A month ago, a dear friend asked whether I’d be interested in helping her out. Her sister, working at a summer camp in Massachusetts, had found a lost parakeet down by the pool. She’d tried locating its owner for weeks, to no avail, and was trying to re-home it. My friend was visiting her at the camp for a few days and had immediately thought of me. She sent a picture of the parakeet and – NO PRESSURE!!! – but I’d get first dibs if I *was* interested.
What do you do when there’s nothing left to do? When you’ve exhausted all options, done all that’s possible, and yet desperately ache to do something?
I wish I knew.
Good morning all. Today I need to get some things off my chest. I know that life seems pretty peaches & cream here at the West Philly palatial estate, but let me tell you. LIFE IS HARD. At least when you like to complain.
Back in August we adopted two kittens. These kittens, Ziggy and Pepper, have now entered advanced *FRISKY* stage. So they spend most of each day shredding our leather furniture, hanging from the woodwork, killing countless potted plants and STALKING. Just look at these photos.
Until recently, these reenactments of WILD KINGDOM had been tame. But the altercations between Kiwi and the kittens have grown in intensity. Yesterday I found my ox-pecking appendage of a bird cornered beneath a table on the back porch, the kittens primed for the kill. Kiwi is so damn feisty and DUMB she actually FLEW DOWN TO THE FLOOR to have it out w/ them. The bird is ornery. She is jealous. She REEAALLLLLLLLLY wants to kick their ass. But if she doesn’t wise up soon, she’s gonna be 2 bites of meat for one of these cats.
We have tried a dozen different tactics. Locking Kiwi in her cage – which she HATES. Locking her in a room. Which she HATES. Locking the kittens in a room. WHICH THEY HATE. Letting them all range free – which they ALL LOVE but will lead to one or more deaths and/or maimings. I have to face facts. If we keep these cats, I will lose my bird. and it will be ugly.
SO. Several months ago I posted about our dishwasher dying. WELL. Seems all our appliances have a 7-year life cycle, b/c wouldn’t you know? As of 3 weeks ago, our dryer’s done gone dead. It was working fine – then BLAMMO. Nada. The thing just won’t turn on. John has concluded the motor’s burned out. And now, 3 wks later, the washer has joined it in solidarity. We’ve all heard of couples, when one partner dies, the other loses all will to live. Apparently my washer-dryer were a match made in heaven. No matter how hard I beg/plead/sweet talk to this machine, I trudge down to the basement umpteen times a day to find a tub full of water and half-washed clothes. I fill the machine, run the sucker, and once it’s “done,” I check it. Inevitably, the washer has somehow mysteriously completed the cycle w/out emptying. HOW DOES IT DO THIS?? Go through spin w/out any spinning. Or draining. Or ANYTHING.
I know I am a throw-back to the 50s housewives of yore, But I love doing laundry. LOVE IT. It is the ONE HOUSEHOLD CHORE (besides cooking) I enjoy. I love the smell of fresh laundry. The feel of it. The sense of satisfaction only 5 baskets of neatly-folded clothing can bring. And I love my laundry room. Even though it’s down in the filthy basement where most people hate to go, it’s my home away from home – in my home. I’ve hung the peeling walls w/ pictures drawn by my children. Scenes of the African plain, animals, signs reading “I LovE you MoMMy, YOUR the BEST!” It doesn’t get any better than that. Rather than resent my family while I labor at their behest, I think fondly of them all. My laundry room. My happy place. UNTIL NOW. Now that both machines have broken. BREAKING MY REVERIE. Leaving me neither high, nor dry.