I’m sitting on the floor of the garage. The door to the house is open, and one of the cats is exploring. It’s been a hot day, so the air out here matches the inside of the house. With the door open, Dave and Evelyn’s back-and-forth spills out here. I’m not sure how long I have until I’m discovered.
Turns out, right in the middle of that sentence.
A furrowed brow, an upward-turned mouth, and a “What are you doing?”—along with a sweeping glance around the garage—is what I got from Dave moments ago. You know, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I said so.
Maybe I’m here because I’m proud of vacuuming and organizing the garage’s carpet cuttings at the bottom of the brick floor, as well as moving the shoes that were blocking the cubby shelf and lining them along the brick wall in front of where the Nissan Murano parks.
Most importantly, two bags of leftover grout—heavy enough to require two trips—got slam-dunked for immediate disposal at the nearest landfill.
Spring purge in full effect.
Fast forward: Dave rolls the trash can to the end of the driveway. The next morning, I’m sitting at the office window when the garbage truck comes by. In my distraction, I barely notice the truck’s movement, but my brain fills in the snapshot as if I had, and the caption across the image reads: Your trash did not get picked up.
Then the “oh no” feeling pushed the story forward. Since the trash hadn’t been taken, I imagine hanging my head and shuffling to confess to Dave. As a result, we’d need to take Tim’s truck, and in a particularly defeating moment Dave and I struggle to swing the garbage can up onto the tailgate. One image after the other swirls in my mind, like Cinderella’s fairy godmother wand waving inanimate objects to life.
Ready for the moment of truth?
In bare feet, I walked to the end of the driveway. Over patches of wet where the sprinklers had run, and gingerly on the pads of my feet, not wanting my footsies undercarriage to catch the needle-point end of a well-positioned acorn.
Grabbing the black lid of the extra-large vessel, I flipped it open.
Inside—like a groom at an arranged marriage reveal I saw her and—she is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
Empty.
SHE’d BEEN TAKEN!
Just like that, the threat vanished as I rolled the can behind me, like Linus with his blanket, and head back to meet the day.
Onto something else completely. After seeing an image—more like a Mercedes brochure for a DIY project—I want to make a drip system over the birdbath. The drip acts as a visual cue, and a shepherd’s hook will hold it about eighteen inches above the water so the movement catches the birds’ attention.
I’m going to do it. Tomorrow.
I have a big jug Carol—Dave’s mom—gave me for my birthday that I’ve been using to hold milk.
Tomorrow’s plan: pour the milk into a glass container, clean out the jug, reroute the bird feeder onto a tree limb to free up the shepherd’s hook, and take a screwdriver to the milk cap.
There are other steps, but if it works well in the attracting bird department, I’ll make a little tutorial on how to do it.
Other than that, I don’t know that I have much else to tell you. Except I need to run to town again in the morning. Getting to the nearest UPS Store is priority uno.
And who knows from there.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 