A few warm weekends ago, we sat outside drinking. This was in the midst of our boiler problems and our ceiling problems, and our landlady had just received a notice for three years of "seriously overdue" water bills, so my sense of porch-entitlement was raging. I had placed the sagging lime green foldouts just so and had arranged the beer cans at a flattering angle when she walked up the steps grinning at something in her arms.
I was enjoying a pleasant buzz and took the bait.
"How was vacation?"
"Great!"
"Whatchya got there?" A little cautiously.
Guilty laughter.
"Well?"
"Flamingos!" Silence. "Flamingos for the front yard!"
"I guess Florida really had its way with you."
"Yes! They're so kitchy! And they light up!"
"Yes. And they match the trim on the house." This was me trying to be polite. And how much cause does a person have to turn up her nose at plastic yard decor when she's just instructed her guests to "No, ash into the tray and spit over the railing"? So I smiled and opened the door for her.
The next morning I waited for their debut, but nothing changed. A few days later I discovered the chalky remains of our garden gnome. Apparently he had climbed the stoop and dashed himself to pieces in the bushes--no doubt in fearful anticipation of sharing his beauty bark with glowing, neon fowl. But still nothing.
And I breathed a little easier for a while. But punishment was sure, if slow, in coming....
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