Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady

Okay, okay. So this is a bit tacky to post this so close on tails of my recent lamentation, but I must.

Every town has its crazies. All neighborhoods have that single, questionably-sane man or woman who just doesn’t seem to understand the bounds of convention – and really doesn’t know, and probably wouldn’t care even if they did know. My tree-lined lane is home to one such person, whom I have dubbed Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady. Don’t shorten her name, either; it would be akin to leaving the tomato paste out of the spaghetti sauce.

Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady is… well, perspirationally gifted. I would be too if I pushed a partially loaded granny grocery cart – you know, the wire basket on wheels resembling a Kroger buggy yet reminiscent of a baby carriage – up and down the street all day. Unclean is not a word that applies here; her board-straight whitewashed hair is no dirtier than yours (let’s hope we made a good comparison here), and even has a certain bounce to it. She’s a Pantene gal, perhaps. Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady is no hobo, either; she appears to have a home just a few houses up the hill from mine. This speculation, however, is based merely on my observation that, while she spends a bit of time in many people’s yards uprooting small plants and collecting bottles and what appears to be flotsam for transport in the Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS, she spends the most time at her supposed home. It is the only place I have ever witnessed her unload anything, and it wasn’t apparent that it was in a spirit of discarding.

I had been pondering what she might do with the items she collects, and if it was a sufferance of my memory that I did not realize whether she often transports the same collection up and down the street or if the boards, bottles and plucked verdure were fresh for each sighting. Certainly, she could help my confusion by digging out an entire section of someone else’s shrubbery or ramming down saplings with her Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS – or even by allowing a simple glass bottle to break on the pavement. I have a keen eye peeled toward the idea that the cart’s contents may, in fact, not evolve at all.

Last weekend, I had two separate near run-ins with Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady. My first experience caused me to have to brake to avoid crushing her kneecaps with my front bumper. The city recycling truck was blocking both lanes, stopped due to Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady’s apparent demand for something that the workers wished to take away from her. Seemingly, she had been caught swiping a mound of cans and bottles from a blue recycling container, just as the truck made its approach from around the nearby corner. She is not without her scruples, and must have some education in politics; aware that I was waiting for this debacle to conclude, she quickly made an argument unheard by my ears that impressed the workmen enough to leave her alone. Had she promised to smother each one in turn into her perspiring bosom? Cage one between her slick thighs and the other under her shimmering arm? Whatever it was, it worked – all four of us were released to go about our business.

The second involvement was intentional on my part. Having been dared by my brother to snap a picture of her, I could not resist doing so on the day I arrived home from work to find her standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, trying to entice a loose dog over to her for petting (or putting in the Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS). I could not quite hear what she was promising the thirsty canine, but it eventually approached her with reticence as I tore inside to grab my digital camera. I expected to return to the same picture, in hopes of getting to hear what words her clear, even-toned, middle-aged voice conveyed. She was gone. I ran to the corner, camera in hand, only to find that she was meandering up the gentle hill of asphalt, away from me. Not wanting to be caught paparazzi-style as she bent over to pick up a stick in the driveway just up from mine, I sprinted around to the other side of the house and quickly snapped the picture you have before you.

I give you Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady – in fashionable lime green. You can count on an update on this fascinating neighborhood character.

A Delay

I was going to write a sassy post today about Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady, whom you will meet subsequently, but after having read the blog of one of my best friends in reference her visit to distribute food to the Hurricane Katrina-affected on the Mississippi coast, I cannot. Instead, I dedicate this post to those who have suffered on account of circumstance and geography. Our federal, state and local goverments' failure to adequately and swiftly coordinate your relief is an abomination to the American ideal. You, especially, deserve so much more. My heart is with you. Together, we will rebuild.

We've Got Less Gas Than "W" After Taco Bell and Rolaids

I never thought it would happen. We all knew gas prices would jump - fifty cents in one day, thirty more the next here in Auburn - but who knew we would run out? Gas stations are closed all over town. Prices have already been remarked at $3.09 for regular for the first shipment, due sometime Saturday or Sunday. Since we have so many guests in town - refugees from the hurricane and insanely rabid SEC football fans - they will likely deplete our resources again before leaving town. Sadly, I have canceled plans to travel to South Alabama to see family and friends. I cannot afford the gas, nor can I afford to be stuck in Mobile on Monday because of a lack of it.

This will be a long weekend.

Home game weekends never cease to show me the bad side of human nature. Alumni and "friends" descend upon the campus, angrily driving their RVs over curbs and onto the grass in search of the best spot to plunder for the weekend. I remember years as an undergraduate here where the University reported having to spend $10,000 to replace grass that had been worn away or torn up by fans and their vehicles. I doubt that the Athletic Department paid for that. Thankfully, the administration decided to "bollard up" the periphery of green spaces on campus. Athough they dot some of the landscape like ridiculous brown Super Mario World-style hills, they are quite effective at 1) keeping RVs and cars off our grass and 2) really destroying front- and back-ends of cars that try anyway. Yes, people attempt it every year. The bollards almost invariably reap victory, and nothing pleases me more than hearing that shrill metal-on-metal sound of an RV's side wall being gouged out or the tinkling clatter of a rear bumper falling onto the sidewalk.

This weekend poses a unique quandry for fans: If they arrive in town and a refugee family still inhabits their pre-paid hotel room, what do they do? Our University President has asked that fans not displace refugees, but he cannot actually prevent it from happening. And we all know it is. In a stroke of journalistic genious, our local NBC affiliate in Montgomery has established a number for displaced refugees to call and report rogue hotels, to be named on air in the evening broadcast, chastised for their indiscretions. After that annoucement, the bickering stopped. Deals were struck. Many beers were drunk. (Yes, drunk is the right word there.) And the people were happy. :-?

Like all things in life (football, classes, football, hapless dating, football, our sham of a federal government, football, and the rescue and rebuilding of New Orleans and Southern Mississippi and Alabama), the game must go on. This time out has lasted long enough. There are no commercials left to air. Wait a minute - we never run out of commercials*.

*bitter, party of one?