I remember vividly trying to find places to make out when I was a teenager. It wasn’t that I was some gigantic slut—no, really—it’s just that there are only so many places that one can successfully get their legs properly humped far away from the prying eyes of parents and/or siblings. Bedrooms were preferred, because they contained, well, BEDS, but they were often strictly guarded by parents who knew exactly what two horny kids would do when allowed to be alone for more than five seconds. And it wasn’t Parcheesi.
Cars were okay, but the police in my hometown (where I still live) seldom have anything better to do than bust underage smokers or underage humpers, so screwing around in a car, while optimal in some regards because it’s mobile, isn’t exactly always a great idea. The Great Outdoors comes with bugs, lurking Uncle Pervies, hikers and picnickers and my personal favorite: Poison Ivy. No one wants Poison Ivy on their privates. Not, thankfully, that I would actually know from experience. So while I do appreciate the plight of the horny teen, I do know that there are plenty of places that can be made hump-worthy. I know I’ve gotten my leg humped in many, many places over the years.
Teens Make Great Slave Labor
While I do still live in my hometown, thank the Sweet Baby Jesus that I no longer live with my parents because that would be awkward mostly because I would have murdered them by now. The area that I do live is across the river and we happened to move into Teenager Row. Most people hate teenagers, but I happen to find them hilarious. Plus, they mow my lawn and do assorted chores around the house for me since I have about four thousand children and a husband who is around approximately three minutes every other week. To me, it’s a total win, and for that I can even put up with their annoying whiny emo music for the privilege of being able to work them to the bone. Cheap slave labor makes me very, very happy.
Pimp My Play-Set
One of them in particular tends to mow my lawn on a semi-regular basis when he can be bothered to remember. He’s a teenager so I don’t hold him to any sort of high standards. One afternoon, I blearily noticed that he’d left his baseball cap on top of the treehouse in my children’s play-set. It’s a pretty sweet set-up they have and I’ll be the first to admit that I am totally making up for the fact that my own parents didn’t buy me cool shit buy buying my own kids what I deem to be the coolest shit ever. Their play-set is pimp. It’s beyond pimp, actually, and I’m halfway considering moving out there myself. Well, I would, except that my own house is cooler. Air conditioning trumps no air conditioning any day.
The Motherfucking Hat Is Taunting Me!
Anyway, the hat sits there and it annoys me because I’m a little OCD and it doesn’t fucking belong there, but my neighborhood kid doesn’t seem to notice that he’s missing his hat. I am simply stunned that he doesn’t notice that he’s missing his hat! Why, when I was that age, I would have noticed that I was missing my baseball cap! Okay, that’s a lie, because I’ve owned one baseball cap ever and it says “Mrs. Timberlake” on it and I bought it when I was twenty-four because OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t you? But weeks pass and the hat sits in the treehouse and every time I see it it’s like it’s TAUNTING me by simply being there because it doesn’t motherfucking belong there! The kid comes back a couple of times and mows my lawn and still, leaves the hat, and I am beyond mystified by this.
Finally, I catch him outside one day when all of the adults are standing around splitting some beers and noshing on encased meats.
“Kid,” I say to him, my excitement reaching a fever pitch. “I have your hat!” I probably got a little in his face because that’s how I get when I’m excited by something and trust me, Internet, I was beyond excited. Before he could say “restraining order,” I ran inside and retrieved the hat. Triumphantly, I brought it back outside where I handed it to him with a huge smile on my face. I was just THAT HAPPY to give the hat back to it’s rightful owner. I was sure that the hat was equally happy to be back home once again because I might have been a wee bit drunk at the time.
“Um,” he looked at the hat and back at me. “That’s actually not my hat.”
My mouth hit the ground. What the fuck? I have a fenced in back yard, three small children and two loud dogs. Really, my yard isn’t a free-for-all of movement and no one really gets in or gets out without me noticing. Sort of like the Hotel California. What the hell did he mean, “that’s not my hat?”
My OCD kicked into hyperdrive at this revelation because if it wasn’t his hat and it wasn’t my hat and it wasn’t Dave’s, Ben’s, Alex’s or Amelia’s, then who the fuck owned the hat? Squirrels? The fucking Invisible Man? Gnomes? I couldn’t figure it out and it ate at my brain for weeks. Trust me, I don’t have enough brain for it to be taken over with such a thing for so long. I’m pretty sure nothing else got done for those weeks.
Facebook finally cracked it for me. The neighbors behind me frequently held bonfires attended by scads of teenagers. Those teenagers were using my fucking treehouse as, well a fucking treehouse. Which, I mean, if you think about it, is kinda awesome for them, kinda gross for me, because my kids go in there all the damn time. Without knowing it, I’d been hosting an orgy of teenagers in my backyard, probably humping legs with wild abandon. My very own den of intrigue! The hat must have replaced the tie as a symbol for “do NOT come in here.” If I took a black light in there, I’d be willing to bet it would look like Fight Club, only replace the blood and hair with spooge. Thankfully, I’d thrown out the black light along with the beaded curtains years before, so I won’t torture myself, but let’s just say I hit it up with some Lysol after that, and immediately threw out the hat.
More than anything, I was happy to have solved the mystery and a little jealous that I’d never been so creative when I was a teenager. Kids these days, man. They’re so fucking smart. Too bad that Imma booby trap the damn thing at night now. They may be smart, but I have a AMEX black card. Score one for Aunt Becky.