baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On Termites, organic gardens, wet foreheads and doubtful fathers Seems that we've been feeding a lot more of the neighborhood critters than we realized. We have no problem with feeding the strange cat. Hell, all cats are strange in their own funny way. And the odd dog? Well, if they want to come by and take a sip of agua from the front porch cat bowl, then it's OK with us. The garden is practically organic (the *practically* is my fault cuz I insist on Miracle Grow), and Girl-Unit, a die-hard animal empathizer, has been known to look at her ravaged flowers and say, *oh, the snails must have been starving last night!* Add to this list any assortment of birds and possums (yes, possums), and you pretty much have a constant stream of furry and not so furry creatures hanging about our home. But, this has gone too far. We've been evicted. Seems that the ever-voracious termite has been taking serious advantage of our generosity and is eating us out of house and home, literally. So, after much hand-wringing and deliberation, Girl-Unit and I have dropped the organic life. We're gonna kill these bastards. With gas. Poisonous, stinky, gas that will also kill some of the beloved morning glories that Girl-Unit has been lovingly cultivating for the past three years. As of right now, my house is covered with some sort of tent-and the poison has already been injected its veins. I miss home already. I love my house-and the thought of leaving work and driving to somewhere that isn't home sits about as well in my belly as my mom's leftover *Callos.* (Ugh. Don't ask. Please). Speaking of which, that's where Girl-Unit and I are staying for the next three days-my parents' house-which, I suppose, could be considered home since I grew up there. But, it just a'int the same. We slept in my sister's old bedroom last night because my old room has become a shrine to all things dead (it houses, among other artifacts, an old treadmill, an old Mac Quadra, dusty cardboard boxes and pictures of me when I had hair). And, as comfy as my sick mom made what will be my nest for the next few days, I still felt stifled surrounded by the off-white walls and decade old photographs left over from my sister's reign. Speaking of reign (now THIS is a transition-pay close attention), the front yard sprinklers rained (did you catch that? Huh?) through the window and on my forehead as I was unpacking the essentials (underwear, socks, D-batteries). A close examination of the crime scene revealed the culprit-a wayward geyser of a sprinkler shooting agua up at a slight angle which-unfortunately-was in perfect trajectory with the open window. I yelled to my Dad, who was busy massaging the remote control in the living room, *The sprinkler is broken. The bedroom is getting wet.* *Are you sure?* he asks-his face never deviating from *Everybody Loves Raymond.* *Uhh, yes. I am positive.* With a sigh I hadn't heard since I asked to borrow the Chevy Caprice station wagon back in 1985, my dad got up, walked into my sister's bedroom, and looked out the window for about 45 seconds. His face, no doubt, started getting wet the second he walked up to the window. But, still, he was silent until second 46-whereas he turned to me, his nose, forehead, cheeks and shirt moist from sprinkler water, and exclaimed *You're right!* *Umm, yeah, Dad. I am right about some things-specifically water drenching my pillow.* OK. OK. I didn't actually say that. I simply kept my thoughts hidden behind that confused smile I get when I'm halfway between amusement and annoyance. Smiling, I've found, is the better alternative to just about anything-wether dealing with termites or convincing doubtful fathers that I can accurately sense water sprinkling on my forehead. Toodles. 6:12 p.m. - 2001-07-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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