Rainy days and Mondays

About a week or so ago, I realized that I've never described the place where we currently live with any sort of positive details — in this forum, at least. So, I decided that I needed to write an entry about how much I've enjoyed the solitude, the calming beauty of the lake (which is about 20 yards from our back porch) or the welcome anonymity that comes with moving somewhere new and not having to work or go to school. (FYI: the bank teller has no idea that I don't really have a Scottish accent, the telephone repairman has no clue that I'm not blind, and the Wal-Mart cashier doesn't know I'm an asshole...okay, maybe she does.)

I do like it here...it's just a new environment that I'm completely unfamiliar with — like last night's happenings, for instance. Just as Stacey and I were getting into bed, we heard two quick "POP" noises, followed by about seven more in almost instantaneous succession. Unless Alex Van Halen was in our driveway practicing his drumrolls on a piccolo snare for about five seconds, it was most definitely gunfire — the kind that sounded like it was discharged in a helluva hurry, and perhaps at someone far too close (read: less than 100 miles) to our house.

Stacey and I shared a very uneasy glance, until I mentioned that I was relieved that we'd moved Connor's bed away from an outside wall and her tongue almost went down her throat. I called 911 and they sounded very casual about the incident, though with such sparse details ("uh, I hurd gunfur near ma house") they really couldn't do much except dispatch an officer to cruise the neighborhood and look for blood trails.

Ever since I grew out of playing with guns as a kid, I have pretty much hated them, and tried to keep a safe distance between myself and firearms — although in the South that's tough to do. I look at gun ownership like Gremlins; we just aren't ready for such a huge responsibility. I can trace my distaste for guns to an incident involving a concert promoter putting a gun up to my head and pulling the trigger to try and scare me. It was unloaded, but I didn't know that, nor did he want me to. (For the record, I didn't flinch because I'M A MORON.)

The American dream

I stressed a little today about the incident from last night, and I thought it got to Connor a little bit. Plus, it was cold and rainy all day so we stayed indoors. Around 2 p.m., he ran up to the refridgerator and started yanking his magnetic ABCs off. After about 20 seconds of this tantrum he started saying, "Why? Why? Why?"

Poor kid, I thought, he's stressed out about living here, too.

Then I walked over to him and noticed him staring at something near his feet, wedged under the fridge...the letter "Y."

So much for parental intuition.