That’s how the short story of my evening would begin – with that line hollered, no yodeled in desperation through the quiet of an Iowa evening.

But let me begin before it got so desperate. I’m at a BBQ with my kids and seven other families. Seven other intact families. (This is not entirely different from the notion of the intact hymen – pure, unbroken.)  I’m proudly sporting my new tattoo, flaking skin and all (purdy, I know), and not caring one wit that I’m the only one drinking the sangrias I brought. This is a squeaky clean crowd, but nice, and I’m generally feel pretty ok with myself.  I’d already tested the single-chick-at-the-family-event waters this morning, after all. My neighbors had a party for their 2-year old’s birthday. Pinatta. Juice boxes. Sagging diapers. Baby slings sported by both mothers and fathers. And every which way I looked, cute little intact families. And me: that spunky lady from next next door. (This is who I’ll play in the After-School Special:  That Spunky Lady Next Door.)

But that was then. This is now. I’m sitting in a lawn chair, sipping my third sangria, and thinking, “Maybe I’ll blow this popsicle stand for something really exciting. Something sweaty and au natural.”  I pull the hostess aside:  ”Mind if  I leave Bea and Thomas here while I go mow my lawn?”  

I’m having a party myself tomorrow – a party that was “inspired” by my mother’s complaint of how lonely she’ll be on the 4th …  Since my dad died, holidays make her weepy. Despite the fact, that my friends could care less, I know that she’d be  horrified if my lawn was all scraggly ass for the occasion. Given that my yard is already full of stuff that is weird or unkempt or just plain wrong — Exhibit A being the giant treehouse that Alex built and which my mother assures me is not up to city code — I think a little mowing might help to mellow her. Being a good daughter really blows sometimes.

I schlep the mower out of the garage, knocking over two bikes and a sled in the process. Start ‘er up. Round and round we go. And then she dies. I fill her with gas. Round twice. Then fizzle. I’ve been wondering about the oil. I don’t really get the whole oil thing, but I vaguely recall that there’s an unopened can in the laundry room, of all places, so I seek it out. I’m also aware of the sound of laughing and talking coming from the screened porch of one of my more capable lesbian neighbors. No doubt, she and a friend are watching me struggle and thinking, “Why doesn’t she just push the da-da-da button?” (You know, that magic button that if I were A) a man, or B) a butch lesbian I’d know about. But I’m not so I don’t.)

The oil is added. It smokes a bit as I pour it in, which seems weird, but I ignore it. She starts again. We get round less than half this time. Dead. Goddammit. Deep breath. Not a big deal. I push the mower under the treehouse and tell myself that I’ll figure it out tomorrow morning. You know – tomorrow morning when I’ll be cooking for the party, cleaning up, buying ice, clipping flowers for a bouquet, setting out napkins, walking the dog, encouraging the kids not to kill each other but, rather, to help me out. Really I’ll figure it out then. 

I’ll spare you the rest of the evening — the brass corn cob (if you live in Iowa, you have such things) that fell directly on the boniest part of my ankle. The scream I unveiled at Bea when she didn’t heed my repeated request to get off the top bunk while we were trying to change the sheets. Her ensuing tears. My immediate guilt.  The way the plastic Roman shade went flying off its brackets and how I couldn’t figure out how to put it back on but instead rolled it up and stuck it in the closet, thinking, “I’ll deal with it later.” Or how just as I stubbed my toe on the lower bunk, Thomas came hurtling out of the bathroom, screaming because he’d seen a moth “as big as a bat!” Oh yeah, I still haven’t bought the foam to stick under the window AC units … I’ll do it tomorrow. Or the next day. 

I’m tired. Dead tired. Sangria anyone?