Who the f$&@ gets egged at age 33?
I mean honestly. Before we get too far, you should know I sleep in the attic of my 1950’s home. It is hot AF up there, so for the first 2 summers I owned my home, I was borderline suicidal everynight at bedtime. My sister can attest to that, as I sent her homemade air conditioner pics of me covered in wet wash rags. Summer #3 brought with it a window AC and 1950’s living was suddenly a beautiful thing!
OK, back to being a victim… so I woke up the other night at 0200, to a soft pitter-patter on my roof. Two thoughts entered my mind.
If I went downstairs to investigate, I would have to disarm my home security system. If someone was trying to get in my house, I’d basically be opening the front door for them. And I live on the eastside, so throwing the door wide open is no joke. I should also mention I have a permit to carry, but have not yet purchased a weapon for home defense. So bravehearting it was not an option. IF I had a boyfriend, now would be the time to use him.
My other thought was about fat gray squirrels. Sometimes when I sleep-in on Saturdays, I hear those long tailed rats frolicking on my roof. I figured all the commotion was a late night rondezvous, so I went back to sleep.
The next morning, my tired ass opened my front door to check the temperature outside. I looked down on my front step and saw a cracked egg beginning to bake on this hot MN morning. The egg happened to be splayed open right below my front house light, so naturally I investigated for a bird’s nest. No such luck.
Judging by the egg size, I quickly realized it would’ve had to have been a Bald Eagle nest. Really, it’s a wonder I even graduated the 8th grade.
Anyway, it was at this time I noticed flies buzzing around my head and perching to shit all over my beautiful front bushes.
Honestly, I could be a private investigator. I soon realized the soft pitter-patter I had heard hours before was related to this rotting chicken miracle. I walked down my front sidewalk and turned around to see my house. There it was. The crime scene was all over the front of my house…and worse yet, on my fucking roof!
Egg is caustic. I don’t know how, but it can remove paint from a vehicle, for God’s sake! (Ask me where I got that intel.) Anyway there they were, a solid dozen, getting all sorts of sunny-side up, on my shingles! WTF. I looked around to confirm I was one of many vandalized homes on my block… only to realize…oh hell no I wasn’t! I had been targeted! My house was the only one with a chicken autopsy performed on it’s exterior.
There was no time to hunt down the culprits as I had to get to work. And anyway, at this point I’m sure they were busy being worthless in another ghetto neighborhood, so what was the point?
I got home that night, and after borrowing my parents’ power washer, (and forgetting to hook it up to a water supply while RUNNING IT for approx 5min) I did work. I popped open a White Claw Seltzer and stood on my front sidewalk powerwashing the shit out of my stucco.
It was a proud moment of my life. In fact, a friend called me at this time and as I feebly attempted to reach the roof with my water spray, I told him what I was doing.
He said: “Who the hell did you piss off?” I wanted to answer: When? Like in the last week? Who the frick knows.
I mean I am pretty outspoken. You might even use the word ‘fierce,’ and I’ve probably torqued-off more than my fair share of eastsiders. I stopped contemplating this after my 3rd White Claw and resigned to believing it was teenage fucksticks who thought I was a neighbor kid.
Now as I come home on the daily and see yolk nutrient drizzle still stuck to my shingles, I wonder who would want to f$&# with me? I’m considering laying down in my bushes on some random weekend night to find out.
Long story short: you’re never too old to get hazed via high school vandalism. And squirrels don’t frolick, or rendezvous, at 2am.
As for this gal, I’m keeping my head on the swivel. And you can bet your ass the next time anything is going down on my shingles, I’ll be out my front door armed with my nephew’s BB gun, bout to open a can of whoop-ass.