Rats with Better PR

At 4:38 am I awoke to a relentless scritching sound.  Laying there and trying to tune my ears to the culprit my first thought was what idiot is taking their trash out 4 days early? so naturally I got up and peeked out the windows trying to find said idiot. Nope.   Hmm.  More scritching.  Above the bed........in the attic.....a squirrel. NOOOOOO!  I stood on our bed and pounded on the ceiling.  Bill, alerted by the white popcorn raining down asked what the heck I was doing.  Just asking our new tenant to pipe down so I could go back to sleep.  It didn't work.  Of course Bill went right back to sleep and I lay awake plotting revenge.  On both the squirrel and Bill. 

We haven't had an issue with random rodent occupancy since we had the house exterior redone about 4 years ago. And that was prompted by some flippin chipmunks that we had started calling Chippy East and Chippy West.


Chippy



Maddie

 

   Chippy East had chewed out a lovely home for himself close to the gas meter and Chippy West had a lovely 2 story in the exterior of our garage with a view of a backyard golf green.  I can only imagine her little furry realtor telling her what a great place to raise kids, a yard, the schools are great,  it's all about location, location, location.   Chippy West had  raised several litters of chippettes that summer. And although they were very cute I knew they had stored enough seeds and nuts behind that wall to last thru whatever disasters they had been warned about thru their own Chippy News Network.   One of which must have been it's better to be in the wall then hanging around in the yard waiting to be lunch for Mr. Hawk.  Which I have witnessed and I must say is pretty awesome except for the soundtrack.  At one point we even tried to just have some piece work done and a carpenter came by and put new wood over the hole.  However he did not look in the hole to see if they were out collecting any more seeds and nuts.  He assumed they were out for the day.  He assumed incorrectly.  I sat down in a chair to read a book and the scritching began in earnest. And I'm pretty sure I heard some chipmunk cussing.  I was horrified.  When I called Bill he could tell I was panicked because I said " that stupid **&*&^ carpenter sealed up those *&^&* chimunks in the %^$$$% wall".  I often speak in amperstands and astricks to get my point across.  To which he said " well, they'll die and the problem is solved".  To which I replyed "only if you are planning to buy another house that won't smell like death for 6 months".  And then Bill said he had real work to do and to deal with it.  Which I did with a crowbar.

And then I had to call the carpenter back.  Before Bill got home from work. 

Off to get my crowbar.  It's you and me squirrel.

" I can see clearly now"



I have a warped sense of humor. It's how I survived childhood. It's how I survive adulthood.  And it's the only way to survive Walmart.  I consider it one of my superpowers.  It serves me well.

It's a survival technique cultivated from years of practice living with screwed up family members who's life plan was poke the bear see what happens.  Growing up in the 60's with a bi-polar mother, nuns for teachers and school pictures that looked like this:





You need survival skills.

I was fitted with glasses in the 5th grade after failing the required eye exam at school.  The first test I ever failed.  Unless you count the time in 2nd grade when my overly creative mother helped me draw a picture of the Tree of Life for religion class.  She sketched pineapples and armadillos among other ridiculous things hanging from the tree. ( manic week).  Sister Mariana, named for the patron saint of the unamused, who was without a doubt around to see the actual tree, was not impressed.  I got an "F".  Who gives a 7 year old an F on a drawing? Crabby nuns do.  And it wasn't even my drawing.  Which is why I did not invite my mother to help out on eye exam day. 

Crabby nun: "Please read the top line on the chart"  [tapping on some object with a pointer]

Me: "What chart?" [squinting like I'm auditioning for the role of Madam Butterfly]

Crabby nun: "F"

Me:"shit"

Okay, I didn't say shit but I'm pretty sure I thought it.  No one in their right mind would have said that to a nun skilled in wielding rosary beads like nun-chucks and lived to fail another test.  Plus I was worried I'd have to do penance for failing a test and I wasn't sure of the Hail Mary to blindness ratio. 

By the time I failed my eye test I had racked up so many injuries you'd have thought one of my parents would have figured out I was nearly blind.  I had repeatedly misjudged distances such as the edge of a trampoline (broken leg) or the back of the sofa ( broken arm) or the distance from the back of an unridden colt to the ground ( broken arm- the sequel) ( my father thought it would be less frightening for the horse if he used me instead of a gunny sack to break him- it wasn't) or the distance from the apple to my index finger that i hacked up with a butcher knife revealing bone.  My field of vision was the size of a postage stamp.  It's a wonder that child protective services weren't alerted by my personal suite at the emergency room.  But this was the 60's so it was pretty much every kid for themselves.

The optometrist only had a couple of pair of glasses to choose from and based on my choice I can't imagine what was left on the shelf.  My grandmother cried when she saw me in them.  I kept pushing them up and down my nose amazed that other people had actually been able to see trees with individual leaves all this time.  It was like being Dorothy in Oz going from black and white to color ,without the midgets.  By the time we arrived home I had blood streaming down my face from doing the before and after tests with my new glasses rubbing the skin off my nose. 

Judging from my picture it was also the year my parents helped bolster my self-esteem by adding braces. I was most likely responsible for the tragic hairstyle that looks rats have been sucking on it. My father's favorite way to describe my or my sister's hair when he disapproved . "Looks like rats have been sucking on it".  Followed closely by his other favorite hit "people in hell want ice water".    Good times.

If tragic crap is the catalyst for forming a skewed outlook on life I was well on my way.  And I had skills.



Reasons to Blog ( not good ones, just mine)

1. Everyone within earshot has already heard my stories.

2. Planning ahead for Alzheimer's ( my family says I'm already there)

3. Chickens.       They're pretty funny and give great constructive criticism.

4. So far cheaper than a therapist - however I may have to retain a lawyer so...

5. Even I get tired of repeating myself - hand out cards with the blog address

6. Maybe the pain in the butt relative who thinks they have to tell me every little detail
    of what Aunt Busybody said to Cousin Slacker will feel threatened by the prospect
    of being published.

7. It makes me look busy and productive.  "Not now honey....blogging" Which sounds
    infinitely better than "Not now honey.....pinning" ( curse you Pinterest)

8. There appears to be no chance of being interviewed by Johnny Carson. [fingers still crossed]

9. I feel compelled to beat my younger sister to it - people tend to remember the first story
    as truth. [nah nah nah]

10. My dog hid in the attic for three hours - I need a backup listener.

PTSD

 I have it. Every morning. With a cup of coffee. Post Toaster Stress Disorder.
 Yes it's real. No matter WHAT the Blue Cross rep says.

In my kitchen lurks the most unreliable appliance known to man , the toaster. Whoever was responsible for quality control the day this toaster came off the line should be shot on sight. He should be tarred and feathered.  I have toast issues.


"Beelzebub"

 Is it too much to ask that the toaster adhere to its own code - one dot - light brown ,two dots - golden brown ,three dots -med golden brown , four dots - nutmeg brown, five dots -charred beyond recognition (call in for dental records) ?

 My toaster,  Beelzebub, only knows dot 5 results no matter the setting. And I suspect it's intentional. And apparently I am the only one in the family that it wars with. My husband thinks I am incapable of using it correctly. But I've seen the way it looks at me - it hates me.
And at the risk of sounding prejudiced, it's not just this toaster ......it's been the last five. Good toasters do exist, I've experienced toaster perfection , usually at vacation rentals - driven almost to the point of stealing those toasters and leaving a " your unit was missing a toaster " note - but I'd hate to be denied entrance to Heaven based on a pilfered toaster. Because I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be sorry.