Here’s how my brain works:
I’m out in the front yard blowing leaves and thinking of a scenario. Leaf clean-up is something John usually does, and when he gets home from his office (Panera), he’ll see the piles of leaves along the curb and say, “Oh, wow! You raked the leaves.”
To which I’ll reply, “No, two college guys came by and offered to do it for free if I’d have sex with them.”
“That’s not funny,” I’ll say and pout. “Why would that be funny?”
And as I continue swinging the leaf blower through the oak leaves all by myself, my brain pictures two wide-shouldered young men, maybe with longish hair, working that blower, oh wait, there’d have to be two blowers. I’ll invite them in for cookies. Hmmm, I need to get some cookies in the house. Thin Oreos are really good.
But maybe there should be only one blower boy. Two is sorta scary.
I’m working leaves into a flurry…giving them a blow job, and there’s the lightbulb moment. A blow job…hee hee.
I’m thinking about writing these thoughts down, so now I’m wondering about Mail Chimp, the mailing service I use to send out my blogs. Will they bump my mailing if I just titled it, “Blow Job”? Probably.
But now there’s a distraction.
My neighbor’s wife is leaving her house. I wave and feel sad for her family. Her husband had colon cancer and went through chemo and radiation last year, and now he has Myasthenia Gravis. That’s really rough. Two of my great uncles died from it. One was Henry, who took me for ice cream one day and walking back from the corner store, the ice cream popped out of the cone, so he took me back for a new scoop. He died when I was about seven. Rob (whom I called Bubs) was my favorite of ALL my adult male family members. The father character in “A Bird in the House” was partly based on Bubs. He died when I was nineteen. Myasthenia Gravis is a terrible disease.
Well, that’s depressing.
Back to the blower boys…no, just one—Blower Boy.
Right now, I’m thinking if someone came along and wanted to do the leaf blowing for free, I’d say no. It’s invigorating. Being out in the slight chill, smelling Autumn. Remember when we burned leaves at our curbs? I’m glad we stopped doing that. My lungs couldn’t take it. The environment would be further hurt. Climate Change would get worse.
Burning leaves pops in another thought that disrupts the blow job fantasy.
Half of my high school freshman year (Palo Alto) and half of senior year (San Mateo) were in California. My brother, both of my children and my granddaughter were born in California.
California is burning. Whole towns have turned to ash. People have been trapped in melting cars. I cry. Sorrow enfolds me. A big part of my heart is in California. And meanwhile, our president is blaming the fires on poor forestry methods, and is texting about cutting aid funding to the state.
But I can’t be thinking about that. My heart might break right out here on my front lawn.
Back to the blow job.
The yard is just about de-leafed, and so the boy would come in for his treat. Geez, now I’m thinking that sounds a little Hansel and Gretel-ish. Okay re-think that.
The young MAN comes into the house, and I give him some cookies and a hot cup of cocoa with marshmallows. Hmm, I have no marshmallows (or cookies). Okay, so he gets a cup of coffee.
And brain…my brain…my damn brain, hears the cute guy say, “Thanks. You know, you remind me of my grandma.”