I was crazily carrying out deadline-day associated work today [Thursday] when out of the blue, tragedy struck. In chronological order, my phone died, the internet service followed in order to administer the last rites and my television signal escaped to make funeral arrangements. Prior to that, my electric had exited stage left.
I seized my rotary style cell phone and dialed Penn Power. By the time I had finished speaking into said device in the manner of a boisterous angry robot, the electricity miraculously reappeared. In terms of the electric responding to CPR, it must have happened as I was feverishly jotting down the confirmation of repair number, which always seems to be blurted at the speed of light.
The bottom line to this odd yet “Housermanish” intro is that I was actually going to loan out this space to Laura again this week so she could continue her sailing adventure saga. However, I cannot since I am unable to retrieve her piece from my email account due to the above-mentioned scenario. Now that I have a second to ponder, I might have to seek out a random citizen, (who possesses internet services), and ask if I might plop on his/her couch long enough to send this very piece into the newsroom.
Let's face it, you are stuck with a madwoman, and I mean that quite literally at this point, prattling on incessantly about whatever comes to mind. Actually isn't that generally the case when it comes to my columns?
I guess I could utilize part of this space to apologize to Jerry Carless, Conneautville Borough Councilman, for spelling his name wrong in my last report. He gently, yet effectively, took me aside during the celebratory weekend in the Valley and told me that I had misspelled his name. It is not CARELESS, (like he couldn't), but is CARLESS, (as in call the police, my Dodge is missing).
I was beyond mortified because that kind of mistake drives me to drink—short drive as of late, I know. However, he was very chipper and pleasant about the whole sordid episode and ended up slipping me a Valium to settle MY nerves. Before area citizens line up to purchase nerve calming medicine from this now poor soul, I should confess that I fabricated that part of the story in an attempt to make it sound exciting or enticing or whatever ends in an ing. Did it work? I didn't think so.
Now that I have corrected the official record, in an opinion column to boot, I shall press on with another topic that floats to the forefront of my cluttered mind.
Speaking of the Valley region and the weekend festivities, I must, for once in my otherwise rant-filled life, praise all involved with this event, or these combined events, to be more precise. If you know not of what I speak then I simply must take you to task because this very publication supplied you with a plethora of details concerning such matters.
Hats off to everyone who played a part. I'm sure that means a great deal coming from a woman of my fame and stature in the community. Yes, heavy sarcasm was intended. I can't believe I even have to type such a disclaimer but for heaven's sake I wouldn't want anyone to think I was truly stuck on myself. I'm OK, I guess, but right now I'm not very fond of me, quite frankly. Clearly it was time to digress, which I have now accomplished without much effort.
While I have you, another thing that thrilled me to the marrow, in terms of the Conneautville happening, was that I got to actually gaze upon UPS Mark for the first time in a thousand years, give or take. He isn't really UPS Mark any longer because he retired. Some may know him as Means-Flynn Mark and we shall stick with that. Whatever the nickname, he is as adorable as ever. He admittedly does not read this paper. Therefore, I am free to express my view without embarrassment. Did I just type that word? Please, the last time I was embarrassed was in the year 1987 and I will spare you of that story. I didn't consider the possibility of our dear Means-Flynn Mark blushing but, he'll never know. (Again, insert evil Vincent Price laugh here.)
Moving beyond the Valley, I suppose I should take a moment, or twenty five minutes, to say something kind about my kid and his friends. I'm on somewhat of a “rave roll” at this time and shall continue to be pleasant, even if it leads to stabbing pains in my head.
My son marched into my room at night while I was in bed, mind you, and asked about placing a food drive announcement in the very next paper. More than likely it was on a Thursday night, which is hours past deadline. I did not take the request seriously.
I told him in a very cheerful (?) manner that he would need to email the chief and see if there was enough time or room. (This puts me in the mind of school-aged-kids approaching parents about baking 12 dozen cookies for an event. From what I can gather, that usually unfolds around 10 pm the night before said cookies are due in the classroom. Wow, I just digressed again and this time in parenthesis. This business of typing a column about nothing is kind of paying off for me.)
Inching along at the speed of a bewildered snail, he was able to con the chief into placing the information in the paper, thereby alerting the public.
I honestly thought he was demented, which is nothing new, when he said he and his hooligan cohorts were going to conduct food drive. Not that I'm against that kind of charity work, of course. It just seemed strange to me but then again, he is part Houserman.
Evidently, these guys were very serious about it and ended up raking it in. They contributed all of it to the Samaritans for distribution. I just never know what to expect anymore when it comes to that child. One second I'm ready to strangle the life out of him and the next, I'm wanting to give him a big old flour hug and a sugar kiss.
Please do not burst into tears but I think I am going to end this insanity abruptly. I still have to search for an internet connection somewhere in the community.
I just had a brilliant idea—you know, one that could never lead to my being shot. Edna, the van, is totally set up for camping. She's like a bedroom on wheels—oh dear that's NOT the idea. Anyway, I could nonchalantly maneuver into the driveway of an unsuspecting household, climb into the back, piggyback of their internet and carry out Community News work from the belly O' the beast. It would be just like an undercover surveillance operation. I'm outta here. Wish me luck.
That excitement was short lived as my internet has just returned from the last rites gig.
THE END.