Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

My Photo
Name:
Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Screw Tidy

Yesterday: After a week of the husband's absence, the kitchen looked like it had had an altercation with a grenade.

Tea bags and other bits of packaging littered the counters. Victims of a fly swatting frenzy, several fly corpses were strewn about the window sills and floor. With just a day before the Return of My King, I did a little tidying, introducing the insect bodies and other detritus to the rubbish bin.

This morning:
The dogs are all snuggled, warm in their beds, with visions of breakfast percolating in their heads. I assault the alarm clock and stagger out of bed. Shower, blow dry mop, spackle face with makeup.

Next task: feed the canines. I start mixing the morning mush for the tooth-impaired greyhound. This should include a battalion of antibiotics and pain killers. I reach for his meds, which should be on the counter and find...nothing. Huh?

The Hound emerges from the bedroom, picks up Mr. Hedgehog (toy) and starts trotting laps around the couch. Happy-happy. I start to panic. I paw through the mail on the table. I dig through the trash, past sticky tea bags, Lean Cuisine boxes and mystery meat. Nothin'

I check in the fish aquariums' cabinets. I riffle through the dirty clothes piles on the floor. I look high and low. No bloody meds.

Panic gives way to irrational rage. The Greyhound isn't very bright, but he has an acute Bitch Detector. He lies down, and rests his toothless snout on Mr. Hedgehog. The Rat Dog, still buried somewhere in the bed, is oblivious.

I'm in a snit and someone has to pay. Kicking the dogs is out. They're old and that's just not nice. The Husband! Except he is currently out of town in Atlanta. No matter, I call his hotel. No answer.
* **
INT. A RESTAURANT IN ATLANTA
The J-man is picking at the South's version of a breakfast burrito and wondering why white people mistake chile for canned, vinegary jalapenos. He is struck by a prescient frisson; there is a disturbance in The Force; somewhere a voice cries out in rage. "I wonder what I've done now?" he thinks. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll pay when I get home." Resigned, he goes back to his Gringo burrito. "At least I'll get real green chile."
***
I go through the trash and all the laundry piles again, and finally give up. I dig the Rat out of bed, and feed both dogs, sans meds. The canids head out to pollute the yard and I sink into depression. We've dumped a king's ransom on The Hound, including meds and now I have to call the vet and get more. Well, that pretty much cancels Christmas. And heat, and food.

My eyes settle on the pantry door and a whisper of a memory tickles my brain. I open the door and find the missing meds.

Of course, now I've worked myself up into such a state it's almost disappointing. No martyred tales of slogging through the snow for twenty miles to get more medicine; no turning tricks on Central to pay for said drugs.

Note to self: Chaos is good. Tidy is Evil

Writing...
About 2K words yesterday. I hate most of them, but that's what revision is for. Need to hit 3K today to meet the 5K goal. Well, at least I won't be wasting time cleaning house.
Happy Friday.P.K.

 

Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005