Better than a shiny new toothbrush

I had to go to the dentist today. Unremarkable, I know. You'll all be pleased to note that my tendency to binge floss two weeks before any dentist visit paid off and the hygienist stated with a dramatic sigh and an accidental squirt to my face with the rinsing gun that she wished her other patients were as diligent. I nodded sagely as I dabbed at my eyes, lamenting with her how those other people make her job so much more difficult.

I left with my new toothbrush and the promise to continue my flossing habits. As I walked outside and towards my car, a mother was trying to console her toddler who wasn't having any of it. The mother looked sleep deprived and in a last ditch effort to understand her child who was letting off a high pitched "fehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" sort of half screamed, "JUST TELL ME WHAT IS HURTING YOU SO THAT I CAN FIX IT!"

Her tone stopped the boys whine and he looked at her, wounded that she would dare raise her voice when clearly that was his job. Writhing around in his stroller so that he could adequately point to his bottom he looked up at his mother and said through his sniffles, "I. Have. The. Backdoor trots."

BACKDOOR TROTS.

Just let that soak in for a moment and tell me that's not the best thing you've heard all day.

Heh.

The birds. They have flown south.

There are, in short, no more birds. For this, I could not be more grateful. Honestly. Last night I was near tears, having spent the better portion of a week packing, sorting and wondering why two people and a dog need so many damned spatulas. Suffice to say, some of the kitchenware that has spent the duration of our marriage stuffed in the back of various drawers made its way to the great kitchen in the sky - otherwise known as my brothers house. My rule became: if I haven't touched you in over six months, you don't get to take up my precious cabinet space. Last night I had had enough. The last box had been packed, the final dish stashed and we were both trying to subdue Kylie who was wondering what the hell was going on and why her living room had suddenly become a makeshift kitchen. Out of fatigue and just general hatred of the color orange, I started vandalizing my own home. If you ever need to get some aggression out and want to practice your penmanship, I highly recommend it.

I feel compelled to state that my handwriting is usually much better than this. The Ambien I had taken a few minutes earlier kept me from writing in a straight line.

My art major, being put to good use. I killed in Drawing 101 with my stick figures and smiley faces.

So this morning, I rubbed the countertops with my middle finger and when I came home! THEY WERE GONE! BEHOLD!:



A view into and out of the kitchen. With Kylie's rear. She had to sniff every square inch of floor space when we came home as STRANGERS HAD BEEN IN THE HOUSE. I believe she has come to the conclusion that it is all right for us to stay here and quite likes the new space between the kitchen and dining room as it allows her more convenient access throughout the front part of the downstairs. I like it myself, but we need the cabinets that are going to go there so the both of us will have to be content with a pass through and less floor space.

As the workers were leaving, one of them said, "Don' worry. We move stove back to kitchen when everything done." He's Chinese, so the accent is approximated. Not that I had thought that it was STAYING in the middle of my dining area as that would be the height of awkward, but I suppose it would solve the problem of getting food to the table while it's still warm. You could just fling it from one surface to the other all while screaming, "HOT PLATE HOT PLATE!" And while I'm all for a good shortcut, that might really be pushing things.

Say it with me: NO MORE BIRDS!

I'm afraid that anything I attempt to write today is going to be tainted with the fact that I AM SO TIRED. Really, I am. It's true that I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Marc has been gone for a week and finally returned home last night and so after 6 days, I had to reintroduce myself to his nightly activities which include stealing covers, pillows and invading my side of the bed. Understand that I missed him dreadfully and was terribly happy for him to arrive home, but he is as active in sleep as he is in life and it takes some getting used to when you've had all of that mattress acreage to yourself. Kylie sleeps up there with me when he is gone, but the most she does is press a paw into your forehead when she's ready to get up, and that's usually around 9am. Oh the bliss of a pet that follows your sleep patterns.

No, the real reason for my fatigue is that I spent a lions share of this last week and all of the weekend packing the kitchen up for our reno that starts tomorrow. Did you know that two people can have, like, 201 sets of dishes? And almost an equal amount of glassware? I'm not sure where it comes from as I swear we had only 8 wine glasses once upon a time - I think they procreated behind closed doors one night as I was packing and packing and PACKING and wondering if it would ever end and if my life might be much improved if I threw it all into the recycling bin and just walked away. Either that or we need to cut down on our booze consumption. WHAT? Somewhere Marc's heart just stopped.

So most of it is done. I have a wee bit more to finish up today along with making a temporary kitchen on top of our bookcase in the living room so that Marc can still have his morning coffee and toast. He'll most likely take the time between brewing and consumption to read some Camus or Stegner or Rand, what with the proximity to good literature and all. We like to keep our brains working, you know, despite our surroundings.

I'll take some photos of the process but for now I'm focused on the fact that THERE WILL BE NO MORE BIRDS by the end of the week. Sweet fancy Moses, I can't tell you how happy that makes me. The glee in my heart, it's immeasurable. For now, I'm off to pack up the remaining items. Or throw them out. I'll see how I feel after that shot of tequila that's calling my name.