Git!

“Your husband’s pretty grouchy” Garrett sneered over the rattling of his freshly painted wagon wheels.

He’d promised the week before when I saw him that black spray paint was really gonna sing and no doubt, he was right. It really zazzed up his whole riding lawnmower/wagon rig. It was also at that time that he’d inquired about doing a bit of yard work for me. I pussily faked interest just so he’d let it go.  He’s such a persistent little shit I should’ve known better, in fact, I'm sure I did.

If you’ve been following my blog over the years you may remember the time he tried to strong arm me into purchasing a used bathtub stopper from his “yard sale”. After he basically instructed me to toddle on home and get a dollar, I tore down the signs he’d made of notebook paper instructing the neighborhood on where they could buy crap Garrett found in his dad’s junk bin. You also may remember a post awhile back where I admitted how over the last few years, I’ve come to admire this little bastard’s work ethic. He’s tenacious, to the point you’d like to slap his face but hell, he gets shit done. I wish I could say the same for myself.

Anyways…so there he was, calling me out. I’d luckily avoided him all week on my dog walking adventures but there was no escaping his chilly gaze or cul de sac interrogation now. He backed up slowly, parking the wagon in front of my dog Walter who never minds a sit. I figured the best thing to do would be to just act as though I had no idea what he could possibly be talking about.

“What? Haha…what do you mean?”  I asked before quickly averting my eyes to the old man who’s been pouring a new driveway this week. I waved, he didn’t see me. I kept waving, trying my best to distract Garrett from this whole confrontation but he was cocked and locked.

 As I stated, a persistent little SHIT.

“All I did was come by your house…like YOU told me to, and your husband came to the door all mean and stuff…saying “Don’t ever ring my doorbell again! Now you go on! Git!”

He didn’t look hurt or upset, just furious. Granted it was the fury of a 12 year old raised in a comfortable suburban home, but still an awkward conversation I had no interest in having. I just want to be left alone and enjoy my fucking walk. Please universe! Can that happen?! Fuck.

The story my husband told the day it all went down had been a bit different. He claimed Garrett had come to the door like the police, banging on it hard/fast then immediately ringing the doorbell several times in quick succession. He said this cycle repeated 3 more times before he could finish wiping his ass and find out who the fuck was being chased by a deranged killer and needed to be let into our home.  Furthermore, he stated once said door was opened, the demon child on the other did not greet him, rather, demanded to speak with his wife about a business matter. At that point he said he gave the hell spawn instruction to never ring our bell in such a manner again and followed that up by shutting the door.  

I knew immediately that Garrett would not take kindly to this.

Now, here he was, frozen blue iris’ attempting to glare a confession of assholishness out of me.

Sometimes playing stupid is the smartest thing to do.

“Oh my God!  You’re kidding! I can’t believe he did that, wow…well…were you ringing the door bell like in a crazy way or something?”  I’d hoped maybe if I could coerce some sort of admission of guilt from him, he’d move his wagon so I could get home and watch Masterchef.

It didn’t work.

“Well I rang it a couple times, but no, I didn’t ring it crazy. He’s just a grouch.”

Truthfully, he is kind of a grouch sometimes but knowing Garrett like I do, I didn’t doubt the events played out just as my husband had recanted them. However, I still couldn’t seem to bring myself to chastise him for it. Instead I took the easy way out. I totally fronted on my old man.

“Well…haha..yeah, he can be a butthole sometimes…for sure…haha…how’s about maybe we’ll talk about you raking the leaves this fall. But you just talk to me about that okay?”

I totally sold my husband out, right the fuck out.

“Oh believe me, I’ll ONLY talk to you” Garrett replied sarcastically before throwing his rig in “mow” allowing my dog and I passage through his turf. He didn’t even look back as his mower wagon combo snaked up the long driveway that leads to his house.

 He’s kind of a dick if you haven’t picked up on that yet.

Hubby was more than pissed when I regaled my tale of Garrett upon returning that evening.  I didn’t tell him that I didn’t back him up at all. No, no, that would’ve resulted in some sort of Bloodsport death match. He really despises that kid. Instead, I mentioned the part about him saying “Go on-Git!” the part that made me howl because I really wasn’t sure if it was true. If it were, well then I wasn’t sure I’d recognize who I’m married to anymore.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Go on!? Git!? Am I 90 years old? Shaking a cane in the air, shitting my pants?  You honestly think I’d say that?”

I could only laugh.

“So this little asshat is a liar too? Well that’s just great. All I know is he had better never come to our door like that again. Go on…git…that little retard. I’ve never hated a kid so much.”

I should’ve been honest with Garrett, I know that. He’s just a jerky little douche. He probably would only have benefited from it, a life lesson and all about how to approach the customer. But it’s too late now. I just hate being hassled on my walks. It’s my decompression time, one of the only chunks of the day I stop thinking about everyone and everything I hate and revel in simple pleasures like how happy my dogs look when they’re smelling the grass or how happy I am smelling the kickass ribs my neighbor’s cooking up on the grill. That’s what we do. We walk and we sniff. I will throw my husband under the bus or lie to any obnoxious child to preserve this special time.

That being said, here’s to hoping next time the little bastard just leaves a written estimate in the mailbox or even better, moves to fucking Borneo.