Here’s what I suppose will end up only being brief notes, not only because I’m distracted, with hair still wet from this morning’s bath which happened all of twelve hours ago, but because every now and then, that’s all the ammunition I have.
You got the bullets, I got the time. You bring the bullets, I’ll bring the wine.
My mother apparently owns the most fetid, disgusting, noxious spray on the planet which I think is meant to scare away precious bunny rabbits. They are, truth be told, completely obliterating our front lawn since the subdivision where they live is full of lush green grass and places that bunnies would like to go and eat. It is sort of Club Med for baby bunnies. I see them by the Easter basket-full. With their sweet little cottontails and bright, tiny eyes, so small that you would like to cup them in your palms and sing little lullabies to them. But, they are eating the grass right down to the dirt and it does make the yard look completely uncared for and for a woman, like my mother, who was born with a giant green thumb sticking out of both of her hands, this won’t do. So she has a spray made of jaguar piss (this is what she told me – I am not going to do the google research to verify if such things are for sale in the general market or if she had to search the internet for some vials of the stuff), and it is the worst. Emphatically, the. worst.
And she sprayed it all over the yard as I was leaving today with my giant Santa sack full of clean sheets and undergarments, and I will never forget the cooked diaper smell, the feast of durian fruit, the frying vomit stink that ushered me away. Poor bunnies. Their salad bar was just coated with jaguar wee – which has to be a bit of a confusing state of affairs when you’re just a single teacup full of baby bunny out on your own. Hopefully, a rain will come and grow back the grass while the rabbits are enjoying the neighbor’s yard (who is a total dick and doesn’t deserve bunnies making camp on his flat, unremarkable square plot of astroturf he mows constantly – all while wearing a callous and sangfroid look on his face).
She did also allow me to eat a homemade burrito and some crispy kale and a homemade pudding-filled cream puff as well as wash my clothes, so I can’t complain overly about her gardening techniques.
There were no bullets, no gun, it’s all about the dual-wield today. There’s only two days left of work this week, so basically, we can pretend tomorrow to be Thursday which immediately leavens the whole idea of dragging myself up and out into the world again tomorrow.
Guess I just have to hop to it?
:::in the distance, a fictional, but no less audible starting pistol goes off:::