Days of my Life #6

Location: bed

Time: WTF? it’s 3am, give me a break

So. Why, you ask, am I up at this hour? I am wondering aloud, okay on virtual paper, for the sake of hoping the goddess hears/sees my plea and imagining by the shear ridiculousness of my request she will say something like “I didn’t want you to miss what I have to say – that’s why I woke you up with a bellyache.” Thanks a bunch.

And I might respond, were she listening, “Okay, I’m here, girlfriend, but I suppose You don’t want me to sit upon my planetary throne…no, no, no, it’s the other throne.”

Now you may be asking what gave me the tummy troubles? Hmmm. Let me see. Could it be the bizarro, experimental dinner concoction whipped up by my daughter that I consumed last night for dinner? What made it strange you ask? The figs. Yep, the figs. You see they were big, gorgeous, unripe, then boiled up, then put in an otherwise reasonable pasta sauce, green figs just picked the day before by grandson and estranged husband. Why unripe? Why use them? Good question. Because when life gives you unripe fruit figure out wtf to do with them.

Oh no I’m not going to say anything else about the EX who decided unripe fruit is what you bring to overworked former wife; my lips are sealed, slightly. Besides I may let out my biliousness about more than the un-ripeness of said figs, an unnecessary unpleasantness.

So why am I here? Again I ask. I am now only thinking about the freight trains rattling past our abode which often awaken me with their noise. Since we remodeled neither the house nor windows shake, but lucky me has the amazing ability to awaken at the sound of a baby’s cry, a cat fight or, you guessed it, a friggin freight train. Of course we live close enough to send a spit wad through a Boba straw and hit the passing engine. Not that I’ve tried but I’m betting I could.

And speaking of a baby’s cry, my daughter and grandson found an orphaned and intact robin’s egg on their walk yesterday. They also discovered the gruesome remains of, probably, mama bird and crushed sibling eggs, which grandson described in detail…said teensy egg now rests in daughter’s cleavage since we found we only have led bulbs these days and they ain’t warm enough to incubate an egg or burn a hole in a piece of paper, if needed. Creative methods to protect the downtrodden runs in the family you might say. And you’d be oh so right, however now I will only speak to saving the wee robin.

If the itsy bitsy bird hatches, survives our questionable ability to feed it, our dogs don’t eat it and it doesn’t get accidentally stomped on by one of us, then what? By the way I wear clogs which are dangerous shoes…just ask my dog who often gets underfoot. It’s not that I mean to step on my poor deaf pup, she just is extremely needy and wants to be very, no, too close, at all times. And bless her soul, yes, she has one, she loves me not just because I spent a mortgage payment on treating her ear infections last moth (that didn’t work, fucking hell!?!?!!!) or that I cuddle with her nightly (ain’t got no man to do it these days), or feed her delicious foods, nope it’s because I’m her heroine who rescued her from a freeway on-ramp eight years ago. Oops, there, I mentioned another rescue.

Back to the bird. If survival is in the cards, our aim is to raise her/it/him to ultimately leave the “nest” made of leaves, dryer lint and dog hair, to fly out into the world and live happily ever after, or at the Very least not succumb to its mother’s fate. Okay enough.

In the meantime I’m going to do some yoga to relieve the discomfort from which I awoke and still have. You’d think my regurgitating my brain on the page would’ve helped. Alas not. Hopefully soon I will go back to sleep. Hasta mañana. Tune in.

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