Ramble

We weren't supposed to be there.

Jamie had a friend who lived on the inside. She presented her name, like a golden ticket, to the gate keeper. He checked, he cleared, he lifted the gate. We were in.

The thing about Glen Oaks, the gated golf course community in the Jordan Creek district of West DesMoines, is that it reminds me of a reverse ghetto. They are locked in, and others are generally locked out. But it's a ghetto in the middle of the Hamptons. There is NOTHING in the area remotely sinister or dangerous. There is absolutely no reason to justify having a gate up in Jordan Creek. Across the street from the entrance is the nicest Town Center in the area, and down the road is the fifth largest, nicest malls in the world.

So when we sat at the stoplight across from the entrance and I said, "let's scale the fences," we were all on board. Let's check out the prestigious, high maintenance, high security community of Glen Oaks.

Jamie's friend on the inside is actually someone I know, so we stopped to chat with Erin for a few minutes. Then the adventure began. We turned THE BLOW up really loudly. "Not appropriate music for Glen Oaks." All the more reason to play it proudly. After gawking and mocking the houses that towered around us, jealously glaring at their competition across the street, we scooped a loop and found her.

Gorgette. That bitch. The biggest, most pompous French poodle I've ever seen. She lounged, paws crossed, at the top of the driveway. Amy stopped the car. We danced in her direction. We jeered. We pouted. We told her how much she had hurt us in high school, and how money didn't make her any better than anyone else. She would stare, then turn her head and ignore us. Amy would shout something at her, and she would snap her head back. But she never gave us more than ten seconds of her time before she'd act bored with us again. It was picture perfect. Three hippie hood ghetto rif rafs who were trespassing on this gated community's peace and quiet, screaming pseudo obseneties at a regal, pompous poodle (who, by the looks of it, is probably better fed, pampered, groomed, and educated than the three of us put together).

I love nights like these. A handful of high school drama, full tank of gas, and good friends. This is one of the reasons I love Amy.