This morning when I went to wake Jane Sparky was curled up her bed. Sparky does not sleep with Jane, and we know that the last time Sparky slept with Jane there was not a happy ending to the story.
This morning was no exception. Although Jane’s sheets are lime green with white and green, there are no flecks of black. The flecks of black you see on the bedsheets are actually feathers. And the red? Well, I’m assuming it’s blood, but since we didn’t find a bird body to go with the wings the evidence against the homicidal manic is strictly circumstantial.
Last Wednesday night Sparky slept on Jane’s bed. This is odd, because Sparky never goes into Jane’s room, she sleeps with Alexander. By way of explanation Jane’s bedroom is the first bedroom you’d encounter after walking upstairs.
Jane then slept out on Thursday and Friday nights. As is our habit we close her bedroom door when she’s not home. It makes us miss our kids less. On Thursday morning I grabbed something from her room and realized it stank like soccer gear. Shin guards can be horrendous. I texted her, “I hope you’re having fun, but your bedroom smells like something died in it.” and then I closed the door.
On Friday morning the window washers came. They were here to wash all the windows except the one with the bird nest on in. You can see how well that turned out. I went upstairs with them and opened the door to Jane’s bedroom.
It was not the smell of shin-guards. Sparky darted into the room, went under the bed and started purring louder than a jet engine. She was puffed up and delighted with herself.
The other thing that was puffed up in the room was the rat. The dead bloated rat that Sparky had put under Jane’s bed.
Fast forward a few tears, double plastic bags, carpet cleaning and a $50 tip to the window cleaner who brought the dead animal to the trash can.
The kids have been out of school for two weeks, which means I’ve spent two weeks not really doing much of anything. Even when they do go to camp they’re only there from 9 to just before 3. When they go to school the days are from 8 to 3.30. Since I’m working out from 9.30 to 10.30 a few mornings a week this means that I’m not even going to shower until 11am.
So basically I’ve skipped showering. I either commit to smelling awful or I float in the pool. The pool is warm and I’m alone so I don’t even have to shave my legs. I just plop in there relax a little. In fact I’m so lacking in pride these days that I’ve done my second Momversation with horrendous hair. It’s not even bedhead, it’s just housewife who’s given up hair. I could get a haircut, but I’m too lazy for that, plus I think I’ve had my 2011 haircut already.
It’s time to wash the windows. I’ve just rescreened half the house and I’m here to tell you that any fool can do it. I spent about $20 on supplies to rescreen the windows in five bedrooms and a few hallways. Of course I did it the day after I’d given myself a manicure. Since the kids have been out of school I’ve also repaired some of the grout in their bathtub, which is an interesting story.
You see a few weeks ago Mr. G told me that he’d need to do a test shoot in our house with a small crew on a Thursday. I explained to him that I play tennis every single Thursday from today to the rest of my life and there’s no way in the world I’m willing to have that interrupted. Mr G changes the shoot to a Friday, and of course I play tennis on a Friday for the first time in a year. I come in the door at about 11.30 and the driveway is full of pick up trucks and lighting equipment. This doesn’t look so much like a test shoot as it looks like a shoot. I smell bad, I’m hungry, I’m tired, so I kick my shoes off at the door and head upstairs to my bedroom. I fling the door open and I am alarmed to find Anna’s husband in my bed with a bunch of car parts.
There is a muffler, part of an engine, suspension and other assorted parts on my bed. Inside my bed is Anna’s soon to be late husband. I smiled as much as I possibly could, grabbed my things from the bathroom and headed to the kid’s bathroom to clean up. I stood under the water and tried to let it wash the tennis and newfound anxiety off of me, but when I started looking at the tile more anxiety came over me. There were cracks in the grout.
Being a homeowner I have many fears, but the big one is that there will be a water leak from the top to the bottom floors. Cracked grout makes me shake. So, because of the filthy man and his his filthy car parts in my never filthy bedroom I’d found one of my worst nightmares, a potential leak.
I kept the kids out of their shower and tub for four days so that everything would dry out nicely. I used a grout saw to scrape away any loose or adjoining grout, then I mixed fresh grout and applied it where it was needed. A day later I applied sealant and a day after that the kids were back in their shower. Of course I’m still in there every day checking to be sure that not a drop of water can get through.
Maybe I should thank Anna’s husband?
So now that I’ve fixed the grout and rescreened the windows it’s time to wash the windows. Well, I’m getting ready to do that, and to deadhead the climbing roses when I see that a bird is building her nest on my kitchen window. I feel like it’s an omen of good things to come so I whip out my iPhone and take some video.
Twenty minutes after I took that video she dropped an egg right there on my kitchen window, which seemed a little less adorable. I’m totally willing to evict a bird, but I’m not willing to evict a bird sitting on her egg. Now I have to wait until the baby is hatched and flying before I can wash my filthy kitchen window.
It's so filthy it makes me shake
Ooh and also there’s a new meme where people tell you to google “Blue Waffle” and click “I’m feeling lucky”. Don’t do it. There’s nothing lucky about it. It’s slang for a very diseased ladybit.
My back yard has a trumpet vine that threatens to take over the carport. It blooms madly in the early summer and again in August. There are bursts of red, pink and orange that remind me of Carmen Miranda and a tangle of greenery that is home to at least two songbird nests. When Pedro (my gardener) shows up I remind him to not trim the vines as they are home to these birds. Then I plead with him to put away the leaf blower as he’s stripping me of my top soil. We’ve been together a dozen years, every week it’s a fight to put away the leaf blower.
We’ve been in this house a half dozen years and for a half dozen years I’ve woken to the sound of songbirds early every spring morning. By summertime they abandon their nests, and near December they return to rebuild. I don’t know what sort of birds they are, but I know that the male has a red breast and they’ve not small, their bodies are the size of my fist. I assume their brains are smaller than a grape. Still, I like their songs.
Friday morning I went for run, had breakfast with a friend and then popped into the grocery store. I arrived home and was unloading the car when my housekeeper came to help with the bags. This is unusual, unloading groceries is not a two woman job.
“Yessica, el gato es drinking de beer.” She said, as she pointed to the sky.
“That’s weird,” I said, “how did she get beer?”
“Not beer the beerrrd.” She repeated and gestured to the sky.
I made my way through the living room, the dining room and the family room. As I approached the kitchen I got tunnel vision and all I could see was Sparky and her songbird. Since the chest cavity was torn open it was impossible for me to discern if it was the male or female bird.
I took the grocery bags off my shoulder and stood frozen staring at my cat. Slowly, arrogantly her head turned up at me and she began licking her paws.
“Mayra, este no es drinking ella es EATING. It’s a BIRD.”
Smirking, Mayra replied, “Si, es un beerrd. Yo se.”