We, here in Vanillaville,
likes things quiet and peaceful. Many folks here are so laid back they take an hour and a half to watch 60 Minutes. So who knew that there was any
chance the fish could turn on you in Lake Vanillaville. Lake
Vanillaville, aka the town pond, is a tranquil little pond located
about 5 miles from our house, Rancho Relaxo. It's a great place for
the former Miss Massachusetts and I to dip our piggies in the water,
her after a hard day's work in the salt mines and me, after a long
day's work re-arranging my sock drawer. But we go there because we
have no life and, if you're over 62 (I just squeaked by by a year or
two) it's FREE. You give the town $7,000 in taxes each year for 35
years and they'll give you a free pond membership as you approach the
18th tee of life. I should point out that if we bring the
Li'l Dahlin's, Vera, Chuck and Dave (the grandchildren) for a splash
we have to pay $3.00 per Dahlin'. None of this unfortunately is tax
deductible.
Anyway, the bride and I
have been going to the pond since our children have been little
toddlers. It was either take them to the pond or teach them how to
shoot squirrels out of the bird feeder at a very young age. Daughter
#2 wasn't a very good shot, (something to do with her being left eye
dominant, I think) so we decided on water sports instead of live
fire. If we were able to acquire tracers, it might have been a
different story.
Anyway, after we ran out
of ammunition, it was off to the pond while singing, “To the pond
to the pond to the pond we go,” to the tune of the William Tell
Overture (think The Lone Ranger song.) The ride to the pond was
negotiated in a 1974 Augusta Green Volvo station wagon (something in
my life finally was Augusta green) while the kiddos rode
seatbeltlessly in the rear section. Seatbelts, at that time, had yet
to be invented and since we had little regard for the safety of the
urchins, I doubt we would have used them any way. And bike
helmets.....what the hell would you need those for?
Anyway, off we went to the
pond for a day of fun and mirth and no visits to the bathroom, if you
get my drift. I was surprised as hell that at the end of the pond
season the urchins didn't come down with the bubonic plague
considering all the little nose pickers alleviating themselves in the
shallow end of the pond for the summer trimester.
Anyway, that was then and
this is now. The urchins have grown up and are now a problem of the
state and the bride and I are free at last, thank God Almighty, we're
free at last. We just head to the pond at our leisure without the $569
worth of sand toys that had a life expectancy of one visit. Just me,
the bride, my lounge chair and whatever book I'm reading at the time.
(I just finished, “Sex On The Moon” by Ben Mezreich. 3.5 stars
out of 4. It's about stuff regarding NASA, the moon and,
disappointingly, not very much about sex.)
Anyway, now for the past
two years, I seem to be the target of some underfed, overly
aggressive coelecanths or some such denizens that live in the depths
of the Vanillaville pond. In each of the past two years, after I've
done my usual 683 laps (I exaggerate) from one side of the swimming
area to the other, I have joined my bride, the former Esther
Williams, in the water, whilst hanging on to the rafts that are
strategically placed just far apart so the 10 year old future
criminals of Vanillaville can throw water laden tennis balls from
raft to raft while barely clonking me and, more importantly, the
bride, on the noggin. Trust me, if necessary I could reactivate the
Red Cross/CPR/Captain Midnight life guard techniques I learned while
watching Tarzan movies when I was 10 years old in a flash in order to save her life. Conversely if I was
hit, the bride probably would have said something about wanting to
save me from drowning but that she had just done her nails and, given the
choice between smudging her nails or saving me from heading to Davy
Jones's locker.................well, I think we all know how that
would end.
Anyway, to get back to
whatever point I was trying to make, while relaxing in the water and
holding onto the raft, one of the little slimy, fishy bastards BIT
me! And where you asked did they bite me? I'm a practicing Catholic
so I'm not supposed to say the word but it rhymes with stipple!
That's right and man o' man does getting bit in that area get your
attention in a hurry. Maybe the fish read, Fifty Shades of Grey
or something. Now I'd like to tell you that this was a once in a
lifetime thing but this happened TWO YEARS IN A ROW. Two years. Two
times holding onto the raft. Two times conversing up to my neck in water with
the bride about the pro's and con's of potential retirement living in
Sheboygan and WHAMMO, two times right in the nip from some
aggravating little sunfish bastard. Coincidence? I think not.
Clearly, there is some Piscean conspiracy towards your beloved
blogger regarding consumption of me bit by bit, year by year.
Anyway, that brings us to
last weekend. The bride and I head up to the pond. We jump in the
pond. We swim our laps. (Can you feel the tension building?) We head
over to the raft and I proceed to hang on and wait. What's the
chances that the little bastards would go for the "tittie trifecta?" But,
being Providence College educated, I foiled the varmints by holding
my back to the raft as I regained my breath. No use leaning into a
punch, is there? And do you know what happened? (Of course you don't,
you weren't there) I got bit again, this time in the back. What the
hell do I look like, rack o' human? Three years, three bites, this
time with no sexual assault. Imagine my surprise.
Anyway, if I ever decide
to cheat death again and head back to the pond, I'm equipping myself
with a spear-gun coated with Uranium 235. If that doesn't discourage
the fish from considering me an hors d'oeuvre, it will probably have
a discernible impact on the little nose pickers on the rafts near missing my
skull with the wet tennis ball.
Either way, I win!
Until next time.......
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