Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five: Thor and the rape whistle…

There is a kid in my neighborhood who rides his bike like a speed racer. He wears a bike helmet with horns like a Viking. I have dubbed him Thor the whistleblower. His parents thought it was a brilliant idea in lieu of a bell or bike horn to give the kid a rape whistle. He enjoys blowing this as he peddles like a mad man behind you. I have watched adults jump in fear and wet themselves when he speeds up behind them and blows on his whistle with all of his might. It is extremely frightening. Not to mention the fact that it is alerting those nearby that a potential assault may be occurring. To be the victim of the rape whistle when you are merely standing in the kid’s way is upsetting. People look at you like “Pervert, what were you doing to that boy?!”
Imagine being a man in a trench coat on a rainy day minding your own P’s & Q’s when that screeches up behind you? I have witnessed many victims of this. I decide to take matters into my own hands and confront Thor and his rape whistle one afternoon. I watch him tearing down the street leaving a cluster of startled and confused victim’s in his wake.
I peddle after him hearing Miss Gulch’s theme song from The Wizard of Oz in my head. I picture myself as her riding in fury and with purpose. Thor is blowing his rape whistle at squirrels, birds, dogs, leaving a carnage of deaf animals behind. I watch as a Fed-Ex delivery man jumps and drops his packages. I am sweaty, furious, and yes extremely out of breath. Finally, I catch up to Thor as he has stopped to drink some water.
Panting, I smile behind my mask and say: “Hi there! I like your bike! What’s your name?”
He eyes me suspiciously and sips his water. I continue: “So I notice that you are always blowing your whistle. It is so loud and high-pitched that it hurts our ears and startles us! Did you know it’s for emergencies only? Also, why don’t you get a bell to ring when you need pedestrians to move over when you are riding(I ring my bell to demonstrate.) Or you could just say: “Excuse me to your left!”
Thor continues to drink his water and eyes me up and down. I see this is going nowhere, so I change tactics. “Do you have a dog? Can you imagine how that hurts a dog’s ears? That range of your whistle is super high! Also, if you keep blowing it when it’s really an emergency then, no one will know that and come to help you if you need it.”
I wait hoping some of this has registered. He continues to watch me, saying nothing. This is awkward and super uncomfortable now. He puts the top back on his water bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares at me defiantly and in one fell swoop, blows on his rape whistle like he is a lone victim in the prison yard about to be gang banged.

People come running and I feel like I am about to become Tessie in The Lottery. Thor continuous his diatribe of whistle. I am SHOCKED! I hop back on my bike and peddle hastily like a maniac. I don’t stop until I am several blocks away! That little SHIT! I am fuming AND sweaty. Unsure of what to do.

I arrive home, huffing and puffing. I find Confused Husband on the stoop. He says:” I just heard that some kid was approached by an old pedophile woman! Thank goodness he had his rape whistle! Maybe I should get you one?”

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four: Ma’am and “Quack, quack”…

When Confused Husband does a solo expedition to Costco, one never knows what nonsensical items are going to be accompanying him back home. He enters the house with a cat who ate the canary smile. Like he has just won the lottery or gotten a GREAT deal.
He rolls in enormous jars of jalapeño’s, mayonnaise, chickpeas; that almost squash the dog. It is like Fred Flintstone has returned from the grocery store. At least this time he didn’t come home with the seventy-two pound wheel of cheese that he wanted three other families to go in on.(Let’s just say there was a HUGE misunderstanding, and the other people involved did not think he was seriously going to purchase this.) It sat in our living room, and was used as a coffee table for over a year, until he finally sold it on eBay. It is whispered in our home as the Great Cheese Wheel catastrophe of 2010.

He tosses what at first I think is a cheese grater and says: “Here, for your hooves.” I find his Cheshire Cat grin highly annoying! There is a box of white unscented candles (I didn’t realize we were holding mass later?). With a dramatic flourish, he presents two GIANT pillows and says: “I needed new pillows and guess what?” ( Oh, his excitement is building) “They are GOOSE feathers!” He stands there waiting, anticipating what? Am I supposed to jump for joy because he bought himself new pillows? Strike up the band? Award him the Nobel peace prize? WHAT?!
I look at him. His smile leaves his face and, I can sense how disappointed he is by my lack of enthusiasm. He holds and hugs his new pillows like they are our children, talking to them in a baby voice. I am frankly uncomfortable with the intimacy he is showing these two feather infused bolsters. They are GIANT poofs like the Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. With new pillows in hand, he runs upstairs to cover them.

I meanwhile have to find space for these ridiculous extra-large jars that won’t fit in the cupboard. I decide to put them around the island like extra stools.
Later that evening, I head upstairs. Our bedroom looks like a hen house! There are feathers EVERYWHERE! The rooster is perched; on his nest. I see the mammoth Flintstone-size pillows sticking out of the pillowcases. They are WAY too big for the average pillowcase. He also needs to get pillow covers for them as the feathers are escaping all over the place.
The ends of the feathers have poked me, and I feel like a human kebab. I am also sneezing like a maniac. It’s as though I am in some weird pillow fight scene.
Every time Confused Husband shifts or moves, an explosion of feathers trickle’s down and rains on me.

After an uncomfortable night of Plume-A- Palooza, I am in no mood to hear the wonders of his new pillows. He has feathers stuck all over him and even ones poking out of his pajama bottoms. He is like a pajama-clad rooster. It is morning, therefore, I am waiting for him to crow.
I tell him to get the vacuum and clean up his mess! An hour later he informs me that he could have used the leaf blower there were so many feathers. He decides to head back to Costco and return his what are now flat semi-filled, deflated goose feathered pillows.

Hours later, the prodigal shopper returns with two new pillows, informing me that Ping, who works in the Produce department, swears by the duck feather pillows! He is all excited! (All I can think of is A) I didn’t know there were duck feather pillows and, B) Why is he taking pillow advice from Ping in produce?) C) They are still FEATHERED pillows! Who cares what type of bird they originated from?
As usual, it is a stew of nonsense, and I am not climbing in the pot to join it.
I don’t have the bandwidth to ask any of the OBVIOUS questions out loud. Like what is the difference between duck and goose feathers? They will still molt all over the place. Could you not just get standard pillows?
I sit on the ENORMOUS jar of mayonnaise and pour myself a glass of boxed wine which is the size of a small automobile. The wine goblet courtesy of Costco, is big enough to have its own zip code. Confused Husband runs upstairs with his Donald Duck pillows like he has a hot date. I am pretty sure I hear quacking…