Headless Zombie Bird

Headless Zombie Bird, I know you are in the outside garbage can. I know when I open the lid, you'll have somehow come out of your bag and be laying there in all your creepy birdness.

If you have no head, though, Zombie Bird, does that mean you are not going to rise again? I'm not sure, since I haven't watched enough zombie movies to know how a finally death would be for you.

All I really want to know is how you got into my yard. Your body was perfect, the feathers all neat and well kept. You were very big, too. When my kids came inside to tell me there was a dead bird outside, I had visions of a small brown swallow. Not a giant gray pigeon. But where was your head? And how did your head come off without any damage to the rest of you?

We couldn't let you lay there. Emma hadn't found you yet, but in all honesty, she would, and it would not be pretty. Imagine bird feathers everywhere. I held a bag open while my son shoveled you in. It was pretty terribly, with your bird legs dangling off the shovel.

I don't mean to offend you, but I really dislike birds. There's something about your beady little eyes and your sharp looking beaks. I don't care for you at all. So, knowing you are in my garbage has totally creeped me out. I couldn't bury you, because Emma might dig you up. You have to leave our place entirely.

I put you in on Monday, and today is Friday. Garbage day. I have managed to not have any need to open the can. I really don't want to see what happens to a Zombie Bird when they have been trapped in a garbage can for four days.

I have thought about you every day though. Several times a day. You've ruined my appetite when I ate popcorn, and gave me the shivers when I was trying to think happy thoughts before bed.

I am so glad today you are going away for good. Thank you for not rising up and wrangling the lid off the can. As I write this, I have to check one more time.

Nope. The lid is still on tight. Whew!

Dear Neighbor Across The Street

My dear neighbor, we live directly across from each other.

You might not realize it, but your kitchen window is huge and it does not have a curtain to cover it.

The other night, when you were in the kitchen in all your 1970's stoner glory, with your long stringy blond hair, no shirt to hold your pot belly in, and very low slung pants, we could see you. We could see you there, at 8:30 at night, cooking what looked like an elaborate feast. You were doing a very good impression of Emeril, with lots of flinging spices into pots, and raising your arms up. I could almost hear you saying, "Bam!"

The thing is, it was late. It was dark outside, and your kitchen window was like a spotlight, drawing our eyes like moths. We couldn't help but stare.

So, I'm writing this to apologize, dear neighbor. I'm pretty sure you weren't putting on a show for our entertainment. You just had a bad case of the munchies. That's cool.

I was going to say, next time we won't stare. But that would be a lie. If you are going to be mostly naked in a brightly lit kitchen, we will most likely be looking.

Dear neighbor, all of this could be avoided if you would invest in some curtains. They're not just for pretty! Curtains would benefit all of us greatly. Just something to think about. The rest of the neighborhood might be willing to raise some money for curtains. I know I'd throw in a few bucks.

Okay, that's a lie. You kitchen cooking is highly entertaining!

The Leaf That Wasn't A Mouse

As I pulled into our carport one evening, a small brown thing scurried across the floor, freezing in terror when my car started to roll in.

OMG. A mouse. A mouse. A mouse. A mouse. A Freaking Mouse!!!

Okay. Keep calm. It's probably gone. If I was a mouse I wouldn't stay under a car, hoping someones feet would suddenly appear so I could run over them and enjoy squeals of terror. I swear I probably wouldn't do that.

I can't sit in the car like a wuss, I have to get out. I'm brave. I'm cool. If I didn't freak out (too badly) over the bat clinging to the upstairs hallway in our house, I can't freak out by a mouse possible under the car.

I get out, so far, so good. Was that a rustle? A mouse ambush?

Get a grip, woman! You are not a wuss! I said and said those words, I said them but I lied them! I wanted to run into the house and lock the door. After all, mice have nimble fingers!

But instead, I forced myself to peer under the car, maybe I had run it over. I don't really want Emma to get a dead mouse.

Um, yep. No mouse. No hint of a mouse.

Who knew a leaf could scurry like that?

Dexter's Mom Has Got It Going On

Yellow. Rubber. Gloves. Nuff said. We all know how totally sexy they are.

I used to see those packages at the grocery store and think who really uses them to wash dishes? Dexter's Mom always had them on, and it was so cartoonishly funny, I never in a million years thought I would seriously think of wearing them.

I haven't had a dishwasher in years. That's okay with me, I don't mind. I don't miss the dishwasher one bit. But it started to feel like I was always washing my hands, or the laundry or the dishes. No amount of lotion was working to save my hands from drying out. Trust me, I'm a bit of a lotion junkie. I tried almost every kind of lotion out there.

That's when I started thinking about the gloves. I thought about if for weeks before I bought a pair. I tried them on and thought, this is weird. I dipped them in the water and thought, this is weird. I felt along the dish pan for silverware and thought this really feels weird.

After two weeks, I bought two more pairs. I now have a back up pair on hand for the dishes, and one pair labeled with permanent marker "bathroom" so I don't have to scrub anything in that room with my bare hands ever again. How did I live without these gloves? I carefully put them on and take them off, I don't let water get inside of them, I hang them up after use to let them dry off. I treasure these yellow rubber gloves.

I had no clue that Dexter's Mom was as smart as her genius son, and she's cute too. I can top her, though, when I put on my gloves, still have my work skirt and shirt on, flip flops, hair pulled up in a crazy knot and my ancient apron that says "In case you were wondering, I AM the boss"......yep. Totally smoking hot.

It's the gloves.

Know What's Very Nice?

It is very nice to come home at lunch to find someone so excited to see you, she can't do anything except wiggle with glee!

I'm sure that's how my husband feels when he comes home and sees me...but I'm talking about Emma!

I walked into our kitchen on my lunch break, and there she was, running to greet me. I pet her, and her tail is going so fast she can't be still. It's so cute!

She's waiting outside the bathroom door for me with her toy to say, "let's play," and when I make my lunch, she is sitting next to me praying I might drop something.

I usually drop something. Accidentally on purpose you understand. The vet said she's looking a little chubby, so I must be careful!

Then as I eat my lunch, she is right beside me, not begging for food, just touching my leg with her head, as if to say, "I'm so glad you are here." She won't go outside until she's spent time with me.

She never complains over having the same dry dog food three times a day, or that she is left at home during the day, or when babies come over to visit and she has to share her Mom.

I love, love, love having a dog. Emma is the best.

The Promise Of The Running Shorts

So, we are almost half-way through this deployment. It's gone by fast, yet every day has seemed to last an eternity. Funny how missing someone desperately does that to time.

The first time I changed the sheets on our bed after he left, I cried and cried. It's a very silly thing to cry over, but I was loathe to change them, to wash away his scent. And knowing there would only be Emma there to enjoy fresh clean tucked in tight sheets was sad. Emma prefers her sheets in a waded nest mess anyway. After almost 15 years of making our bed, I can not stop making his side just how he likes it, even when I know he won't be there. I do not like my blankets and covers tucked in all the way around, he does. Our bed is always half and half. Since it's just me, I would think I'd could do it my way every time. Nope. It's never happened yet, and I will bet I do it this exact way for the rest of my life.

Going to bed at night is sometimes the hardest part of my day. We go to bed together, unless he's working graveyards. We lay down and talk about our day without the kids eavesdropping. I still turn towards his side of the bed, resting my hand on his pillow. It's not even close to the same, although Emma is usually curled up with me, but it's a habit of years and I can't stop. I don't want to.

Plus it gives me a view of something that is exactly the way it always is. His running shorts are hanging on the closet door knob, ready for him to come home. I like seeing them there. It's a promise of how life will get back to normal. It won't stay like this forever.

And when he gets home, if those shorts get left on the floor of our room or the bathroom after his run, for a time, I will enjoy picking them up. For a short time!

Let this last half of deployment fly by, so I can find those sweaty shorts on the floor again.