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Paul often says that the reason we have problems relating to our age (what? what do you mean I’m no longer 30??) is because we haven’t had the fundamental markers in our lives that come with children. People with children, he says, watch their children grow from infants, to taking their first steps, from kindergarten to graduating high school, and perhaps college. They shed a tear walking their daughter (“it seems only yesterday she was a baby!”) down the aisle, they share photos of their son cradling his first newborn while exclaiming on Facebook, “We’re grandparents!!”

 

And, in the meantime, Paul and I are cleaning up poo on the kitchen floor from our ‘children.’

 

I actually point out that’s the only time we share the feeling of giddy parenthood: because for a while, dogs and babies behave the same way: moving around on all fours and relieving themselves at will. Savor that, Paul, I advise. They grow up so quickly.

 

However, because our farm has a good chunk of road frontage along our very quiet country lane which also serves as a shortcut to a state highway, I’ve been subjected to those markers of growth from a complete stranger. For years now I’ve muttered rude things under my breath—who am I kidding, I’ve given full voice to my cussing—as I’ve been obliged to pick up the beer cans he/she has been tossing out their car window. These cans are not only along my property, but the entire length of our street. For years—yes, years, it has been empty, crushed cans of Busch beer, thrown about 100’ apart. How any human being can spend their hard earned cash on Busch beer is beyond me. C’mon, I know it’s cheap, but why not just drink weasel pee? I can only assume you’ve lost your sense of taste during a bout of Covid, as no other self respecting drunk would drink this equivalent of jello salad. And how dare you litter my property line with such a proletariat beverage—have you an idea how mortifying it is to be seen in public, hurriedly picking up those tacky cans and trying to assure all and sundry that they’re not mine? At least class it up and toss a Stella Artois bottle out every now and then. 

 

And now, during the last 12 months, the maturity of this person has developed in that they have left the security blanket of cheap beer and have now embraced ’Twisted Tea.’ Which means they must’ve gotten a raise— well done! But have you seen these 16 oz cans, gentle reader? Gaudy tall, yellow cans with blue lettering, proclaiming with what flavor this chilled tea and vodka is flavored: mango, blackberry, raspberry. Our ‘child’ appears to really dig peach. 

 

How can you drink this?? Surely you were raised better. Just the thought of taking one sip of that sugary revulsion makes my teeth bleed. How can you drink multiple cans of it? Where are your values? And where are you hanging your liver out to dry?

 

You’re working my last nerve, kid. You’re making me channel my inner Liam Neeson: “If you stop littering now, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will…improve your palate.