’).
Nobody else is in the joint!
I tear back up front (shut-up, Munchkins!) just in time to see the automatic doors close behind the unassuming black-clad secretary/librarian.
I ask Miss M. if she saw anyone else. Nope.
And it hits me; NO FREAKIN’ WAY!…no…freakin’…way….
I tiptoe-creep backward from the check-out to the edge of the door frame and lean back to a 60˚ angle to peek out at the BONEBOX.
I sprint back over to Miss M. (who is, by the way, only mildly entertained by my antics, so familiar is she with my lunacy).
“THAT’S HER! SHE’S THE ONE! OHMIGOD! WERE THOSE LITTLE SKULLS ON HER SHIRT?! I THOUGHT THEY WERE FLOWERS! THEY WERE TINY SKULLS, WEREN’T THEY?! OHMIGAWD!”