Beware of asking me to rant. I am liable to start today, five days after autumn began (also National Good
Neighbor Day and National Pancake Day), and never stop until Flag Day.
If you really want to hear loud and wild talk, ask me about the leaf blowers whose noise is banging around in my skull as I write.
It reminds me how we have just gone from the noisiest of seasons to the noisiest of seasons.
My sentiments from summer about the batball game vacationers play on the beach get aroused all over again. That shattering of one’s tranquility is really something to make a furious commotion about.
On more than a few occasions I have wished a grizzly demise for the one who invented that head-splitting, rackety seaside diversion for the yuppie class.
There have even been times when–glued to a rectangle of terry cloth by a teaspoon of drool, then yanked into consciousness by the thwack-thwack-thwack of the dreaded toy– I have whispered to God that all paddlers deserve to be stuffed into a giant garbage disposal and ground into a mishmash.
Then sleep would be further delayed by my conscience tweaking me with: What if my brother is one of those gameplayers? (He just might be.) Sometimes I go back and revise the part about the disposal.
And recently my kids have taken up the sport, (with four bats and two balls!) so now I have to go back and revise my entire position with higher authorities who may have heard me rant.
At least my kids know to avoid earshot of sleeping moms.
I have tried dragging my towel to another spot when others start batting near my personal zone. But you can’t count on hearing only the tweedle-dee of gulls and the smack of waves upon the shore.
What’s to prevent some muscled peacock, slippery with sweat and oil, from strutting up to a patch of sand, not four feet from my ear, and planting roots, immediately after which he engages in a lengthy confab on his iPhone? (Let me assure you, however, that no matter how hateful this fellow may be, he is never as uncharming as the ones with paddles and balls.)
If I wait it out, performing the deep breathing trick they teach for childbirth that doesn’t work at all for childbirth pain, there comes a time when the sun sinks behind the roof of the bathhouse, and the paddlers, the peacocks, the kids with sand stuck to their snotty noses pack up their ball games, their i-This’s and i-That’s and shuffle home to their pizza deliveries.
Then it’s quiet.
And the flies arrive.
What noises drive you to rant?
Also, tis the season for chicken soup. You Don’t Have to Be Jewish to Make Great Chicken Soup!
And for moist turkey:
See also some of my relationship articles: