Last Wednesday was National Women’s Day, and while my sisters were marching and speaking and changing lives, I was making my own statement.
I covered myself in dog shit and howled at the moon.
Let me clarify. This was not some midnight ritual meant to make me feel empowered as a woman. There were no animal sacrifices or burning bras. It was a desperate yell-scream-groan at the sky while wrestling with a trampoline during 60mph wind gusts.
The moon just happened to be visible.
Let me back up a bit.
On that day I happened to be home when the wind storm of all wind storms barreled through Michigan. I heard a “FOOMP” and looked outside to see the trampoline flipped upside down teetering on the fence between us and our poor next door neighbor who always has to deal with our shit.
So I did what any independent woman would do in this situation.
I texted Bill.
I’m actually pretty impressed that I used such fluid alliteration, but alas, Bill was at work and the trampoline was still unstable.
So I did what any independent woman without a choice would do. I heaved on my good winter coat and grabbed a step ladder and walked into the neighbor’s backyard.
Of course I didn’t bring gloves. And I didn’t change out of my good boots. Big mistake.
Because the neighbors have the most adorable dogs ever. Who like to poop as dogs do. All. Over. The. Yard.
Undeterred, I hoisted the step ladder up, turned to the trampoline and heard a crash. The step ladder had blown over.
If I gauged the gusts just right, I realized I could jump, grab the frame and flip it over the fence so it could lie upside down on the grass. I waited for my moment, hoping I wouldn’t get crushed in the process.
And while I waited, I envisioned the officers who would have to report my dead body.
Cause of death: idiocy.
During a lull, I jumped, ok, barely got off the ground, grabbed the frame and yanked that motherfucker down like Captain America snagging a helicopter.
But the frame was bent, and it needed to be taken apart to be truly safe.
With a screwdriver in one pocket and hardware going into another, I separated all of the parts from the frame, pausing at times to lay across the trampoline to keep it from flying. I was completely focused until I got some mud on my hand.
But it wasn’t mud.
It was dog shit. And then I looked down at myself.
I had dog shit on my coat, I had dog shit on my hands.
I had dog shit on my face, I had dog shit on my pants.
I had some dog shit everywhere, just not in my underwear.
(Credit: Dr. Seuss. It’s also reading month, so read something worthwhile after reading this trash)
That’s when I yell-scream-groaned.
After getting almost blown over several times that would have even made Jim Cantore proud, the trampoline was finally apart.
I dragged the frame to the back corner of the yard just in case and dragged myself back home.
I felt like I had been beaten with a club while running a race. And I was gross. Grosser than gross. I carefully peeled off my much loved winter coat and threw it in the washer.
And then the power went out.
Stay tuned for Part 2! The stages of surviving a power outage