And then I was officially crowned the crazy old lady in the neighborhood: more life lessons
I had a frustrating morning of working on an email campaign and fighting with html only to FINALLY make it to the pool for the sky to turn black and the thunder to roll in so everyone had to leave and then, of course, by the time I sat back down at my computer in my closet room it was sunny. Which provided clear visibility of the incident occurring in my front yard and led to the now ongoing altercation with the frat boys down the street.
I was in a sorority and had many, many friends who were frat boys so the term isn’t a slur, it’s just a descriptor. In the South, we have a very specific type of frat boy: more often than not he drives a truck or an SUV but even if he drives a smaller car–they all have some sort of accessory rack for luggage, bikes, coolers, dead deer, etc somewhere on the vehicle. They also wear visors, always have croakies attached to their shades and, more often than not, have a black lab. It’s like they’re gifted these things at initition or something. Hooray, you survived hell week: have a black lab and a bow tie.
So when I saw a dog shitting in my yard that WAS a black lab and was attached to a visor/croakie wearing tan boy–I knew it was one of the frat boys from down the street who, coincidentally live next door to my OTHER neighborhood nemesis aka the dude that got in a standoff with the police and then hit my car. I should probably just consider avoiding that region of the neighborhood.
I scrambled down the stairs to yell at him and as I opened the front door was punched in the face by the terrible odor of the poop his obviously gastrointestinally-challenged dog had left like breadcrumbs across my yard and driveway. He ignored me. That was his first mistake. I was wearing a swimsuit and flip-flops so I wasn’t about to take off running after the fit frat boy. Instead I grabbed my car keys and followed him down the street, careening wildly into his driveway and almost taking out a frog holding a gazing ball that must have been left by the previous owners. He reacted with the appropriate look of terror because until you’ve had a 35-year-old sweaty, no makeup wearing, crazy-eyed lady almost kill you and your frog with her big white Lexus, I don’t know that you’ve really lived. (This brings about the first life lesson of this post: it’s always more fun to be terrifying when you look cute. Slap on some lip gloss, brush your hair, pull yourself together. A little cleavage never hurt.)
I explained to him that I expected him to clean up after his dog, that we didn’t behave like that in this neighborhood and that yes, it was more than four little nuggets and that perhaps Bo, all frat boys name their dogs Bo if they aren’t named that themselves, could stand a visit to the vet.
After I arrived home, I called J to inform him that I was now in an altercation with the frat boys down the street, explained what happened and told him that if he came home and Bratchild and I were collecting giant piles of Clifford poo from the backyard, I didn’t want him to be confused. Remarkably, J wasn’t confused in the least or even surprised when I told him that if the frat boy didn’t clean up his dog’s poo, I was going to collect some of our dog’s piles and place them around his front yard. I always like to keep J informed. I’ve also been known to make notes of people I feel look suspicious in case I go missing.
As I awaited the frat boy’s return I let Clifford, our ginormous Rottweiler mix rescue dog, sit in the front door to greet him when he returned. Clifford, who people often think is scary because of his size, did his part well and let out very loud, very terrifying, very deep barks that caused the frat boy to scurry to scoop the poop and race down the street with the poop sack, and his visor, trailing behind him. (Next life lesson? Have a bigger dog than your nemesis.)
Below: Clifford not looking terrifying just eyeing me with disdain.