On most Saturdays, my husband usually works at least half a day. This comes with the territory of self-employment, but it’s worth it, because he never has to ask for a single day off, never has to deal with horrible co-workers, and never has to contribute to my 401k (I AM THE RETIREMENT PLAN). Love you, schnookums!
So, on many Saturdays, Miles and I will head out to one of our favorite local parks. It’s not the closest park, but it’s definitely the shadiest, which is important for Ultra Gingers such as myself (some people think I’m a vampire). This past Saturday was no exception. We loaded our snacks, balls, water, sippies, hats, 473 changes of clothes into my Mary Poppins bag, and headed to the park. There was swinging, running, laughing, sliding, panting, wheezing and Icy Hot for all (maybe those last three were just mine…maybe) After about 90 minutes of this, we decided it was time to pack up and head home.
Then I saw him.
Across the street from this particular park, there’s a duplex. In one side of this duplex resides a man who eats nails and scorpions and other angry things for breakfast. How do I know? Because he’s always mad, always scowling, and always yelling at his dogs. And oh, by the way, those dogs are running through the park without leashes, pooping under the playground equipment like the maniac heathens they are. I do not like this man, and I do not like his dogs.
Usually, I let it slide, because I know deep down he doesn’t want to hear me talk, let alone request he do something like :::gasp::: put his yippy dogs on leashes and :::clutch my pearls::: PICK UP THEIR POOP. But today, I was feeling extra feisty and hormonal, so I decided I was going to say something. I knew I could catch him because he uses a cane. There was no escape for him, so Miles and I marched right over…
Me: Excuse me, sir?
Jerkface: *avoids all eye contact and continues walking after his dogs, yelling*
Me: Excuse me, sir?
Jerkface: *attempts to walk faster; does not succeed*
Me: SIR, I AM SPEAKING TO YOU.
Jerkface: *stops, rolls his eyes, looks at me* What do you want, lady?
Oh good, this is already off to a fine start.
Me: You really should have your dogs on leashes, sir. There are other people enjoying this park today.
Jerkface: Listen, I don’t need any crap from you…I’ve lived here for 38 years, I can do as I please.
Me: Sir, this is a public park, and I believe you’re required by law to leash your dogs. Also, it’s not very nice to let them use the bathroom under the playground equipment.
Jerkface: What do you care?! The squirrels shit all over this place, and I don’t see you chasing after them to impart your GREAT WISDOM. LEAVE ME ALONE.
Oh good, verbal harassment. This is going exactly as I planned.
Me: I’m sorry sir, but if you can’t leash your dogs and clean up after them, I’m going to call animal control.
Jerkface: ALSKDJ0ASDKFASD(**($LKDJ%()W(JSLKI%U()W*&%$)(JLISDJFLKSJ%*&@)(#(%&ALKJDLKSTJ(#%(*)(%HG()*$)(^*$OIJIGJPOIRIUYG)(R*Y)(EJ%$EPO^&IJ(U (these words are not fit for publication)
Me: You’re very rude.
Jerkface: I’M RUDE?! I’M RUDE?! You’re the one who comes to this park thinking they can just RUN THE WHOLE SHOW!
Yes, that’s me, running the entire Public Park Anti-Poop Show. YOU CAUGHT ME.
This polite back-and-forth banter continued for a few more minutes, before I ended with giving him my condolences for his obvious bad day, and telling him that I would pray for him (which was met with a, “OH YES, THAT’S WHAT I NEED, SOMEONE LIKE YOU PRAYING FOR ME” response). All this while my son was with me. We marched back to our truck, and I did the adult thing: called the police.
I am sure this Jerkface saw yet another yoga pants-wearing mom chasing her toddler around the park, and thought that we were inconveniencing him. How dare we set foot in his dogs’ toilet, right?
I have learned that just because someone is older, and seemingly of grandparent age, it does not necessarily mean that they are a nice grandparent-type person. For all I know, Jerkface doesn’t even have grandkids. Or maybe he does, and they’re ALL asshats. It’s entirely possible that the asshat gene is easily transmitted through many, many generations. It would explain a great number of moments in history.
Later that afternoon, we headed down to Miles’ preschool for his Open House/Ice Cream Social (because all toddlers and preschoolers need ice cream, duh). And of course, because the park is on the way, I forced Evan to slowly cruise the neighborhood just so I could catch Jerkface McPoops walking his dogs off leash. Because if there’s any lesson I want to impart on my children, it’s the importance of being not only a good parent, but also a vengeful parent. He wasn’t out and about, but I’ve got his number. Oh yes, I do. I also have a litterbox at home that I’d like to leave on his front porch, but I’ll save that for the holidays.
Open House was awesome, and only made awesomer by the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cart. Miles has only had frozen yogurt – once – and he was not impressed. I remember thinking to myself, “Look at me, healthy mom, my child is eating broccoli and spitting out frozen yogurt! Go me!” Fast forward a few months, and I decide he can try my Ben & Jerry’s. When I say “try it”, I mean have a bite. When Miles agrees to “try it”, he means eat all of the ice cream ever created in the history of time and space. Ben & Jerry’s Milk and Cookies is his fave. Go me!
Ice cream over asshats ALL DAY,