I don't know why, but I had to pee every two hours last night. I know it was every two hours because I looked at the clock beside the bed, like I really needed to know what time it is when I am awakened from a presumably sound sleep to get my ass out of bed and go pee-pee.
I went to bed at 11, and the first pit stop was 1:15 a.m. Fine, I roll out of bed and tip toe into the potty. I hear soft snoring so I know Phyllie is getting her zzzz's. The poods were snug in their beds, and little bitty Mominator, the 13 year old Yorkie, is snoring her head off and it echoes throughout the bedroom. In other words, it is a typical night.
I try like the dickens to get my business done without making too much noise because then the Mominator will want a potty run too. I quietly congratulate myself because I am successful in not awakening other slumbering members of the household.
At 3:15, it's time for round two. This time I get out, pee-pee, and decide to check why the pillows are piled so high up on Phyllie's side of the bed. I climb, and I do mean climb, into bed and pull the top pillow up in the air.
"Huh? What's goin' ON, Eeek, Eeek....What's goin' on?" I am afraid Phyllie is about to haul off and sock me one.
"Ack, Ack," now I am nervous, "Nothin' I was just wondering if you were okay in there. I was just checking on you, that's all." I almost fall out of bed because I think I am about to be punched in the face. I begin giggling uncontrollably.
Phyllie doesn't find my unearthing action amusing in the least.
"Go to sleep. Be quiet," she commands.
I try valiantly, but it takes a few minutes of no sound giggling spasms to get me calmed down enough in order to fall back to sleep. I hear rustling in the poodle den, but thankfully nothing comes of it.
At 5:17 I am awakened by The Mominator. Now it is time for her walnut sized bladder to be emptied. I stumbled out of bed, pull back the small wire fence that curtails the dog roaming in the night, pull Mommy out of her cage, then the three dogs, as well as myself, shuffle off to the patio door.
The poodles stretch and yawn as we lazily head for the back door. Mommy gets a free ride because we are all sleepy and I don't want her itty bitty seven pound self stepped on by the big poodles. Or me for that matter. Once I get the pole out of the hole, high tech security there, the door is slid open. Out go the three of them. Many times Mommy is running for dear life, and the poods will sit and contemplate the morning glow of the backyard before wandering out to find a place to potty.
I commiserate with Mommy. Us seniors don't have the strong bladders as the youngsters do. I swear the poodles could go for days without having to go potty. I always make all the dogs go on a potty run before bedtime in hopes of getting a full night's sleep. The poods frequently refuse to potty before bedtime. Tito is the worst. He will lay on his side, with one eyeball open, looking up at me. It always reminds me of a fish on a plate. Anyway, I do my very best to make the potty run sound exciting, I even offer great cookies for a successful potty. Tito continues to lay there looking at me like I have lost my mind. It's true, but that is beside the point. I don't remember a time when I passed up a potty break, especially if someone offered me a treat to do it....
In any event, the early morning four legged potty run complete, I stumbled back into the nest. Phyl is still snoring lazily. I was so tired I left the patio door slightly ajar. I heard the Mominator come romping in like she was taking a victory lap, then settle in to a place next to the bed. The poods also came in and immediately head back to their beds.
Apparently, I fell asleep because the next thing I remember was being startled awake by some weird thumping noise. I heard it again before deciding to get my half naked self out of bed AGAIN to investigate. Time? Six something.
I walk into the living room and there it was in the transom window, a bird. This is not the first time a bird has come into our house. I have a horrible habit of leaving the patio door open because I love the fresh air. The poodles have destroyed the screen door, so the house is open to the world. Usually Lula Mae sits with her nose half out the door, guarding the house from intruders, but today she fell down on her duties. Robin Redbreast came a callin' this mornin'.
I blame the misadventures on Fred Ficus. We have this huge, up to the eight foot ceiling and lean over several more feet, ficus tree in our living room. Our house also has those window transoms above normal sized windows. It is excellent for letting light in the house, but the upper transom windows aren't covered in any way. Fred Ficus's lush leaves becon to birds out on the patio. This is especially worrisome during the winter months when Fred's promise of shelter green leaves call to the poor little wind tossed birdies. I hate to hear the sickening thump they make as they fly straight into the window. Thankfully, we have had no casualties to date, only stunned "What the heck happened to me?" bumbling birdies out on the patio.
And several successful fly-in's because, of course, I have left the patio door open.
Today was bird number four or five. I've lost count.
"Phyl, get your ass out of bed, we have a bird in the house!!!!" I break into action. Immediately, I head to the kids play room and confiscate the butterfly net. I think we have caught more birds in this house than we ever have butterflies with the grandkids net. Smart purchase, Grannie.
"What? What are you goin' on about?" Phyl staggers out from the bedroom, eyes half open, curly hair matted into a kinda hampster-like do, and the two poodles are dancing bright eyed behind her. Lula breaks into kill-the-bird mode. I grab her collar just as Phyl starts screaming to get the poodles out of the house. The path, of course, requires everyone to pass directly under the distressed bird banging its head against the window trying like hell to get outside again.
We finally get the poodles outside, Mommy in the bedroom, and the patio door closed. It is kinda like a Laurel and Hardy show. It's barely light outside, and here we are springing into get-the-bird-out-of-the- house-before-it-shits-all-over-the-furniture mode.
The Mominator starts her weird bark/squak because she wants a piece of the bird too.
Immediately on the outside of the patio door, Tito starts his bouncing. He has a smile on his face, but we are in no mood. Tito can easily jump to the top of the patio door. That dog is spring loaded. Lula Mae is growling like Cujo.
Inside the living room, Phyl grabs a chair and I jab the net into her hand. We start trying to calm down the bird as it flops all around the window sill, in and out of the net. Finally, we get the Robin wholly inside the net, and carefully enclosed with a towel. Phyl hands off the net to me in order to get the bird outside. First, we have to let the poodles in the house. Lula wants to eat the bird for breakfast, but I am victorious in slipping past them as they charge into the house.
I get the panicked bird outside on the grass. After a few stunned seconds, the Robin gets its bearings. Off it flies. Presumably, no harm done.
I come into the house to inspect for bird shit. None found.
I try to go back to bed, but on my way climbing in, I step in something weirdly cold and squishy.
Mommy shit. Mommy diarrhea shit. On the carpet. Nice.
Ewwww......I swing into action. Trot down the hall, grab the carpet cleaner, grab a roll of toilet paper and start cleaning up. I used about a half roll of toilet paper. I flushed it down in two or three flushes, but apparently that wasn't enough.
The toilet is now clogged.
Trot, trot, trot down the hall. "Garage door open" sounds the alarm. Trot, trot, trot back into the bathroom, squish/slurp/squish/slurp ka pow. Finally, the toilet flushes cleanly.
Phyl climbed back into bed seconds after capturing the bird.
She starts laughing hysterically, "What in the heck are you doin? All I hear is trot, trot, trot, squish/slurp/squish/slurp. What's goin' on?"
I am none too jolly in my reply which makes her laugh even more hysterically.
"Get your ass out of bed. I am hungry. Take me to breakfast!!!" I command.
"Are you buying me a Starbucks first?" she queries.
"No, YOU are buying coffee AND breakfast this Sunday morning. Get UP!"
By now we are both laughing so hard I threaten to pee on the carpet myself.
Inside of fifteen minutes we are dressed, in the car, and headed to our favorite coffee shop. Right next door is our favorite breakfast place, Peg's Glorified Eggs.
"I want my coffee first," I am insistant.
"I am going to get us a seat. You get the coffees." Phyl is bargaining now.
"Okay, but I know what you are doing. You don't want to bring in a Starbucks into Peg's. You think you are sly, but I am on to you."
Phyllie just smiles. I know her pretty well by now. She has her quirks, and taking food from one place and eating it in another is one of them. I, on the other hand, believe that Peg's should be happy we are eating there, Starbucks in hand. The two businesses go together like peanut butter and jelly. No problem.
Phyl gets our table at the cafe, while I get our coffees. When I arrive, with the lattes in hand, I hear the manager going on about someone, presumably the cook, smelling like tequila.
"Hey, I smell tequila. Had a rough night last night? Is that why you were late? Is that why you told Rodrigo to call you in late to say he was bringing you to work? You are lucky there aren't 100 people in here (there were 6, and we ALL heard the berating). I should send you home." The manager went on and on rapid-fire like a tommy gun. I never heard a reply from the cook.
All Phyl and I wanted was our favorite breakfast. It was 7:30 a.m. and we had already had too much fun and games. Really, how hard can it be? We just want breakfast. I don't want to listen to tequila talk before I have my breakfast.
Eggs Benny, please.
We finally placed our order, and the entire time while we waited for our food to arrive we were riveted to the action in the kitchen. The style of the kitchen was open air, allowing the customer to see, and hear, everything that was going on. This manager kept going on and on about his cook smelling like tequila on a Sunday morning.
Frankly, I wanted a margarita by the time my Eggs Benny arrived. Sounded like a good idea to me.
We finally finished our meal. The coffee shop was filling up with people, I worried about the cook. As Phyl paid the check I asked, "Did you get the tequila adventure all sorted out?" Hoping the manager would get my drift.
"He is going to hear about this all day long. I bet he NEVER does that again," the manager said with a gleam in his eye.
"I bet he has a bottle hidden under the grill," I snicker to Phyllie as we head out to the car.
After the morning we have had, tequila sounded like a great way to start the day. We settled for mowing the back lawn when we got home.
I am sure the neighbors enjoyed the 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning wake up call.
Welcome to our world.