Ricky Raccoon

raccoon

Lisa and I bought a house built in 1955 for the charm. Her grandmother thought we were nuts.

“You could get something new for the same price,” she told us.

“Yeah, but we love this location, and this house has character!”

Tutu was right! It seems like every stinkin’ week lately I’m tossing money into the black hole of charm. DJ’s shower cost $310 to fix! I put it off, the teeny drip, until it eventually mirrored Niagara Falls even though the handle was fully turned off.

And now my air conditioner is on the fritz. That ought to be an easy $7,000 fix!

I bet in 1955 they didn’t have to worry about that, cause there was no a/c back then.  My spoiled kids.   I told them we were going to spend the summer pretending we lived in the 50’s, like in the movie Grease.

“It’s gonna be fun!  Grandma’s making you a Poodle Skirt, and I bought a big jar of vaseline to slick my hair back!  Oh, and no air conditioning…”

You’d have thought I told them we were spending the summer camping in Death Valley.

As if the air conditioning wasn’t enough, two weeks ago when we had a torrential downpour, water was flowing through the roof. Just dribbling in like a fountain. It ruined a rug and bits of the ceiling, on the first and second floors, are now crumbling onto the floor.

Your ceiling on your floor is NOT a good thing.

I climbed my non-handy-man, scared of heights behind up on the top of my house to see if I could figure out where the water might be coming from. It wasn’t difficult to find the hole. There was a 2 foot by 2 foot shingleless circle dug out right above the indoor rain spot.

After consulting with my buddy, a roofer, it was determined that the likely culprit was a raccoon.

I’d always wondered what Jethro Bodine from The Beverly Hillbillies was referring to when he used the word varmint. Now I know.

My buddy fixed my roof, and I have the rug ready to go to the heavy-duty rug cleaner shop because the $99 I spent on Stanley Steamer was like wiping a paper towel across a nuclear spill. It did nothing.

Five days after the roof was fixed, it rained again. And guess what? It leaked again. So, I climbed back out of the window and shimmied back up the roof, and burned the hell out of the palms of my hands because shingles are 320 degrees Celsius at 4PM in North Carolina in the summer. And guess what? The damn varmint had revisited, digging another hole in the lid of my house.

I HATE THIS ANIMAL. I am not a violent person, but the fantasies I’ve had about how I could hurt this creature are disturbing. PETA could press charges simply for my thoughts.

Now, I’ve paid critter control to come out and set a trap on top of my house to try to capture this evil monster.

Why does he want to come in my house? Is it my cooking?

By the time it’s all said and done, I will have spent over a thousand dollars simply because Ricky Raccoon has a shingles fetish.

If Critter Boy can’t catch him, I’m buying a shotgun and night vision goggles. I’m getting his ass, one way or another.

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

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Holes, Those Comfy Holes

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I had a crotchial blowout on Monday.  I’m not sure what happened.  I just picked them up and there was a huge hole.  Perhaps I saw it coming and just didn’t want to accept it.  They are so special to me.  They’re my favorite drawers.  They’re comfortable.  They don’t bind me at all.  I feel so free in them.  The elastic is just right – loose enough not to leave a mark, tight enough to grip even on a man with a derriere deficit.

I don’t understand.  I remember buying these boxers when I got married.  I thought I needed some underwear without holes in them.  And now look what happened.  Only 18 years old.  They just don’t make things like they used to.

I asked my mom to patch the hole, but she refused.  Something about stitching not working on rotten material.  What if we’d have given up on her at age 18?   We didn’t throw in the towel just because she’s aging!

I thought about taking them to the tailor, she hems all of my dress pants.  There is a language barrier though, and I was afraid she’d think I was getting fresh.  Plus, her husband is big, and I was afraid if I handed his wife my underwear he’d hit me.

I just like comfortable clothes.

This is my favorite t-shirt.  Lisa forbade me to wear it.  She told me if she caught me in it she would throw it away.

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Can wives do that?  Throw your stuff away even if you still need it?

I’m not sure, but I was too afraid to call her bluff.  I thought about putting it on to run a couple of errands and then keeping it in my briefcase so that there was little chance that she could toss it without my knowledge.  But that just seemed too cumbersome.  I did hang it on the back of the closet door right beside her robe.  It was sort of a warning:  Don’t mess with me … I’m a man.  I can put it on if I want.

And then, as I was putting on my favorite lounging pants this morning, my foot got stuck in the small hole I’d worn in the knee – rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippppppppppppppppp.

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Dag gone.  I was gonna keep the boxers and wear them with those pants – the pinnacle of comfort.  But now I’m afraid there is just too little material and too much Danny.

Seriously, I put those three articles of clothing on and it’s like warm milk from your mama.  It just feels right.  That ensemble is more comfortable than being naked.

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