I have said it before, I don’t like outdoors. I will sit outside, on someone’s deck or screened in porch. I will need a cocktail. I will need bug spray. I will need a strong cocktail. With that said, here was my Wednesday:
I got home from dropping the beast off at the groomer. My garbage can has smelled bad for weeks. I have ignored it. I have blamed the neighbors, the dog and random creatures on the block. So feeling especially brave, I go downstairs, flip laundry and turn on the valve, grab the bleach and head outside. I bleach out my garbage can and rinse it. Then I think to myself, “Fuck it. I’ll do the yard.” I know how proud I was in the fall when I bit the bullet and cleaned the yard. I have become a realist since then. The real truth is I should be in an apartment and not a house. I choose this. I fought for it and now I’m stuck. So, still feeling brave, I throw on gloves and start raking up poop and giant branches from the last storm. I go old school and hose down the concrete. I bag everything and begin to get to the inside of the house. That morning I had asked Capri how did our mother’s do it? She said she didn’t know. Then Capri complained of being chilly. Then we went off on some tangent about something. Typical conversation ending with her calling me an idiot and that she would call me later.
Around 11am, after I clean up, I throw on a pot of sauce. Then 3b stops by for a noon time grope, and then I go get the beast from the groomer. Boring right? I wish. So the girl is home and the beast is clean and smells decent for a beast. When all of a sudden, without warning, there is the God awful squawking and racket coming from the yard. With Mitch the squirrel dead and gone (rest his soul) I figured that my dog had sufficiently scared the other rouge squirrels in Pine Hills and perhaps she has. I forgot about the birds. I really didn’t forget. I had no idea that blue jays fight like drunken girls at the club. Worse than that, they fucking fight to the death, in my fucking yard. As the beast hears all of this, she goes running out because now she has a taste for blood. There it is, the loser, broken wing, on the ground in front of my back steps, screaming in pain or anger. I don’t speak nature so I can’t tell. At this point, it was 5pm and I know better than to call Animal Control. If I call them with one more dead or half dead thing in my yard they are going to think I am some kind of a serial killer. I can see the FBI profile of myself now: chubby, middle-aged, saggy tits, foul mouthed, single mother.
So I do what anyone who knows me would expect me to do, bring the dog in, slam the door shut and pray for someone to make this go away. My girl begins to cry about the bird. I begin to cry about the bird and the beast cries about not getting the bird. We all pull it together and I text 3b. Here is the text exchange:
Me: Honey, can you come over please?
3b: Yup. What’s wrong?
Me: I will show you when you get here.
3b: Oh No.
He was right to be concerned. Before I go any further I must confess something, 3b named the dead squirrel Mitch. Not only did he name him but created a whole story around his funeral. He is the creative force behind naming dead things in my yard. He comes in and says, “What’s dead?” Dead? We should be so lucky. He looks out the window and makes the Capri sound (the sigh between disgust and disappointment). He looks at the broken winged blue jay and says, “Bonnie, it is going to be fine. I’m not going to kill you but you have to work with me.” That is correct, Bonnie the fucking blue jay. About a half hour later, he flips her over, gets her on her feet and off she runs.
My prayer for the week is this: Dear God, please stop making things die in my yard. I am not emotionally equipped for it. Please God, keep the nature where it belongs, on National Geographic or the neighbor’s yard. In turn, I promise to go outside only when necessary.
I hope we have a deal.
