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Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Local You Asked For It

via email: I miss hearing about the Lucy adventures! I hope your recovery is going well. I'd love to hear about what you're doing during this time. I'm sure your other readers would too.

Really? Are you sure?

OK, I'm still locked in mortal combat/loving hugs with my frenemy, The Universe. It's just that during these weeks the arena is a lot smaller and the participants (OK, well one of the participants) tires a lot more quickly.

Take yesterday. The sun is out, the oldest is feeling especially coolio because a song he likes has come on the radio, and so he asks me if we can put all the car windows down. Now this makes zero sense to me, because if you put all the windows down, it's a lot harder to hear the song, but I don't say that, I just coolio Mom put all four windows down. And he beams and sort of sings along but in a coolio way and so we're coolio all the way home. Super-coolio.

When we get home, just as I finish putting up the windows, I hear an odd sound from the back, like cellophane being crinkled by a really angry person. So I stare at one of the back windows in complete confusion, which action makes no sense, because they're fully up, and why would glass make that sound? MINUS 20 COOLIO POINTS.

I shrug, and we get out and open the back doors to get the oldest's guitar stuff out, and I hear the sound again. This time I'm immediately Spidey-sensey able to spot it with pinpoint accuracy, so I go to the back of the car to get a better look at the enormous cicada that has flown into the car and is now trying furiously to escape through the back windshield. The poor thing is wedging himself in tighter and tighter with each effort and glaring at me with its beady little cicada eyes. Under the circumstances I do the only thing I can do: I turn to the oldest and say, "Go get your father".

(See, you're all like, "What? Wow, she such a ninny!" right now, I know you are. But hi, I didn't want the cicada to get hurt during the extrication, and with my luck I'd end up beheading it. Also, certain bugs - ones that move quickly - make me do an involuntary sort of dance that involves jerky movements and scale-sliding vocalizations. Among these are spiders, cicadas, and any unknown bug on a ceiling - insect speed not a factor.)

My husband comes out and assesses the situation without asking nearly as many questions as you might think (he's somewhat used to me, afterall), and then he asks for something to slip under it. I hand him the magazine I have in my purse (SavorNC, a gorgeous publication filled with Carolinian awesomeness), and he attempts a rescue several times, but the cicada just keeps sidestepping it and then hurtling headlong into the windshield anew.

My husband: This isn't working.

Me: But it's a really good magazine! (MINUS 50 COOLIO POINTS)

My husband: Do you have something less bulky?

Me: Here.

My husband: A stick? Did you just hand me a stick?

Me: Well, we're outside.

My husband: I can't use this. I'd impale him. OK, I'm going to pinch his wings together.

Me: But gently! (MINUS 100 COOLIO POINTS)

And that's what my husband does, deftly toting the cicada outside of the car then releasing him. The cicada flies off to God knows where while I shimmy and shudder and shriek like a ninny. (MINUS ANY REMAINING COOLIO POINTS)

The End.

Aren't you sorry you asked?

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