Ordinary Days

 

Looking back over the past few weeks, it occurs to me that ordinary days around here, collectively, are quite remarkable. What’s ordinary for one person is extraordinary for another. We all know that, so, now, consider these current events.  You be the judge.

Early one recent morning, the cat jumped on the bed. Scott grumbled, rose, then ruefully informed me that one of the larger purpura blisters on his arm had broken during the night and covered his side of the bed sheets with huge splotches of blood. A vampire would weep at the sight of all the lost blood. Me, I felt sorry for the laundress, wondering how soon she would ask for a raise. 

No further sleep would be had, so I sauntered to the bathroom sink, only to see my entire sink bowl covered with ants. WTF!?! Ants? It was freezing cold outside. Aren’t they supposed to hibernate during the winter? After drowning them all, I searched for further familial evidence and there they were; knitting themselves into a coil around the floor wall. Death by killer ant pods was the only answer for now, but I knew that this was not the end of this tale - there would be further retribution on both sides for this massacre. More would come to look for their colonist relatives while I, the evil terminator, called the exterminator. 

After making myself presentable I wandered into the kitchen where Scott was busily making breakfast. I poured out the ant story to Scott, wondering aloud how the day could get worse after all the recent blood and death experiences. He  looked at me, clearly bemused, flapped his arms and said “well, things just got a lot worse”. Worse? Wait, what? How? Apparently he was attempting to crack an egg on the counter. The egg yoke popped out of its shell onto the counter then unceremoniously slid down between the counter and the side of the stove. Scott clearly was baffled by my response, which was to laugh out loud, and keep laughing, but really, wasn’t it a Laurel and Hardy moment? I considered alternate scenarios; what if the ants found the egg yoke, then decided it was best not to look that one in the mouth. 

As happens with the weather around here, Monday it was winter and Tuesday it was spring. Spring means flowers blooming, birds singing and deer chewing on tender buds.  After hearing so much about how Irish Spring soap keeps the deer away from the azaleas and the tulips, I bought a dozen bars, cut them in half, and placed them around the various bushes. I was so pleased and proud that this year, finally, I would enjoy the blossoms in all their glory. The next day I looked out the window and the soap bits were all gone. Gone! But where? It’s not like our neighbors would steal half bars of soap off the ground. Scott’s best guess was that the smaller animals, squirrels and raccoons and such, had taken them and eaten them. The soap has no carcinogens, the “pure and healthy” scent of Irish Spring opens with fresh bergamot and citrus, followed by floral and herbal notes on a woody base. I’ve drunk wine with less of a bouquet. Who, or what, wouldn’t want to chomp on that mouthful of herbal goodness. Philosophically, we are taking comfort in knowing that if we see little animals with foam around their mouths they are eating Irish Spring soap and do not have rabies. 

And then there was the Vidalia onion incident. Scott loves those onions. During their season last year he ordered a 40 pound box on line. We ate onion soup, onion rings, onion pies, etc etc etc. He did the same thing this year except that something “went amiss”, so he says, with his order. He wasn’t sure that the purchase had been made since he did not receive a confirmation of order, so he clicked the “buy now” button again, and just to be sure, he hit it a third time. A week later we found ourselves with 120 pounds of onions at our front door. We shared the onions with the UPS driver, the cleaning ladies, the handyman, the DOD agent who came by asking about our neighbors, but that’s another story. Anyway, we still have 80 pounds of onions at our door. Beware all who enter. 

Not to be outdone, in the last but not least category, I rifled through my lingerie drawer, staring at rotted plastic and yellowed lace, realizing that it was time to buy new bras. With Scott’s eager encouragement, I wandered into the lingerie section of the local department store. I had no idea of the “magnitude” of well endowed ladies around here. Some of those darn things, starting at 45DDD, are bigger than the kayaks on our shore front. Jeez, finally a sales lady, noting my blank stares, asked if she could help.  I pitifully beseeched her, “I’m looking for a plain wireless non padded ordinary run of the mill 34B bra”. She gave me the fish eye, then stonily replied  that I needed to be looking in the children’s department. Children’s department? I dropped my head, shamed by my under endowment, and hied myself into the children’s department, looking hopefully for a 12 year old to guide me in this brave new world. And today is only Wednesday.