The Midnight Hour

Upon returning home from Lake Powell, I cleaned out the day's garbage from my car dropping it into our outside garbage cans. However, in my midnight post perfect-day stupor, I threw away more than trash. Before I could react, I felt my car keys leave my hand and listened as they rattled their way to the bottom of the garbage. After getting a flashlight, I spotted the keys, precariously balanced at the base of the can, contentedly resting in a pile of moldy grass clippings. Just out of arm's reach, I considered my options: a) don goggles, ear plugs, nose plugs, gloves and a neoprene body suit and climb inside, b) lengthen my arm through the means of a violent shoulder dislocation, c) try a coat hanger. Considering how pinchy nose plugs can be and how hard it is to cut my own meat with a torn rotator cuff, I chose the latter. After about 10-15 minutes of grunting, twisting, nose-plugging and an occasional Mormon expletive, I pulled out victorious.

Exhausted and smelling like congealed gravy, I slumped into bed. A few moments later, my husband piped up, "did you bring in your computer from the back seat?" I jumped out of bed. Too tired to dress and not tired enough to care, I stepped out into the balmy midnight air. The universe gifted a silvery crescent moon casting just enough glow to illuminate the streak. I stealthily grabbed my precious MAC and happily scampered back into the house like a mouse making off with a stolen piece of cheese (brings new meaning to the phrase mac n’ cheese)!

Through all of this, I only hope that I was able to give some insomniac a good laugh. Unless you live on Wisteria Lane, it isn’t every day one gets to witness a dumpster-diving, middle-aged woman streaking the neighborhood.

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