The sun is shining and, at 8:25am, it is a lovely warm but not sticky hot morning. I’ve let the conversation about things I should do – like get more mulch and go to the store and wash the dogs and do laundry– quiet down with a book and a cup of my homemade mocha concoction. Life is good. Life is quiet. Life is pretty.
Then I feed the furry beasts and let them outside to digest. It’s their third time out already today; they’ve already sniffed everything and peed on everything else. It should be a quick visit but while Joe Boxer is peeing on the side of a tree, a chipmunk runs out from it’s hiding place underneath and all hell breaks loose.
Joe Boxer chases. Chipmunk runs. Tigger the Dog dashes after them and the three scuffle at the driveway wall just out of my sight. Thinking they’ve just missed catching another chipmunk, I laugh.
But the fracas goes on and Pepper the Wannabe Cat joins in. It’s now a combination of scuffles and grunt growls followed by creepy silence.
I run, sloppily in my slippers, holding my untethered boobs, around the side of the wall to see Chipmunk attempting to get free of the gummy mouth that is Joe. I start shouting, but my panicked “Leave it!” isn’t having an effect on any of them. Then Chipmunk is dropped and before he can scrabble off, he’s picked up by the sharp teeth of Tigger the Dog. Pepper the Wannabe Cat sits at the ready, head tilted, watching, waiting for her opportunity to contribute.
When I’m close enough, I start with the flailing arms. That combined with my flustered shouting has the dogs drop their wet plaything. But Chipmunk is damaged. Badly. He attempts to crawl off, eyes glazed, his hind legs dragging behind him.
I start cussing. I’m outside in my pj’s. I don’t have a shovel or a bag and I’m trying to keep three dogs from having Chipmunk for dessert. Everything sucks. I spot the woodpile and, with a keening squeal, I grab a log and lay it gently over chipmunk in the hopes that the dogs will leave him be long enough for me to get a better disposal plan together.
No dice. Chipmunk again tries to scramble off but he’s looking soggy and pathetic and is in obvious discomfort and the dogs aren’t interesting in just leaving him be. The seconds tick by as I come to terms with the fact that I have no real options here. I cannot let Chipmunk be passed around the by the dogs and I cannot let the poor sucker linger in pain. With my eyes squinted shut, squealing unintelligible curses the whole time I’m forced to grab the chunk of wood and drop it on Chipmunk’s head - three times – until he stops moving.
The sun is still shining but it is no longer a lovely morning. I’ve just killed a being that hadn’t said anything offensive about Mexicans or Muslims or women or poor people or Elizabeth Warren etc.… A wee beast that just had the misfortune of being in the hole below the tree the dog was peeing on. What a world we live in.
After I shower the memory of the murder off my soul, seriously contemplating going back to bed. There's not enough ice cream and potato chips in the house to make this better.
While I didn’t sell loads at the festival this past weekend, I was so dang pleased with the interactions I had with the many friends that stopped by and visited. I HAVE FRIENDS HERE!!! And that is a great thing because making friends as a grown up is hard. AND because the fact that they went out of their way on a busy Saturday and stopped by to visit is because they like me (I hope) and not because they think that if they are “friends” with me, I might one day get a record deal and take them with me on my journey to fame. Cause that ain't happening.
I work with kids and kids are funny. But sometimes, some days are rough. Then sometimes this happens and it makes the rough “I want you to go away!” times worth it.
This lady is here. And this lady makes me happy – even when she turns me into a bitchy sixteen-year-old shit.
This is her suitcase. I can’t tell you how giggly I got when I saw this relic whipping slowly around the baggage claim carousel. I mean, I remember this from our trips back and forth to Kenya. I’m pretty sure Brother and I played hide and seek in it a time or two – back when either one of us would actually fit IN it.
She brought me my grandmother.
This picture hung on the wall of the guest room at my Grandmother’s house. This was painted by a family friend - who also happens to be a famous impressionist painter. This one hung on the wall at the foot of the bed and an larger, even more austere one hung at the head of the bed. Both of characters Grandmother had played at one point or another in her acting career.
When I was “grown up” and brought home the boyfriend for Christmas and insisted on sleeping in the guest room together because I was “grown up” (and rude), Mom convinced Grandmother to let us sleep in there. The next morning I asked her how she could ever sleep in there with her mother staring down at her from the head of the bed and from the foot of the bed. “I just close my eyes.” She said, smiling because without a fight, she had won.
Every night after I go to bed, Joe the Boxer sneaks up for a long hug from Husband. I caught them once when I came back with a question and now I sneak in for a peak every night. Last night, probably because Mom was here, Joe the Boxer needed his hug early. There ain't much cuter than a 60+ pound dog needing some love from a grumpy Scotsman to put a smile on my face. And his.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me