Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Saturday, May. 15, 2004 - 4:04 p.m.

So, I go into the living room to close the sliding glass door, because I'm about to take a shower, and while I realize we live way the heck up on the top of a hill and it's a fairly steep climb to get up here, I like to hedge my bets and figure better safe than sorry. So I'm passing thru to the door when I hear the unmistakable sound of fast-moving, hopefully small critter - probably reptile, but I can't be sure - over by the fireplace. In the fireplace, I think, so I edge over there slowly, trying to peer past the screen into the damn thing, which is rather hard, because I have nothing but ambient light, the fireplace is black, the screen is black, the stuff inside is black, and I'm wearing my glasses, which doesn't make for good viewing any time, let alone when visibility is otherwise hindered.

Needless to say, I couldn't see a damn thing.

Summoning up my courage (and bearing in mind I'm not wearing anything but a pair of undies, because it's Saturday and TB is not here, and I had finally gotten that rarest of opportunities, the chance to laze in bed well into the afternooon watching movies - in this case, chick flicks like Sweet Home, Alabama - and I don't normally get dressed just to take a shower, there *are* drapes over the door, so I figure I am well within my rights to be walking thru in my skivvies), I picked up one of my oars*, which are leaning near the fireplace, and poked at the screen. Which elicited no response from anything inside, so I poked past the screen, into the actual fireplace, and at a charred bit of wood. Still nothing. Okay...that's bad. That means whatever it is is either incredibly stealthy - which hopefully-small scurrying things always are - or it's not in the fireplace.

Oh......no.

But wait: that means, judging from the sound, it is in all probability hiding in either the box of firewood sitting next to the fireplace or the basket of pine cones on the other side. Which is good and bad. Good (and actually better) because that means I can actually remove it from the interior of the house to the exterior, where hopefully-small scurrying things belong, and bad because that means now I have to pick up something with a hopefully-small scurrying thing inside it and put it outside, all the while fervently praying whatever it is inside stays inside and does not run out and onto me.

You see my dilemma.

I decided I should do some poking at the box to see if maybe whatever was inside would seek a more secure hidey hole inside there, and in so doing, verify that yes, that was indeed the place where it was hiding. I gingerly removed a canister of incense from the box. Silence. I figured that was a pretty lame attempt at rousting, so I then moved the firestarting log on top of the wood.

Nothing.

I moved the firestarting log all around.

Nothing.

I set the firestarting log back where it had been.

All kinds of scurrying.

Okay. I think we know where the hopefully-small scurrying thing is. Great. But just to be sure and safe, I poked around on the basket of pine cones, too. And got nothing. Which was a relief, because the basket is much smaller, and the odds of something springing out of it whilst it was being moved were pretty great. On the other hand, now I have to move a fairly heavy box of firewood with something definitely inside, and while it's not so large a box as boxes of firewood go, it's still large enough to be fairly heavy. And full of wood.

And some sort of hopefully-small scurrying thing. Which now that I've heard it moving around 2 or 3 times, doesn't sound quite so small as I had hoped. But I can't leave the damn thing to scurry around the actual house while I go over to my friends' house tonight and TB is off playing music at his friend's house, or whatever creature is inside that box will venture out in the dark quiet of what must to it seem an enormous house full of strange and wonderful hiding places, and I think the more female among you will agree THAT IS NOT AN OPTION.

Ergo, the box must be removed. And since I am the only one home, I must be the one to remove it.

Which sucks, and I would like to take this opportunity for a small digression in which I state unequivocally that that dig TB made when he left for his friend's house, about how I should only call in case of an emergency because the friend's wife will be inconvenienced if she has to walk all the way over to the garage door to let him know he has a phone call, and how I call all the time, is bullshit, and I really want to smack the living shit out of him, because a) I've called over there all of two fricking times in the entire time he's been going over, and b) it was really condescending and bullshit and clearly said I am not worth anything to him. So I'm not too happy with him right now.

Okay, digression over. But you can see how it would irritate the hell out of me that now I have something inside the house which I - being a girl and deathly afraid of critters, especially ones I can't see - have to deal with utterly on my own, because I date an asshole who has informed me not to call where he is under any circumstances but dire emergency. *&^%@#$*

But we will deal with that later. First things first. One can not put a box of firewood outside on the deck while one is wearing naught but a dark blue pair of bikini underwear (apologies to those few of you who actually know me). Actually, I suppose one could, but not in broad daylight, and certainly not this one, so clothes had to now be employed. And heavy shoes, in case something untoward happened which involved my screaming and dropping the box of wood. So moving with the quick grace of a cat (not really, but I'm trying to be kind to those poor souls who know me and are now picturing me in my underwear, and to be fair, I *was* hurrying), I ran to the bedroom and got a t-shirt and boxers, and out to the garage for my black workboots. (Said boots are left over from my table waiting days; it's not like they are the lumberjack boots that sentence made them sound. But they *do* have a steel toe...) Anyway, I ran back to the living room and got dressed licketysplit, moved the furniture to make a path to the door, tied back all the curtains, opened the door and the less-than-perfecly-fitting screen, and then moved the antique sewing machine TB decided looked cool on top of the box of wood (?) off of the box of wood, all while vehemently ordering whatever was inside the box to stay inside the box. All that accomplished, I then had to summon up the courage - aka, cajones - to pick up the box and move it outside.

That took some doing. And several more stern admonishments - in a gentle tone of voice, so as not to frighten whatever was in there - to stay in there. Then I had a quick conference with God to please make it stay right wherever it currently was - because scurrying things can not be trusted - and then I stood to the side of the box, grasped it by the one little ridge it can be picked up by, hoisted that baby up, and headed for the door with it banging against my shins, all the while repeating "please stay inside, please stay inside..." And it did. But I heard it move right before I set the box down, and again after I set the box down. So I shut the door and stuck a note on it, and now I have to go get in the shower, because I am late...though thankfully none the worse for wear, other than a couple of scratches on my shins and knees. But that's what comes from moving a fairly heavy wooden box as hastily as possible, and one can not quibble about it.

So I won't. And I'll try to ignore that while I've been typing this, I keep hearing little noises in the room behind me...

Peace out,
Katie

*I got the oars for ten bucks at a garage sale. They're about six feet long, used to be a golden yellow, apparently, and have black handles. They're really cool, and I just can't seem to get rid of them, though every time I move, I swear it's just stupid to keep lugging them around and I'm not going to any more. And no, I don't row, or even own a boat. But they look really cool leaning in the corner. :)

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