“Plandemically” Speaking

When it rains, well…you know.

What’s the old saying, “We make plans and God laughs?”

Well, God must be laughing his somewhat-nonexistent ass off at this writer, who apparently hasn’t learned that making plans during a pandemic makes about as much sense as making your own bread.

Why bother? Unless kneading and beating the hell out of the Pillsbury Doughboy is a way to get your freak on. (I could get behind that.)

Even though I bitch and moan about being stuck indoors and the crappy weather and the Navel Orange-in-Chief and most recently — the extra five pounds that my scale “says” I packed on — I’m beyond grateful.

Grateful that my husband and I and our three cats have a nice roof over our heads and that he’s still working and we have plenty to eat (obviously) and more importantly, we’re not struggling to pay our mortgage. This last is amazing given that I haven’t received an actual paycheck in over two years. It takes diligence and a sharp eye on our finances, but we’re managing to keep abreast of the bills.

A Blessing, I Know

Indeed, in a time when so many decent, hard-working people don’t know how they’re going to feed their families or hold onto their homes or apartments, we are blessed.

That said, like so many other average folks, we still worry about money. My stock options from my former employer are in the toilet, as in practically gone, and I don’t even want to look at my 401k. Seeing the shrinkage there might send me spiraling down a bottle of vodka followed by a two-day hangover, and I don’t want to go that route. So in this case, ignorance might not be bliss, but it beats the hell out of dry heaves.

Another reason to be grateful: Stimulus checks. My husband and I have yet to receive ours, and again, thankfully, we’re not in dire need. So we discussed either socking the money away or using it to get a few much-needed projects done in our home. We need a new oven, the flooring in our family room needs replacing…things like that.

When you live in a place for a while, everything seems to go to hell at once. And then there’s our SOB of a neighbor, who I’ve recently written about, who drops a dime on us every chance he gets. If it’s not weeds, it’s something else.

Guess What?

Well, “something else” just came home to roost. We just received yet another citation in regards to a dead tree on our property. It never ends, folks.

We have a huge lot and a goodly number of mature trees, a few of which are on their way out due to some fungus or other. No, it has nothing to do with COVID-19 or even the Orange Turd. We can’t blame this one on him, although it’s tempting.

Hubby and I don’t patrol our property on a regular basis so yes, this is on us, but once again, this miserable miscreant couldn’t come to us directly.

The deal from the city: If the cited tree isn’t taken down within the 30-day time frame we’ve been given, we’ll be fined $500 a day. A DAY.

How magnanimous of them! Do they know that we’re living through a pandemic?

After a frantic search, I had three tree specialists come out to check on the expired tree that was cited and the others that I was certain would follow. Our city apparently is relentless when it comes to putting the squeeze on its hapless citizens so I determined to get one step ahead of them.

Thankfully, one company out of the three provided a quote that our budget could withstand. AKA, they accept MasterCard.

The plan was to chop down the cited tree, plus one more and also, prune back the other two dead trees. Damn! That's a lot of death on our lot!

It turns out that the trees, Austrian Pines, had been hit by a fungus common to that particular species. There was really nothing we could have done.

I was told that we’d be “put on the schedule” and that they could do the work in two weeks, maybe sooner.

One Day Later

I called the coding guy from the city as the letter instructed but still, he seemed surprised to hear from you. As if I’d interrupted him while watching the Fox News Channel.

He was a decent enough sort and punctuated most of my comments with an “I hear ya,” and told me that, as the citation stated, he would check our property within thirty days.

Okay. Deal done.

Even though I knew that dead trees are a hazard, I was still fuming at my neighbor for not coming to us directly. I was certain it was him who had called the city and nailed us for our weeds and trees.

I was in the bathroom washing my hands for the hundredth time that day and looked out to see the guy trimming his bushes.

With a full head of steam on, I opened the window and unloaded on the poor schmuck. I threatened him with “legal action” if he continued to harass us.

Why do I say “poor?” Because:

Newsflash!

It wasn’t him!

He told me that he’d never called the city on anyone in his life and that in fact, someone had dropped a dime on him, as well!

I believed him and because I felt like a total ass, apologized profusely. Keep in mind that these were the first words we’ve ever exchanged in over twenty years!

He was gracious enough to accept my mea culpa and I left the conversation with a warm, fuzzy, and maybe, a new friend. Or at the very least, someone I no longer felt acrimonious toward.

The weather yesterday was decent for a change so after my blowup, I went out for a long walk. Upon my return, imagine my surprise to see two huge trucks and a bunch of Hispanic guys waiting for me!

I looked at them. They looked at me. And finally, I was able to ascertain that this was the tree company I’d hired and instead of showing up in two weeks, they were ready NOW to cut down the trees!

No phone call. No warning. Nothing, but that said, I was more than happy to get the whole thing over with. They did a phenomenal job and in a little over three hours, everything was done. They cleaned up and skedaddled.

Crisis averted! Except for the bill, of course. But I’m not complaining. There’s too much to be grateful for. It’s a sunny day. Our property looks great — the mowers came too — and, except for the five extra. Pandemic Pounds I’ve packed on, all is relatively well.

The moral of this story? This is not the time to make plans, my friends. Make love, instead…or bread.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

Thanks very much for reading. If you enjoyed this, you might like the other stories, below.

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