Littering and… Littering and…

I’ve known for weeks now I was slated to be today’s featured writer on Studio30 Plus (an awesome social media site for writers – go check it out.)

“Would you like to be our featured writer on July 2?”

Absolutely! Of course! What an honor! I can’t wait to get my work out there for more to see! Networking! Community! Pretend I’m a real writer! Also, this will be a fantabulous excuse to procrastinate writing the next chapter of my book.

Wait. Now I have to write something.

Be funny.

Go!

Well crap.

What am I even supposed to write about? Is there a pre-specified topic? PANIC AT THE DISCO! I should have paid attention. I should have asked more questions.

I need divine intervention. A sign or something.

“Fuck!” announced my 2-year-old son, pointing toward our porch.

That was unfortunate. But he was also pointing toward a sign hanging from the door. Well played, fate. Well played.

(Technically the kid was pointing at the large truck idling alongside our curb, which really helps explain the expletive exclamation – but go with me here people.)

Hurriedly affixed to the handle of the front door was a large advertisement for the new Western Dental, which recently opened to replace the now-defunct Hollywood Video. This was the fourth advert this week. I filed it in the large blue recycling bin with its brethren (because I’m eco-conscious like that).

On my way back across the driveway I stubbed my toe on a rock ensconced in a plastic bag. It had been placed there so the real estate flyer haphazardly thrown on my lawn wouldn’t fly away. I wonder if the rock realtors were bitter rivals with the magnet magnates who left the aforementioned refrigerator affixation along with the visibly branded notepad.

While my sons attempted to free the entombed pebble (by flinging larger river rocks at the distressed casing) I figured I may as well pick up the Weeklies rotting under my car. There is actually no humanly possible way to stop the delivery. Most of the time I just leave them where they lay – and there they stay until they disintegrate and once again become one with the earth. (Or at least pavement mush. Mulch?)

To the blue bin!

I grew up in a gated community. (Oh don’t go getting any posh ideas. It was an equestrian center. The gates were to keep the horses in, not the bourgeois out.) In any case, we didn’t have solicitors. It was a canyon; they probably wouldn’t have wanted to brave the hills anyway. (Even kids fled to flatter suburban tract developments for Halloween candy land grabs.)

This may partially explain why I was so unencumbered by the possibility of flashing the couple approaching with the promise to save my soul. (Long since lost – sorry.)

Pizza joints, Chinese takeout, barbershops, mortgage lenders, tree-trimming services, house painters, dental offerings, coupons, house cleaners, bodyshops.

Look. I get it. You’re trying to come up with new and creative ideas to sell your shit. So allow me to enlighten you. I have a policy. If you throw your trash (because that’s totally what it is) on my property (mine!) I will make it a point to avoid patronage of your business at all costs.

I have a fantasy.

One day my dogs will go ballistic – hurling themselves at the door with ferocious howls. I will fling the door open and my own Sandlot Beast will bare his teeth at the offending paper-er as I chase the frightened distributor down the street – hair askew and sweats mismatched. (Because that is the mommy-uniform I roll with when not dolled up for work.)

“Excuse me. You must have accidentally dropped this as you canvass my neighborhood,” I will say politely.

Undoubtedly my poor victim will stare back at me blankly thinking, “I am just trying to make a buck here. Why did I have to land the route with the crazy lady.” (Hey, I’m not hiding it.)

And maybe, just MAYBE (in my world of rainbows and unicorns), that poor individual will be so freaked out that they’ll never come back to defile my avenue.

This is similar to how I feel about insects. Except them I kill them in the hopes that their hive will notice the scouts sent forth never returned. (Please note I am in no way saying I wish harm upon the flyer-leavers. I’m more making the comparison point of “tell your friends and leave me alone.” This all totally makes sense in my head.)

Instead, I’ll just move my trusty blue bin up onto my porch –styled just so behind the white picket fence. Perhaps I’ll even add a little note.

Think of this piece less as a “featured post,” and more of a PSA:

GET OFF MY LAWN. Or at least stop littering. SAVE THE TREES! Join my cause.

Wait…this featured post was supposed to be a soapbox platform right? Did I do it write? (Haha. Writer humor. Get it?)

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