Mym and I sat in the car for a full five minutes last night after pulling into the Stop-’N-Go trying to decide which was riskier; dodging the mosquitoes gathered around the lights for their nightly feast or going home hoping we had enough gas left to make it back in the morning when the cloud would be less dense. We probably would have been fine, but I decided to get the gas because I had an early morning the next day.

Having parked too closely to the pump for a tuck and roll, I bolted out as quickly as possible, flailing my arms around while I hipped the door closed. Holding my breath, I ran over to the pump and set it up, hopping around impatiently with more flailing when the screen insisted on asking unnecessary questions before getting down to business. Yes, that was a credit card I just swiped, yes, I want grade 87 fuel, no, I don’t want a car wash, no, the weather is not lovely tonight thank you very much just give me the gas.

I decided to just stay out until it was all over to minimize the opportunities the little buggars would have to hitchhike back to our house with a private menu. That’s how much I love my man. Instead, I stood out in the middle of the parking lot where it was a little darker (and I could breathe) and listened for the click. Then it was run back in and button up, yes, I’m finished pumping, no, I still don’t want a car wash, keep your damn receipt and go hug a tree, dive back into the car and turn the AC on.

I actually thought I’d made it home scott free until I found the parting shot as I got ready for bed – a single bite on my rear end. Still, I’ll count the battle as a victory.

Despite the fact that we haven’t yet replaced a few pieces of siding damaged in last summer’s freak hail storm nor gotten around to having the roof checked by a professional (I still say it’s a scam), I like to think that we are decent caretakers of our property. We get some slack for being new. We keep the landscaping in reasonably good condition, clean up the odd items that have been mysteriously appearing on our lawn the past two trash days (I don’t know if the driver is drunk or just has really bad aim), and spend a fair amount of time making improvements on the inside of the house.

And yet, it is only due to the kindness of a stranger that I am finally able to admit that we are bangers. We wait until enough things of a certain category accumulate on the To Do list that they start to build up their own inertia and then we bang them out all at once. I’m still trying to decide whether that’s a bad practice. One could reasonably call it an efficient distribution of labor but, it just feels so illicitly delicious.

So thank you, neighborhood punks, wherever you are, for bringing this fact to my attention by taking a baseball bat to my mailbox last week. Although it is still askew and I fear for the ultimate fate of the sad, crunched little red flag on the side, it clung to its post, withstood your single blow and still performs it primary duty, steadfastly greeting the world like a yip-yip martian. I would have been tempted to try fixing it last weekend, but got sick and preferred to mope about the house with a fever instead. That’s how dedicated I am to being a banger.