Omen

Is this a bad omen? I can’t get into my blog to post. Something about turning on cookies. But my cookies are turned on, damnit. Always, baby. Why can’t the computer see that? I am fuming with hands on hips and eyes flashing, “Why can’t you see that, Mister Computerman?!" I assume that my computer is a man because it’s linear and unforgiving and only does what I tell it to do if it agrees with my intentions and their promised outcome. And now Angela, who was only trying to be a good, supportive friend has been saddled with the title of IT Ho as I email her and ask her to help me circumvent the mote of programming snafus that have hobbled me in my quest. Jeeze. Maybe I should stop all this bloggery. Maybe it’s a sign.

When Jim and I were on our way to get our marriage license a few days before our wedding, the pick-up truck we borrowed broke down on the side of the interstate. I was following him back from a rummage sale where we’d just purchased a couch (or was it a bureau) hence the borrowed truck. He settled in with his book and I drove up to the next town and called AAA which was a clusterfuck in it’s own right. The spot the truck broke down was firmly ensconced in a cell phone dead zone, so I had no way of reaching Jim to ask which mile marker he was at and I was too much of a dope to make note of it. I had remembered the name of the last exit and the land bridge he was near but AAA didn’t have records showing land bridges. AAA hadn’t heard of land bridges.

So I explained, “There is a bridge that crosses over interstate 78 right near the Berkely Heights exit that is covered with dirt and trees and allows for the animals to migrate over the highway without getting squished on the road. There are only two of them, and we’re next to one of them. Don't you have the land bridges on your map? Or is it only car bridges that have earned that right."

I love the land bridges. I love watching the shrubs and weeds grow out of control as I approach at eighty miles an hour. In a matter of seconds I see the forsythia bloom and the leaves turn and imagine how incredibly heavy all that dirt must be, so I speed up as I drive under them. And then they're gone, behind me, forgotten until the return trip. I remember thinking how cool the land bridge concept was when I78 was first opened. How thoughtful of the Big, Bad Highway Developers to think of the witty bitty dears and squirrels just trying to make it in this big, bad world. Such compassion. They must have hearts of gold under their shiny vests with gold pocket watch chains dangling. Now that I’m a homeowner with a back yard and a garden, I harbor fantasies of blowing up the land bridges if only to slow the onslaught of deer and squirrels armies out to reclaim my yard and devour my garden. Compassion, not so much.

When we first moved out to the ‘burbs from Gotham Town, Jim actually thought that we had only one very persistent squirrel. Someone he could give a name to, like Phil for instance, and effectively hate. Looking out the kitchen window he’d say, “There’s Phil again,” and slip outside in his pajama pants and bare feet in February to scour the ground for just the right rock. Then using his boyhood aim, he’d smack the tree branch close enough to scare Phil, but not maim him. He’d come inside, feeling dejected and beaten mumbling, “If I could get a pump action bb-gun, I could nail him.” Yeah, and that would be that. He could wipe his hands of the whole menacing problem and case closed, problem solved. No more holes in the lawn or seeds eaten out of the birdfeeder, ever. I tried to explain to him that our one squirrel, you know, Phil, was in fact hundreds if not thousands of different squirrels. But he wouldn’t bite. He loved his enemy even as he picked up a pinecone. Phil made him feel alive, aggressive, manly. Not much else made him feel that way these days. So he threw rocks and I mooned, “That was close, sweetie. You almost got him that time.”

Occasionally he would try to ensnare the neighbors in his plight.
“We could go in together and get something with some real fire power,” he would say, their eyes twinkling with pioneer days delight.
Then I would remind him, “Our houses are only about twenty feet away from each other, front and back, side to side.”
“I know,” he’d say, annoyed.
“And there are kids spilling from every orifice of this neighborhood,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. I know,” he’d say walking away.
I’m such a killjoy, not letting him get a shot gun to take care of our Phil. It’s not like he’d hit anyone’s kid. Not on purpose anyway. I ruin everything.

Eventually he came to see that Phil was just a Phigment of his alpha yearning. He stopped hatching war plans with fellow besieged neighbors. He even stopped picking up pinecones and rocks. I wouldn’t mind if he still did. I liked watching him throw. He has a good arm and it reminds me of one of the reasons I was attracted to him in the first place. He’s a real guy. A stone-skipping, ball catching, lawn-mowing kind of guy, tough enough to withstand the harsh realities of February for a full minute in his bare feet. It’s sexy. And I need to remind myself of that more often.

“Sorry M’am,” the AAA operator said, “but we don’t have land bridges on our maps.” No, you wouldn’t, would you. That might be too helpful, might laden you with too much information. And that would be too much effectiveness. Actively Arcane Asses. Actual Asses on Acid.

The tow truck finally found us and Jim was calm and reasoned throughout the whole ordeal, a real peach. We didn’t make it to town hall before they closed and then it was a three day holiday weekend and of course there’s the seventy-two hour turnaround and things got dicey and tense on top of the shit heap of other wedding tensions, but we did evenually get our marriage license. And we did get married. I think Jim even had to make a special 2 hour round trip drive back up from the Jersey Shore to pick it up. My hero.

I need to remind my self of that. And I guess I shouldn't heed every sign. Not all omens are bad, are they? Jeeze.