So Far, April Really Is the Cruellest Month
I am accepting some kind of award from former secretary of state Madeline Albright when the chirping starts. Somewhere, a bird bar has closed for the night and all the birds who didn't find a mate have headed to the park across the street to troll for action. Looking for Mr. Goodbird is happening right outside my window.
I give up on sleep and go to my office to start today's blog post. My dog seems unusually excited about this week's entry. She starts roaming the house and I don't think anything of it until I hear her heading to the basement, which is her emergency rest stop when she is having intestinal distress.
I love the smell of Pinesol in the morning.
I let the dog in the backyard to complete any unfinished business. I can't see what she's doing. I hope she's not eating grass.
Back at computer. A distant rumbling sounds from the main hall. She ate grass. I come downstair and step in dog vomit. Warm dog vomit.
Pinesol also comes in lavendar scent and is safe for wooden floors. Why is no one else waking up? I exhume my buried hostility over husband's seeming inability to hear crying babies at night, too. Inconsiderate bastard.
Starbucks instant coffee does NOT taste as good as a brewed pot. Tim Horton would never lie to me like this.
Birds are beginning to sound needy and desperate. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP. Haven't they heard of The Rules? Playing hard to get is more effective.
I consider arming self with son's paintball gun and going hunting. Benefits outweighed by thought of Leila Boujnane's outrage. French people are awfully protective of birds when they are not stuffing them in cages and forcefeeding them so there will be foie gras for brunch.
Springtime is for insomniacs.