Bloggled By A Toddler, or Out Of Pie

I'm generally against online journals on the principle that it's odd to assume anyone would give a gnit's tits what goes on in my head.

That being said, there are several sexcellent online journals out there, such as Leebert's Journalgasm!! http://www.deadjournal.com/users/leebert1981/.

I don't want to encroach on my friend's territory, so hopefully nobody will see it that way. That being said, it's time now to be a big, dirty hypocrite, and let the big world outside have a voyeuristic peep at the paradoxically bigger world inside my mind.

To begin:

It was a perfectly craptastic day. I'd worked until midnight, then had to be at work at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Two hours of inventory later, I was back in bed for the most sleep I've had in weeks (a fat four hours -- rock!) before I woke up feeling hungover: dry, weak, a little headache.

My room was stifling, and I was desperately seeking a way to cool off when I remembered we have a pool in this palatial paradise of a development. Sweet.

I called my friend Devan and asked if she wanted to swim (she did) and before long we were in our swimsuits, towels draped across our shoulders, slap-flapping our sandals across the pavement. When we reached the pool, some lovely member of the Upper Arlington Fun Police had posted a sign saying the pool was closed.

Dammit.

I looked Devan, shrugged, and suggested we head to the park across the street. Rather than dash across four lanes of traffic in skimpy clothes, we opted to drive.

We got in the car, turned on some good tunes, and I slowly backed out of the carport when ...

BANG!

My front fender knocked against the pole that holds the roof over the carport. My car SCRAPED along for a good foot before it was finally free. I got out to inspect the damage, and - SURPRISE! - there was a giant foot-long scrape down my front fender. I shrugged it off -- just about everyone who lives in our complex has done the same thing.

We drove to the park and chilled on the swings for a bit, then found a nice sunny spot to throw down our towels and talk. Somehow I managed to break my sunglasses, and right after that, I realized I left my keys by the swings. I had to carry them because the pockets in my swimsuit are rather tight and awkwardly positioned for the storage of sharp metal objects. I must have left them on the ground while we were swinging.

Devan and I grabbed our towels and walked back. Before we even reached the swings, we were stopped by a group of people roughly our age eating an enormous picnic dinner.

"Dude, are you looking for your keys?" asked the man closest to us.

Feeling relieved, I nodded.

"Well, like, there was this kid here, and he had these keys, and asked us if they were ours, and were like, 'No.'"

"Well, do you know which way he went?" I asked.

"Uh, he went ... uh, I forget."

Shit.

Another stoner piped up from the far side of the table.

"Oh! Like, he said, he was gonna like, turn them in to the ... uh ... the ... oh man, I forget."

Surreal moment number one.

"I see. Well, guys, thanks for your help."

Devan and I wandered over to the swings, where I kicked half-heartedly at the mulch, mumbling curses about children everywhere.

We walked up the road toward the park office, which is conveniently located next to a police station.

Being Sunday, the park office was closed. So we trekked across the parking lot and pounded on the door of the police station.

Eventually, an officer opened the door and smiled warmly at Devan. Then he saw me and his smile dimmed. I imagine I am much less attractive in my swimsuit.

I explained to him about my keys, and he said he didn't have them and shut the door again. He didn't ask for my name or number or a description of the keys. A real detective doesn't need such petty details. Assuming he'd stepped inside to call in back-up, Devan and I raced back across the four-lane road and walked to my house, which was fortunately a short walk.

Naturally, John (my roommate) wasn't home, and it was getting dark. Devan has some strange phobia about knocking on people's doors, so we decided to wait for John to come home. In the meantime, we realized that cell phone technology had made our brains completely useless for recalling telephone numbers.

We couldn't think of a single person to call. TWO people couldn't conjure a single number except their own.

Not that it mattered. We had no phone, no lights, no motorcar; we were stranded on some warped Gilligan's Island.

We decided to sit on the curb and await John's return.

It grew darker, and colder, until we had our towels wrapped tightly about us, which did little to stifle the shivering.

Suddenly, we saw headlights. JOHN WAS COMING! WE WERE SAVED! But alas, it was not John, but some chick in a white sedan. It cruised right up next to us, and we could see she was talking on a cell phone. She tried awkwardly to maneuver the car into the carport and ...

BANG!

Scraped the side of the car along the pole.

Surreal moment number two.

I told you it happens all the time.

I was watching her back the car out and try again when ...

SLAP!

Devan smacked me in the face.

"OW!" I whined.

"Sorry. It was a mosquito!"

I swear all of my friends live in a perpetual cartoon world.

"You wave it off, you don't slap someone in the face..."

Too tired to be angry, I walked over to the girl getting out of the car. She barely registered Devan and I in our swimsuits as she ran to inspect the damage.

I tried to head her off.

"I did the exact same thing earlier. It's just a scrape -- you can probably buff it out."

"OH MAN IT WAS A TOTAL ACCIDENT."

"Right, well, listen, I PROMISE I've had a worse day than you ... not only did I scrape my car, but I lost my keys. Can we use your cell phone?"

She absently threw me the phone, which I gave to Devan. She called her own house in the hopes that her roomies were there and could at least come keep us warm in a car.

Meanwhile, the stranger had grabbed my towel from my back and started rubbing at the scrape, as if she was going to buff it out by sheer elbow grease.

"OH MY GOD. THIS IS MY FRIEND'S CAR. SHE'S GOING TO KILL ME."

"Well, it's just a scrape. I don't think she'll be too mad."

"SHE JUST GOT THIS CAR LAST WEEK AND LENT IT TO ME AND I SCRATCHED IT!!!"

Then she began to sob uncontrollably.

I began to think maybe her friend really was that anal, and was going to butcher this girl and bury her in the woods somewhere.

Surreal moment number three.

So Devan walked over, shaking her head. No answer.

The stranger ran inside (still holding my towel) and I soon realized she was returning the car.

Her friend came out to inspect the damage.

"It's just a scrape. No big deal."

"OH MY GOD I'LL SO PAY FOR IT I'M SO SORRY PLEASE DON'T KILL ME"

"No, really, it's ok."

She returned my towel, and they both jumped in the car and left Devan and I freezing yet again.

*SIGH*

By now we were frustrated enough to start pounding on doors. I knocked on my neighbor's door for what seemed like an hour. No answer. We figured she died.

Moving around the side of the house, things began to get more surreal by the second.

The back is poorly lit, and we have these giant wooden fences, which creak when the gates open. A couple were blowing ever-so-slightly in the evening breeze.

crrrrreeeeeeeeaaaaaaakkk

crrreeeeaaaaaakkkkkkk

Then all of a sudden:

CCCCCCCCCRRRRRRREEEEEEAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKK

One of the gates opened, and this little blonde girl poked her head from behind it. Then it slammed shut again.

I looked at Devan, and we both shivered.

Then ...

CCCCCCCCRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKK

The door swung open again, and the little girl darted around the corner. It was definitely very Stephen King. We were about to die.

Surreal moment number four.

Not knowing what else to do, we continuted walking down the path, looking for lights on inside any of the houses. Nothing.

Finally, we found a lady walking her dog -- a fluffly white puffball Bichon Frise named -- appropriately -- PUFFY.

We approached the lady and started to speak when suddenly ...

The scary little girl swooped down on us.

I stifled a scream.

"Hello," I gasped.

"Oh, this is my daughter ..." our neighbor said.

Whew. We weren't going to die after all.

"Let me get you a phone book and a cell phone ... wait here."

Then she LEFT US with HER DAUGHTER AND HER DOG.

Surreal moment number five.

The dog immediately began growling and trying to bite my ankles. It was on one of those extendable leashes, so the girl had very little control.

"PUFFY!" the girl yelled, laughing.

Har har.

The dog settled itself on licking my heels.

"He eats rabbit pellets," the little girl informed me.

Perfect.

"He also smokes cigarettes."

What a talented dog!

Fighting the urge to kick one of the two, I was relieved that the mother had returned.

She handed us the cell phone and book, then took the leash back from her daughter.

We looked up John's dad in the phone book and dialed the number. I was so happy when it started ringing.

Then some lady told me it was the wrong number. I was ready to lose it, but Devan realized I'd dialed the wrong number.

We tried again ... VICTORY! John's dad answered the phone.
I introduced myself, explained my situation, and asked him to call John.

Fortunately, he had a Nextel, so he began calling John while I waited on the phone.

Then Puffy went crazy.

The dog started pulling on the leash, his little puppy piston legs pumping against the grass.

And then I watched in awe as this four-pound dog began dragging its owner around in a circle at warp speed.

John, meanwhile, wasn't answering his call, so John's dad began to call his girlfriend.

At this moment, Puffy began running laps around me, slowly tying me and the little girl together with her long extendable leash, while the mother frantically tried to gain a foothold.

MOST SURREAL MOMENT OF ALL.

Finally, John answered the page and said he was right outside the door (ah, sweet irony).

I untangled myself from Puffy's leash, handed the phone back to our neighbor, and rushed inside with Devan.

We were glad to be warm, and laughing as we told John the story. I had to call my mom and ask her to overnight the keys.

Then we went to Johnny Rockets, and the bastards were out of pie.

And that's my story.