Column

Spring Brings Out Gumption In Western Women

By Joseph Friedrichs, 5-10-10

It’s my first spring in Boise. And oh, how magical it is!

The dogwoods have bloomed. The apple blossoms and lilacs scent the air, making each breath more delightful than the next. Ah, such sweet aromas.

That’s all nice, but the other night a 32-year-old disgruntled girl smashed a three-foot copper lamp over my arm in an attempt - at least I presume - to kill me.

For the sake of legal purposes, we’ll call this girl “Tonya.” Tonya works at a local grocery store. She is a very kind, attentive, attractive blonde. For example, she laughs when you say things like “Hey toots, you sure are fine.”

Tonya was staying at my current abode for the day, as I had the place to myself. It’s a nice house: well-kept lawn; plenty of flora; two stories of clean, comfortable spacious living space. Tonya and I were downstairs and had been enjoying the company of each other. The experience had scratched the loving Lord out of my back, but it was good company all the same.

When events were over, I noticed Tonya was dozing off while sitting on the sofa. So I opted to venture upstairs and listen to the Bob Dylan Pandora station in a bedroom and think of nothing. My peace lasted through “Tangled Up In Blue” and a live recording of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” from The Band, because then Tonya arrived. She looked very tired. Her makeup was scattered and it appeared she was hungry, although perhaps she was merely confused.

“Scoot over,” she said, referring to the bed where I was resting peacefully in a horizontal position.

“There’s plenty of room,” I said, “just lie down.”

“Just scoot over. Don’t be a jerk.”

Then I made a serious mistake, what was I thinking, and said, “Maybe if your ass wasn’t so big I wouldn’t have to.” What. Was. I. Thinking.

Tonya snatched the lit lamp from the nightstand and made her move.

Roger Clemens could through a mean fastball during his prime. Kobe Bryant’s agility is a wonder. And Tonya can smash a lamp in the finest of form. Wow, can she smash a lamp!

In a motion of self defense and fortunate instinct I was able to put my forearm up before the lamp crashed upon my head, or neck, or wherever it would have landed. The copper, or metal, or plaster, or whatever the lamp was made of broke in half. The bulb exploded and glass flew. The lampshade took on the appearance of a flat tire.

Tonya dropped the tattered mess and fled the house. I heard her start her engine as I sat at the foot of the bed moaning in pain. My arm wasn’t bleeding, yet it hurt so bad I thought it might be broken. Who do I call to take me to the emergency room? Are there any ice packs? Am I going to die? All of these strange and unpleasant thoughts raced through my brains as I heard Tonya drive away.

I presently have a lump the size of a baseball on my arm. It was 78 degrees yesterday, but I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt to cover the bruise. When I shower and see the wound, I consider weeping.

I am a dumbass, and I’m in a quandary about the apology situation, but the flowers are in bloom and it’s a great spring in Boise.

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