So this morning, I wasn't at my sharpest.
Alright, let's face it, most mornings, I'm not at my sharpest. Sometimes, there just isn't enough caffeine on the planet, you know? But this morning? Oy.
First off, when the Impossible Son and I stepped out onto the front porch to leave for school, he stopped and went, "Uh... Mom?"
"What?" I asked as I locked the front door.
"Look," he said a little too calmly, so I turned around and looked toward the driveway and my mouth dropped open.
"Where the hell's my car???" I asked, shocked, because it wasn't in its usual place at the end of the driveway. Then memory kicked in and I looked up toward the garage and went, "D'oh!" Because I'd forgotten that the Husbandly One had moved it to air up the tires.
Yes, I normally park at the end of the driveway. Why? Because there are billions and billions of little tiny birds that live in the red-tipped photinias that our predecessors planted alongside the driveway and (1) they are the most prolific poopers on the planet and (2) they have extremely accurate aim when it comes to the vehicles I drive. I mean, I actually gave up washing the minivan when we had it, because I would have had to wash it four times a day every single day!
Everybody knew my van, because it was the red one covered with bumper stickers... and bird poop. Not exactly a notoriety I was comfortable with, you know?
So when we got the CR-V, I made the decision to park it at the end of the driveway, before the bushes. Results? No more bird poop. I'm the only one who parks in the driveway anyway, so might as well park the way I want, right? *sigh*
So, the Impossible Son and I got in the car, my son chattering away as usual, I start the car, put it in reverse and check the mirror, preparing to back out. All of a sudden, a tall, thin, grey-haired figure lurches out into the street from behind the bushes, slack-faced and dragging one leg, one arm swinging wide while the other is held straight down and in front of a stiff body. The early morning light casts a grayish yellow pallor to the skin, and my first thought is, "Holy crap, the zombie apocalypse is real, WTF???"
Mr. Impossible says, "Mom? You okay? What is it, what's... OMG, Mom, is that... is that a zombie???"
The Husbandly One nearly got a frantic phone call to come home RIGHT NOW!!!
However, my brain kicked into gear and I said, "No, honey, that's the sewing lady who lives down the street."
"Why's she walking like that?" he asked, watching her lurch her way down the street.
"She had a stroke a few years ago," I said as I plugged in the iPod to give my pounding heart a chance to slow back down to a more normal rhythm. "We usually see her walking in the mornings."
"Yeah, but from the other side." Mr Impossible watched her go as I slowly backed out. "Guess she decided to take a different route today."
"Yep," I said, and we made our way to school.
The funniest part though is, until that moment, I never realized how much zombies in movies walk like stroke victims. No, really, think about it. The same stiff legged gait, the arms held out for balance, one swinging loosely, the other sometimes curled up close to the body, or held out straight, the slack-jawed face or dead expression with one side of the face drooping...
Yep, I was definitely awake as I took off for the school. Nothing like a couple of shocks to get the old adrenaline pumping!
I'll take a pass on that tomorrow, though, thanks.