Sweet Dreams

This past weekend we drove south in order to do a couple of things.  First, C and I both had appointments with the optometrist.  Second, we needed to pick up any remaining items for our new place of residence, namely the cat.  Added benefits to this trip were the opportunity to go to a fantastic barn party for a friend’s birthday, and a chance to hang out with my sister and her husband.  It was a weekend of hilarity and success.

Now, I haven’t been to the optometrist since I was a very young child.  I told Dr. Fong that I was five at the time of my last visit, which may or may not have been a total lie, but since I can’t remember, I can propagate whatever truth I want, right? She didn't seem to mind.  Anyway, I’ve been living with perfect vision for all of these years, seeing street signs from a half mile away and spying on strangers at night with no problem, whatsoever.  Until just recently. 

It could be the driving up here that’s affecting my ability.  See, when you drive to and from and around our small town, one must keep extreme vigil.  Moose outnumber humans in our region of the country, and unless you’re a logging truck or invincible, you can’t afford to hit one.  So I spend many days and nights squinting through my windshield in order to spot these dull brown bodies lumbering across the road.  In the midst of what is certainly an adventure, I’ve realized that, well… I don’t see so good.  Every shadow becomes a twelve-foot bull moose and every rock seems to move, which makes my herky-jerky, stop-and-go driving style pretty miserable for my unlucky copilot.  And it turns out in the end that Dr. Fong and local law enforcement agree.  I need glasses.

After C’s appointment and my sentencing, we met up with my sister and her husband.  Not only did we eat some exceptional Mexican food (the only ethnic offering in our neck of the woods is French Canadian), but we also enjoyed some great laughs.  A majority of our discussion centered on self-protection.  See, my brother-in-law is a police officer, who by his very nature as such, is quite comfortable around firearms and other agents of self-defense.  In our house however, it is not so.  Actually, it’s the opposite.  Years ago, C established a rule of no guns, whatsoever.  Part of his reasoning is ethical, but really it comes down to one thing: he doesn’t trust me.  Heck, I wouldn’t trust me.   I’m allowed to keep a wooden baseball bat under the bed, but even that’s borderline lethal to my husband.  Combine my intense fear of strangers creeping around our house with a creaky ceiling, an aptitude for very light slumber, and my previously stated vision problem and you get a level of danger that would terrify any reasonable person, let alone the guy who could be staring down a barrel in his boxer shorts at 2am.  

Initially, when we moved into our first house, we had a discussion about home security, and the idea of owning a firearm surfaced.  But, soon after that (and after the previous realization), C brought home a lead rifle barrel for me to keep under the bed, rather than risk a spouse-inflicted gun wound.   Before too long, the barrel was replaced with the slugger.  You can see the trend.  Soon I’ll be armed with water balloons, which really, now that I think of it, isn’t a bad idea.  If I were about to spring on someone, nothing would set me back like a good, refreshing slap in the face. 

From now on, I will be goggled.  And probably because of this, I will also lose the bat.  So if you’re in moose country and need some stuff to pawn, come rob our house.  I’ll see you a mile away, but will be busy filling balloons in the bathroom sink when you storm the place.  And C will be be fast asleep, so he won't hear me scream.